Chapter 10: The Impossible Possibility

Lavender Brown was one of those girls who would be without a profession. There was a word for them: feckless. She was the marrying kind. She would finish Hogwarts, barely, and go on to some sort of job which she would work right up until a husband came along. She'd make a proper housewitch. It was old-fashioned and may even have been charming to Poppy Pomfrey if she hadn't been trying to obtain valuable information from the girl regarding what appeared to be a brutal attack on Hermione Granger.

"You didn't see anyone, Miss Brown?" Madam Pomfrey asked.

"No. No one," Lavender replied. "She just sort of lay there gurgling."

"I doubt gurgling left such bruises on her neck." Choking or strangling was more like it. "The more you tell me about how it happened, the easier it will be for me to treat her."

"Is she horribly wounded?"

The way the girl asked Poppy Pomfrey wondered whether she was saddened or delighted. "She'll recover."

"Then can't she tell you what happened?"

"She has."

Lavender shrugged. "Then you must have all your answers."

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "Not at all, my dear. What Miss Granger says is quite simply impossible."

OOO

She'd merely told the truth. She'd been strangled by Imogene. Hermione may have omitted the part about Imogene being a golem—somehow a walking, talking, breathing figment of her imagination, a spell guided by her consciousness which coalesced into a girl—but the fact remained: Imogene had strangled her.

It shouldn't have been possible—her consciousness in revolt; her very mind working against her, seeking to destroy her. Did it qualify as attempted murder or attempted suicide? It was a riddle, a whodunit with an impossibility for an answer. She done it. She done herself wrong. She done herself in—nearly. Even the syntax was utter nonsense. Language failed the idea. Imogene had tried to kill her.

But how it was that Madam Pomfrey could have known of the impossibility was a mystery. Hermione had stared at the mediwitch of indeterminate age, her hair obscured by her austere grey wimple.

"It's impossible," Madam Pomfrey had said. Flummoxed, Hermione had asked the natural question.

"How?"

"Miss LeCoeur wasn't here. Her parents are visiting from France. They invited her to join them. She left the premises several days ago, the night before you entered the infirmary. Professor Snape told me himself."

"She wasn't here."

"Correct. So you see, she couldn't have strangled you."

Hermione threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the edge of the narrow hospital bed. "Where is Professor Snape?"

"In his office I imagine. He looked in on you this morning. Said he would return to check on you this evening. I intend to see that you will be here when he returns." Madam Pomfrey gently pushed Hermione back against the bed pillows. She lifted the girl's legs, settled them on the bed and drew the sheets over her once more.

Hermione knew a losing battle when she saw one. She allowed herself to be tucked in by the zealous mediwitch, thoughts turning once again to the impossible possibility of what had happened.

There was one man who had answers, who knew the possible from the impossible.

"I look forward to his visit," Hermione said as she sank back against the pillows.

OOO

Lavender Brown hung about Ron's shoulders like cheap dress robes.

"It's just ghastly what happened to her, isn't it?" she asked, her eyes round with fear and the merest hint of excitement. "I mean, who would do something like that? Who would strangle a girl? None of us are safe."

She tightened her arms around Ron and buried her face in his neck. Ron was mostly uncomfortable. There was something infinitely embarrassing about the way Lavender clung to him in front of his friends, but there was something else, too. It made him feel kind of important, like she needed him, like he could protect her from something. It wasn't all bad and in fact, it wasn't bad at all having a girl in his arms who was soft and who needed him.

Ginny felt differently about the whole thing. Lavender Brown was drama and this whole shrinking violet routine was clearly an act. She half suspected Lavender of trying to strangle Hermione, though clearly she lacked motive. Ginny watched as her brother seemed to puff up a bit, his confidence bolstered by the delicate flower in his arms.

"It's okay, Lavender," Ron said. "We won't let them hurt you."

Speak for yourself, Ginny thought. She glanced over at Harry to gauge his reaction. He was looking anywhere but at Ron and Lavender, perhaps trying to give his best mate a bit of privacy.

Harry was being polite. Ginny didn't see a point in it. She wasn't going to hide her feelings where Lavender Brown was concerned. She leaned over to Harry and whispered her opinion of the whole thing. "Barf," she said.

