Hermione whirls to see Severus, his ashen face and clenched teeth. So intent she'd been on searching for him that she had not thought to imagine what she would do if he found her first. Her face burns.
"I-I'm sor—I didn't mean—"
White smoke swirls up around them again before she can explain herself.
They resurface in the bedroom, the oak floor solidifying instantaneously beneath her bare feet, his fingers still locked around her wrist. She pulls away from him sharply, rubbing her arm. He's glaring at her openly; she can feel his anger filling the room like heat.
"Certainly, Granger, there must be a truly remarkable explanation—"
Hermione scowls back. "Downstairs—the fire. It's turning green like before."
He brushes past her immediately, like she isn't even there. The sound of his feet on the stairs snaps her to attention, and she scrambles to follow.
What had she been thinking, going into another person's memories, after all of her own requests for privacy? She takes the stairs two at a time, almost slipping and falling in her haste. She can barely think directly of the memories themselves, she is so overwhelmed by their emotional weight. And she'll have to go on living with him as before, but with this new, unbearably intimate knowledge, which he had gone to such lengths to conceal from her…
Hermione hovers at the foot of the stairs, all but wringing her hands, and cranes her neck to see around his body, bent before the cauldron. At least if she has saved the potion, the lab, the house—maybe he'll be able to see her violation in a different light. Maybe it won't be for nothing.
God forbid he think she wanted to see those memories… the death of Harry's parents, the youthful transparence of his love for Lily… Hermione blushes just thinking about it.
She sniffs the air, glances around the room—no smoke, no raging conflagration, at least. She waits to see if he'll speak, nervous anticipation building in her gut.
"How have you been sleeping, Granger?" He's still kneeling before the fire, his back to her. Something sinks in her stomach and twists there.
"F-fine," she says in a high-pitched tone that makes her wince. Technically she has been sleeping fine, just in shorter bursts, and not very often, but…
He rises slowly and turns to face her. She feels very much like a student again—one who has made a grave error and flouted a direct instruction. As he approaches her, Hermione's eyes flit to the fire. It's burning there, exactly as it was. Cheery blue flames without a single hint of green.
"So you lied to me then? Happened upon a new way to waste my time?" He's practically spitting the words at her, so close she can feel his breath on her face as he speaks.
"You told me to come get you if something—"
"Correct, Granger, but as you can quite plainly see…" He gestures to the fire behind him. "Nothing has happened. Nothing at all."
And all at once a tremendous rush of exhaustion hits her in a single, great wave. Hermione is so tired, and sick of trying to handle this man, spending so much time thinking about her words and her actions only to find she has still done the wrong thing in the end—really, why bother at all?
Now that she can feel humiliation permeating through her mind and body full-force—now that they both understand, unequivocally, that Hermione hallucinated the fire in the space between wake and sleep… Why not just say what's on her mind?
"You shouldn't be doing that anyway!" Hermione bursts out angrily, and takes note that saying what she really thinks feels good.
He raises his eyebrows.
She continues. "The… the dwelling I mean. On Lily. Returning to the same memories over and over like that, Severus, I just—"
His body seems to have an involuntary reaction to hearing his first name; his fingers twitch, his chest freezes mid-inhale, and he stares at her, his eyes now so close to her own she feels she might be swallowed up entirely by the sheer intensity of his gaze.
"Ah, I see." He nods in a mockery of understanding. His voice is frighteningly calm.
"You think you know me now. You think you understand me, Granger, is that it?"
The reuse of her surname digs sharper than usual. She's blushing, she's likely been blushing this whole time, why did she open her mouth, oh—
"No, it isn't that, I just…" she trails off as his eyes continue to blaze. "I just don't see how you're supposed to heal. If you're guilting yourself over past mistakes every other day, it's like… it's like an addiction, almost..."
And then she realizes something, her eyes widen—
"Are you… are you trying to bring Lily back to life? Is that the real reason you've been working at this the last ten years?"