Harry's shoulders shook as he stifled a laugh. He really shouldn't be laughing at a time like this, not after what had happened to Hermione. If only Madam Pomfrey would let them in to see her. They'd been waiting in the Hospital Wing for days in the hopes of getting in. Today looked promising. Harry had a good feeling about it, despite the fact that they'd spent nearly an hour watching Lavender wind her way around Ron like a particularly precocious bit of Devil's Snare.

At last Madam Pomfrey emerged and led them back into the ward to see Hermione.

"Not too long of a visit," she cautioned. "The patient needs rest in order to heal."

"Honestly, Madam Pomfrey, I've had quite a bit of rest today, in fact, I'm full up on it," Hermione said. She pushed herself up against the pillows, relieved to see friendly faces at last—well, mostly friendly faces. She noticed Lavender clinging to Ron's arm with a thinly veiled look of satisfaction on her face. "On second thought, Madam Pomfrey, I don't know if I can handle so many visitors at once. Perhaps Lavender could wait outside? I mean, I'd like to thank her personally later on. If she hadn't woken up, who knows what would have happened."

"Certainly, dear," Madam Pomfrey replied. Hermione watched as the mediwitch pried Lavender's fingers loose from Ron's arm and escorted the girl from the room. Finally, Hermione was alone with her friends, and though she couldn't tell them the truth about what had happened to her, it was a great comfort to have them there.

She couldn't say, however, that they felt the same. Judging from the looks on their faces, they may even have preferred to be anywhere but there. Ron's eyes softened when he looked at her, but his jaw seemed to tighten in anger. Harry's eyes were dark. He looked away from her quickly. Ginny simply stared, swallowing a lump in her throat.

Hermione touched a hand to her hair self-consciously. "I must look positively awful," she murmured.

The boys couldn't seem to make a reply. She did look awful. There were huge bruises along her neck and jaw, bruises of an impossible color, not black and blue, but dark and mottled, the result of broken blood vessels beneath damaged skin.

Ginny sat down on the edge of the bed. She took Hermione's hand.

"It's not that you look awful," she said. "It just looks like it hurts… like you're hurt and there's nothing we can do about it."

It does hurt, Hermione thought. She felt battered, her whole body sore even though her neck and shoulders bore the brunt of the pain. She supposed the worst of it was over, though. She'd survived Imogene. She'd survived the sharp, keen pain of her collarbone as it knit itself back together with the aid of Madam Pomfrey's potions. It hurt, but the pain was less than before and it would continue to abate as time wore on.

"What happened, Hermione?" Ron asked. "Who did this to you?"

"I… I don't know. I thought it was a girl, but… it's hard to say. I barely saw her. I think maybe it could have been a spell or hex or something."

"That's one hell of a bat-bogey hex," Ron said somberly.

Hermione managed a wan smile. "I think it was a bit more advanced than that."

"Who would do something like that?" he asked, anger rising in his voice.

Harry spoke at last. "Voldemort," he said quietly.

There was silence in the room. Hermione saw the toll it took on Harry to say it. She watched him assume the burden, shoulder the blame. It weighed heavy on him. He thought it was his fault; that Voldemort would strike at his friends to get to him. It was feasible, it was entirely logical, but in this instance it was wrong.

Hermione wanted to tell him so. She wanted to lift that burden, but she couldn't. He couldn't know about Imogene or Draco. He couldn't know that she was working for the Order to help him. She had to protect him and so he couldn't know. But was she really helping him? Had she really helped anyone?

Letting him assume the blame for something that wasn't his fault was not a way to help him. She watched Harry begin to withdraw. He would distance himself to protect his friends. He would turn inward and hold the blame, the responsibility, the burden, close enough to keep them all at bay. He would shut down.

Hermione read it in his features. It began with the distance in his eyes and the downward slope of his shoulders. He shoved his fingers into his pockets and holed up inside himself.

Hermione couldn't tell him the truth, but she couldn't bear the alternative. She couldn't let him go this alone. She did the only thing she could think of. She reached out and caught his sleeve in her fingers, drawing him close to the bed. Hermione pulled his hand from his pocket and joined it with Ginny's hand which she'd been holding.

Ginny lowered her eyes. She didn't see what Hermione saw. She didn't see Harry start at her touch. She didn't see the distance in his eyes evaporate. She didn't see that he was suddenly incredibly present and incredibly close.

OOO

Hermione gritted her teeth. Snape's intense scrutiny had set her on edge. He stood at the foot of her hospital bed, arms folded across his chest, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes. His eyes raked over her from head to foot, not at all pleased with what he saw.

"You've refused to let Madam Pomfrey treat your bruises. There are potions for such things. Why do you insist on behaving like an imbecile?" he asked.

"I am not an imbecile," Hermione snapped. "I simply knew that if I let her treat them you'd tell me that they never existed, that I made the whole thing up. It's called incontrovertible evidence and I'm wearing it."

"You're no doubt feeling it as well." Snape walked around to the side of her bed and leaned over to place his fingers on her neck. His touch was brusque and clinical. She winced in pain and he drew back immediately, having proven his point.

"Then we're agreed that it happened," Hermione said.

"I had no intention of disputing the facts."

"The facts," she said skeptically. "You told Madam Pomfrey that Imogene's gone on some sort of holiday. That is not a fact."

"It is a necessity, Miss Granger, for while you have been here in the Hospital Wing, Imogene has been absent. I assure you it makes no difference to me having one less student in my class, but there is someone who would note her absence immediately and seek her were it to go unexplained."

Hermione felt a flush of embarrassment well up in her cheeks, the heat of it bleeding along the soft curled flesh of her ears. Of course. Draco would notice. He would perhaps miss her as she missed him.

"Oh," she said in a small soft voice.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "I'm not given to sending students on holiday willy-nilly." It was a mildly ridiculous statement from the former Potions Master and while he continued to glower, hostile as ever, the silly sentence served to undermine his authority somewhat.

"No, I wouldn't think you would," Hermione said. "It's just that now Madam Pomfrey doesn't believe me. She thinks that Imogene can't have strangled me because she wasn't here."

"She didn't strangle you."

"I thought you weren't disputing the facts."

"You were indeed brutalized, Miss Granger, but not by Imogene."

"By the golem then," Hermione insisted.

"By your inability to handle the magic. By your carelessness."

"Carelessness? I was nearly murdered in my sleep and it was not because I was careless!" Hermione threw back the bed covers and slid to her feet. She paced angrily toward Professor Snape, the desire for confrontation brimming in her eyes. "Something is wrong! The golem is doing things of its own accord!"

"It cannot. It has no will, no volition."

He was hiding something, Hermione realized, and it was easy enough for him to do so. That was the advantage of being Professor Snape. He'd perfected the art of hostility and exploited the trappings of condescension to build an insurmountable distance between himself and others. From such a distance it was nearly impossible to ferret him out, to learn his truths.

Hermione knew this and yet she found herself looking for a chink in his armor. Snape had no right to keep these truths from her, especially if her life were in danger as a result. It was not for him to decide. It was not for him to withhold knowledge. Hermione studied him. She would find the weakness that would expose his truths.

"If there is nothing else, Miss Granger, I am content to have Madam Pomfrey discharge you tonight provided you agree to let her treat your bruises."

"Alright, I suppose the evidence is no longer necessary."

"It wasn't necessary to begin with. The facts are what they are."

"We're agreed on the facts," Hermione said, "but the truth is another matter entirely."

OOO

The gender wards were an easy enough thing for a clever witch to deceive. They were an ancient magic it was true—as ancient as the attraction between men and women dating back to time immemorial—but they posed little problem for Hermione Granger when she was intent upon something. She had made up her mind to see Draco, to talk to him alone, and no bit of magic ancient or otherwise was going to stop her.

She climbed the stairs to the Slytherin boys' dormitory. In the wee small hours of the morning there was no one to see her pass. The dubious light of crepuscule concealed her movement as well as any Invisibility Cloak might have. Her gender was in turn cloaked by a spell that was two parts transfiguration and one part glamour. It fooled the wards with a complex bit of gender nullification. While she looked every inch the feminine figure that was Imogene LeCoeur, the wards understood her to be about as sexless as a tea kettle.

It made no difference to the wards that the tea kettle slipped between the closed curtains of Draco Malfoy's bed and knelt beside him on the mattress, long, lean legs curled beneath it in a most un-kettle like way. It made every bit of difference to Draco who, feeling the presence of someone unexplained and unanticipated in his bed, sprang up out of sleep confused but surprisingly coordinated with the point of his wand shoved beneath the kettle's chin.