The room goes very still.
"You have… no… right to tell me. What to do with my own mind," he whispers. His lips are white.
They stand there for a full minute—or maybe an hour, Hermione has no sense of time—locked in each others' gaze. His expression is so inscrutable Hermione can't even decipher whether he is angry, in pain, or just very deeply sad.
"I believe we're finished here, Granger."
As if she has not spoken at all, he goes to mount the first step, then turns back, almost as an afterthought.
"I have no obligation to discuss this with you, as you infiltrated my memory without consent. I can tell you that whatever you presume to know about me is fundamentally incorrect, and I refuse to engage in any pitiful attempts at psychoanalysis. Get some sleep."
He leaves her alone. The fire burns blue. She moves closer to it as tears she doesn't completely understand begin to fill her eyes, unabashedly wishing herself elsewhere.
Hermione sleeps for twelve uninterrupted hours, and when she wakes up she understands what she must do.
She leaves her bedroom in a loose, rumpled white nightgown. Streaks of sunlight filter hazily across the floor, and though there's no clock in sight her body tells her it must be late afternoon. She feels vaguely hungover and her limbs move more slowly, as if operating on a delay. The events of the previous night are fuzzy and hard to remember, as if they happened to someone else. But before her brain can catch up to her body and change her mind for her, she paces to the bookcase stairs and makes her way down.
In the dim light of the basement she can see Severus, who turns toward her uncertainly, anger and confusion twisting in face into rare vulnerability. He clearly has no idea what to expect from her reappearance.
"Come upstairs," she says quietly.
"Why?" he asks, his expression rearranging to hide his emotions. Rather than responding she turns around and begins to ascend the stairs, trusting that he'll follow. And he does.
By the time he joins her—his curiosity having got the best of him, or at the very least his unshakable magnetism toward circumstances where he inform her she's doing the wrong thing—he finds her in his bedroom, moving her wand sleepily up to her temple and withdrawing it slowly but purposefully, a white stream in its wake. He stands on the other side of the pensieve, watching as she winces and pulls—the memory, whatever it is, does not seem to want to depart the safe haven of her mind.
She grimaces, murmuring ouch, and unspools the memory into the bowl between them, where it swirls in wait.
"It's only fair, isn't it?" she says, more to herself than to him, and then before he can really prepare himself she grabs his shoulders and pulls them into the memory together.
There's a sensation of falling, then vague contact with the ground. Severus looks around wildly, but Hermione has no need. She already knows where they are.
"I can't believe you pulled me away for some inane jaunt down memory lane, Granger. You've endangered the entire project, we have work to do, I should tell the Ministry that you're sabotaging me—though perhaps they brought you to me to do exactly that, you child, you're completely wasting—"
But he trails off as he begins to recognize their surroundings, as Hermione knew he would.
"Malfoy Manor," he whispers. Hermione takes in the scene calmly, everything as she remembers it—thick velvet drapes, glossy hardwood floor, everything radiating a luxurious beauty that has since been lost to time. She shudders just being in the space again. It's a horrible place to return. But she owes this to him. She understands that now.
"I don't have time for this," he mutters roughly, trying and failing to regain his self-righteous anger. "Granger, take me back," he hisses, but she holds a finger to her lips. Hermione steels herself for the inevitable. She knows what's coming.
"It's about to happen," she whispers. "You'll see."
In the midst of the Horcrux hunt, during what was supposed to be Hermione's seventh year, she was taken captive by Fenrir Greyback and a ragtag team of Snatchers. She was caught while casting the spells that allowed Ron and Harry to escape, though this was never something she held against them. There as no use in imagining how the trio's story would have unfolded if it had happened any other way. When she looks back now she thinks of it all as a logical sequence of events. One thing led to another.