Hermione raised her hands in surrender, giving him a moment to look her over, to realize that he knew her, to understand that she was no unknown prowler skulking about the boys' dormitory. She waited, heart pounding at the base of her throat, for him to make the connection. At last the realization dawned and he lowered his wand, but the tension remained in his bare chest and in the tight sinew of his arms which he rocked back on, palms splayed against the mattress behind him.

"Imo—," he began, and stopped so that only the first two syllables of her name crossed his lips. It was a curious sound, almost Emma, but not quite. It was Imma instead, and it struck Hermione as familiar, as if her parents had called her that as a child. It was impossible, of course, for the Grangers to have called her anything of the sort. Her name was not Imogene.

Hermione reached out to touch the side of his face, but he turned away from her, leaving her fingers to drag across his jaw before he drew himself completely out of her reach. There was a steely coldness about him. He didn't speak.

He was angry with her, she realized. The thought wounded her deeply. She dropped her hand to her lap, swallowing the lump that had begun to form in her throat. She looked at him, at his face turned away from her. Something about the lines of his face piqued her anger. There was a familiar cruelty in the set of his jaw, a particular brand of Malfoy arrogance and spite.

Hermione grasped his chin sharply and turned him to face her. He grabbed her wrist, fingers fastening around the delicate bones with painful intensity. She gasped, wrist stinging in his grasp, and slapped him hard with her free hand. The sound of the slap echoed through the room. She regretted it instantly, knowing that she had gone too far. The anger in his eyes frightened her, but suddenly she felt the shift in him. He dropped her wrist and pushed himself back against the headboard, away from her. He fought to slow his breathing. He fought for control.

He felt ugly. It wasn't the first time. He'd felt the ugliness before as it threatened to overwhelm him. It'd been bred into him. Draco closed his eyes. He could barely remember what had started it. He was left only with the sense of loss he'd felt when he'd thought she'd left.

"I shouldn't have hit you," she said softly, "but you frightened me."

He was still trying to make sense of it—of his behavior—and he was failing. "It's what I do," he said, aware that the statement wasn't adequate.

"What a horrible and silly thing to say," she admonished, her voice unsteady. "Of all the things you could do and you choose to frighten people—you choose to frighten me."

He opened his eyes finally and looked at her. "You left," he said.

Hermione was surprised to hear the hurt in his voice mingled as it was with the undercurrent of accusation. She stood accused of leaving him when she hadn't gone anywhere. She'd spent several days in the Hospital Wing, but he couldn't have known that.

"My parents," she said.

"Snape told me. He said they'd come for you."

"I didn't want to go."

"I thought you'd left. I thought because of…I thought you'd left." And he couldn't have blamed her because she'd seen him; she'd seen the ugliness inside him.

"I wouldn't," she said. "I won't."

She touched him then, palm flat against his chest. He needed the contact, felt the effects of it ripple across his skin. It was something which helped to keep the sorrow at bay, the sorrow of potentially losing her because she deserved more than what he was.

"I think you owe me an apology," she said. Her voice was light, an attempt to shift the mood. It took a moment for him to shake free of the sorrow, but at last he responded in kind.

"Then we have a problem," he said. "Malfoys don't apologize."

"Well, are you a man or a Malfoy?" she asked.

His fingers snagged in her hair as he pulled her close against him.

"What do you think?" he breathed.

OOO

He lay facing her, his body throbbing still. Her hands were on him, stroking his chest. It was difficult to stop touching him, but she did. She had to in order to rediscover her purpose, which she seemed to have lost the minute she'd found herself tangled in the sheets with him.

The instant her hands left him, he touched her, starved for the contact, the connection to her. His drew his fingers along her neck, traced the line of her newly mended collarbone and let them slip down along the damp skin of her chest following the hollow between her breasts.

"How did you get into my bed?" he asked.

"How indeed," she said archly.

"Past the wards, I mean."

"If you hadn't figured it out by now, I'm a fairly clever witch."

"A spell, then?"

"Of course. There's this fascinating spell book, A Compendium of—", she stopped when she noticed the smirk which had settled across his lips.