At Malfoy Manor she had no means of tracking the passage of time. Hermione guesses now that she was there for a month, maybe a little more. She was completely isolated—not in the dungeon, where she had heard other prisoners were being kept—but in a room all her own. It was just one of many unused bedrooms in the manor, magically sealed and soundproofed, completely stripped of all the elegant furniture and decor that had populated the space prior. The Malfoy home truly transformed during that year—from a pinnacle of elegance to a kind of makeshift prison, its true ugliness seeping through.
Hermione spent countless hours staring at those four empty walls, lying prostrate on the bare wooden floor and tracing meaningless patterns into its grain. Obviously the physical torture was the worst of her imprisonment—though she discovered she was remarkably capable of withstanding severe pain—but the boredom, Merlin. The boredom. The parts of her body she would have traded for just one book.
Her mind was ravaged over the course of that month. Almost ripped it apart entirely. No one was as skilled as Severus Snape when it came to Legilimency, but Bellatrix, mad as she was, had a few tricks up her sleeve. It was a good thing she truly had no idea where Harry and Ron went after they were separated. A good thing that they had never agreed on a meeting place on the chance that they did get split up. But the Death Eaters found other things: her parents, for example. They reversed Hermione's memory charm. Everything she'd tried so hard to prevent unraveled in the space of a few short days.
Toward the end of her captivity—just two days before Harry would materialize in the manor with Ron, Dobby whisking them all away in the nick of time—this is the moment to which she and Severus have returned. Hermione remembers she was numb to a lot of things at this point—almost completely adjusted to the endless rounds of invasive Legilimency, the accompanying mental anguish, slow adaptation to the idea that there was no such thing as secrets.
Hermione has returned to this memory so many times, but always in her own head—never with the immediacy of a pensieve. It's strange looking down at herself there in a heap on the ground, writing words in the dust on the floor. She follows the movement of her younger self's finger and marvels at her serene, resigned expression. She'd forgotten how young she was then; her face unlined, the skin across her cheekbones tighter. She almost wants to explain her behavior to Severus, contextualize it somehow, but she discovers she can barely look at him. She sees his expression in her periphery, as he slowly adjusts to the nature and setting of the memory. His lips form a grave, thin line.
Bellatrix bursts into the room, the door flying open so violently that its beautiful marble doorknob hits the wall with a bang. The Malfoys hated their house being used as headquarters, Hermione recalls. None of the other Death Eaters seems to have much care for beautiful things. No sound from Severus except a slight cough, perhaps disguising his surprise.
Behind Bellatrix, two Snatchers hold Hermione's mother and father. She registers their appearance with a sickening thud in the pit of her stomach, but the younger Hermione somehow still retains the ability to be surprised. She jumps to her feet at the sight of them, prompting a little giggle from Bellatrix, who walks further into the room. The two Snatchers have barely deposited Hermione's parents on the floor before Hermione lunges at Bellatrix; the Snatchers hold her back, a man to each arm. Hermione can hear Severus' breathing speed up; he's watching silently, arms crossed at back of the room, as the scene unfolds.
"Now now, boys, there's no need for that. Let a girl stand on her own, eh?" Bellatrix says with a little laugh. She flicks her wand as the two Snatchers release Hermione, confused. That's when it happened, Hermione realizes. At the time she hadn't understood what Bellatrix was doing, but there it is. The Imperius Curse.
The Snatchers return to Bellatrix's side, but young Hermione remains rigid and upright, her face contorted with concentration. She was trying to fight it off. It was horrifying. All these years later and she still feels the sensation some nights when she jolts awake from a nightmare, her limbs frozen in place. Like she has no actual control over her own body.
Hermione's parents watch from the floor, eyes wide, dirty black rags tied around their mouths, heavy rope jamming their arms fast against their sides. Her mum lies prone, unable to sit up without the use of her limbs, but her father manages it, groaning into a seated position. They look unharmed, surprisingly, Hermione notes. At least they hadn't been hurt.
"Go along now, boys, why don't you leave the girls to play?" Bellatrix giggles again and spares a girlish little wave. Cowed and maybe a little disappointed, the Snatchers depart, the taller one slamming the door behind them as he leaves. Hermione's father cries out against his gag, his eyes moving back and forth between Bellatrix and Hermione. Hermione knows he doesn't understand why his daughter isn't trying to save them. She'd never once mentioned any of the Unforgivable Curses to her parents; she hadn't wanted them to know they lived in a world where such violation existed.
Hermione watches the younger version of herself continue to struggle against the curse, her hands and arms and legs all tightly clamped together. Stalling for time—that's all one could ever do with Bellatrix Lestrange.
"What's the game, Bellatrix?" she asks weakly.
"Silly Mudblood! I told you not to speak directly to me, didn't I? Unless you're telling me the itty bitty little secret I've been wanting to know? I mean—who do you think you are?! You think you have the right to talk to me?"
An uncontrollable fit of giggles overtakes her body, her wild black hair bouncing as she laughs. Severus makes a noise of disgust and Hermione jumps, almost having forgotten he's here.
"Look, we found your mummy and daddy!" she crows as soon as she's caught her breath again. "And we brought them to you. You should be so grateful, little Mudblood. You should thank me for going to the trouble."
And, horrifically, Hermione watches herself mouth the words thank you. A little slower than her usual cadence, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary. Severus inhales sharply; he seems to finally understand what he's seeing. Her parents must be horrified, Hermione thinks desperately. Watching their daughter express appreciation to this woman who is so clearly unhinged.
Bellatrix walks right up to Hermione's taut body and strokes her fingers very slowly across Hermione's cheek. Then she slaps her once, very suddenly, across the face. The force of it actually turns Hermione's head all the way to the right.
Present-day Hermione feels Severus' gaze fix on her, but she does not look at him. They aren't done yet. He has to see how it happened.
"Time to plaaay!" Bella sings, doing a little dance. "The game is House today, little Mudblood. Mummy is Mummy, Daddy is Daddy—" she points to each parent in turn, then faces Hermione again— "and you're the cat burglar, breaking in!"
Hermione watches as the seventeen-year-old version of her pantomimes climbing through a window. Silent tears begin to track down the girl's face. Her mother appears to have passed out on the floor. Her dad is still sitting upright, but appears to be frozen in terror.
Hermione realizes she's shaking. She remembers at the time being entirely fixated on her parents, so worried about them, after all the efforts she had made to keep them safe, all of it seeming to be undone in a matter of moments, how hopeless it really was, how complete the reach of evil, how little control she had over anything in her life, despite being so smart, with all of her studying and precautions and preparations… none of it mattered in the end, in the room that contained Hermione Granger and Bellatrix Lestrange and her mother and father. It was so easy to slip back inside the utter hopelessness of the moment. How she'd almost known it was coming even before it did. The complete horror and devastation of that knowledge. Merlin. There were no words.
Bellatrix flicks her wand; she's holding two now, Hermione realizes—the second must be her own. Bellatrix always grew bored with her games very quickly. She throws Hermione her wand, but it goes right through her fingers and Hermione has to bend, very slowly and rigidly, in order to pick it up, almost like a marionette.
"Got anything to say to me, little Mudblood?" Bellatrix asks in a sing-song voice. "Something about the Potter boy float into your muddy little head?"
"Y-y-you're ma-mad," Hermione says then. With great effort—Hermione can see the muscles of her neck straining—she turns her head infinitesimally toward her parents and opens her mouth again. Her mum seems to have woken up, having rolled over onto her side, blinking her eyes blearily. Hermione's heart beats madly in her chest.
"Well, obviously, my sweet, but that's not what I asked!" says Bellatrix. Severus keeps throwing sideways glances at her from his corner of the room, but Hermione can't look away. It's so like her nightmares, but so different.
Bellatrix casually casts Cruciatus—first on her father, who bears the pain in silence. When it's her mother's turn, she cries out.
"Tell me!" Bellatrix roars in a much deeper voice. Her wand moves back and forth, each sharp movement punctuated by her mother and father's screams. Hermione doesn't even have the ability to close her eyes—Bellatrix kept them forced open to such a degree that she couldn't even blink.
"Look, Mudblood, you know what I want to know. And if you can't tell me, well… I'm sure you can guess what's coming."
Severus looses a noise of contempt; it's strange to hear such a sound directed at someone she also hates.
"I was so, so excited to bring your little Mudblood family back together," she continues in that horrible baby voice. "But at some point all nice things—well, they come to an end, don't they?"
She dances right up to young Hermione and traces the length of her jaw with her wand, coming to rest directly under her chin. Hermione's wand is limp in her hand—move it, Hermione thinks desperately, curse her, or better yet just kick her, bite her, hurt her, who needs magic anyway—but the girl just continues to stand there. Her mum and dad are both crying in full force now, the muted sounds just audible through their tear-soaked gags. Hermione knows what it looks like to them; it appears she is making no effort to resist. That she is choosing her own life over theirs. Even though every particle of her was straining against the Imperius Curse, it did not matter in the end. The last thing her parents witnessed was her acquiescence. A channeling of evil.
Severus walks closer to her, but she barely registers his movement.
"I don't even know wh-where he is," young Hermione whispers pitifully.
"All right then, Mudblood." Bellatrix sticks out her bottom lip and makes a pouting sound, like a small child. "I'm going to give you a little privacy, then. I'll be right… outside… the door…" she gestures to her left. "If you have anything to say to me, oh I don't know, about the whereabouts of a certain stupid boy with a certain stupid scar… you just call me, dear! Otherwise—" and she pauses for that hyena laugh again— "you three have some—fun!—without me."
The door slams shut behind her.
Young Hermione is crying harder than ever now—the Imperius Curse, at least, seems to allow for that. Bellatrix must have removed the gags before she left; her mother is crying, her father begins to speak.
"Hermione, whatever she wants to know, just tell her," her father implores. He was a dentist. He couldn't imagine what had been asked of Hermione these last seven years. Everything she had done.
"Hermione, sweetheart, talk to us. Tell us what's going on," her mother pleads. Even now Hermione feels the desire to run to them, to wrap her arms tightly around them, to be held and protected. Young Hermione strains against the curse, her arm beginning to lift, and present-day Hermione imagines for one beautiful second that it's working, that she's regained control of her body again.
But as her wand arms comes to a halt in front of her mother's face, Bellatrix's intent settles into young Hermione full force and she understands what is about to happen.
So does Severus Snape.
A sudden burst of movement as he sprints the remaining distance between them to stand before her, looking directly into her eyes.
"Hermione, there's no reason for you to see this again. Stop it," he says in a voice she's never heard before, the most earnest expression knitting his brow, and she's crying full-force just as seventeen-year-old Hermione did when she was made to kill her parents, the tears pouring from the corners of her eyes and her mouth contorted into an endless cry as he covers her ears with his hands so that she doesn't have to hear the terrible sound of their deaths again, so she doesn't hear her father telling her in that deadly calm voice that they'd always, in the back of their minds, been frightened that something like this would happen, Hermione wanting so badly to tell him that she wasn't doing it of her own accord but unable to say anything at all in the moment that meant everything, her father knowing complete horror in his last moment, believing that his own daughter had turned against him, and Severus pressing her face into his chest now, where she soaks the fabric she finds there with her tears, breathing in the heady, earthy scent of him, wrapping her arms around his body as she shakes and sobs and grasps the back of his robes in her two small fists, pulling his body into hers, screaming into the hollow of his chest because this is her last chance, because after this he will know the horrible thing she did, that was worse than anything he had done—that she had killed her own parents, that they were dead because of her, and it was her fault.
Hers.