"Always books with you, isn't it?" The moment he said it, something occurred to him. Hermione watched his face. She didn't like this train of thought. She kissed him, lips clinging to his mouth, hoping to derail him. She was derailed in the process, however, and slightly dazed when at last she broke the kiss.

After a moment she recovered her train of thought. She had come here for a reason, she reminded herself.

"When Snape called us into his office, it was like he knew," she said.

"There's not much that escapes his notice," Draco agreed.

"I thought he might try to read my thoughts."

"He might have, if I hadn't been there."

"What do you mean?"

"Snape's a bully, and most bullies like to isolate their victims." Draco knew it for a fact. He'd grown up with a bully for a father. Snape was not unlike Lucius in that way.

"I think maybe he was bullied," Hermione said. "A long time ago." She thought of another bully, one who was the spitting image of her best friend: James Potter.

"Feeling sorry for him?" Draco asked.

"Snape? Not in the least. Wary is more like it. He's a powerful Leglimens."

"He is, but he's not infallible."

"He has a weakness then?" Hermione held her breath as she waited for Draco to answer.

"Perhaps. He's tried it on me, Leglimency. But there are things I know, things I've been taught, and when he was looking through my mind, trying to sift my memories, I took a look at his."

"And you found something?"

"Not much, but enough to know how he protects his memories. He seals them off behind a symbol—it's a pictogram."

"Like a puzzle?"

"Sort of. The symbol means something to him. Find the meaning and unlock the memory. It's a common Occlumency technique used to fortify mental defenses. Surely you've read a book about it," he teased.

"It sounds like it would be simple to beat."

"In theory, but the trouble is finding the meaning. A skilled Leglimens invests the symbol with a meaning that's obscure, esoteric, even personal enough so that it makes sense only to him. That's the strength of the technique. When executed properly, it renders the mind impenetrable."

"What's the symbol that he uses?"

"Looking to break him, are you?"

"I just want to be prepared in case he comes after me."

"I won't let him," he said, brushing a bit of damp hair behind her ear. The certainty in his voice warmed her, but she had to know.

"What is it?" she pressed.

"You think it would be something spooky, right? Because it's Snape. You think it would be something dark: a bat, a snake, a skull. But it isn't. In fact, it doesn't make much sense at all. It's a flower."

"A flower?" she asked, shocked.

"A flower," Draco repeated. "What in the bloody hell is the meaning of that?"

She couldn't answer, partly because she didn't know, but mostly because he'd slipped beneath the sheets, his hot, wet mouth finding her bare skin.

OOO

When he woke several hours later, the sun streamed in through the partially opened bed curtains. Draco scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, remembering that she'd left a while earlier whispering things which had hardly made sense about tea kettles or some such. Though barely awake, he'd felt her kiss him, a few strands of her hair had caught between their lips. He remembered glimpsing it, her hair, as she'd slipped through the bed curtains. It was thick, brown, curly, entirely too much—entirely in the way.

That last thought drove him up to sitting. He had seen what he'd seen. He was sure of it. But it was patently impossible. It was patently impossible that Hermione Granger had left his bed this morning.

OOO

"Don't look now, but someone is staring at you," Ginny said from across the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

"You sure he's not staring at you?" Hermione asked, tiredly. Last night's lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with her.

"Who said anything about it being a boy?"

"Of course it's a boy, Ginny. I can tell by the tone of your voice."

Ginny shrugged. Hermione turned around to follow Ginny's gaze. Her eyes came to rest on Draco who was staring at her unabashedly. Instantly, she turned back around.

"It's the queerest thing," Ginny said. "I mean, you'd think he'd be glaring or whatever, but he's not. He looks almost…confused."

"Hmph," was all Hermione could manage.

"You haven't gone and bewitched Draco Malfoy, have you?" Ginny laughed.

"Not funny," Hermione said. Bewitching was not the verb she would have chosen to describe her actions of last night. "Will you stop staring at him staring at me?"

"Alright then," Ginny said. "Just thought I'd warn you."

Hermione pushed her plate away and laid the book that she'd been holding on her lap on the table in front of her.

"What's it this time then?" asked Ginny.

"Flowers. It's extra credit for Professor McGonagall."

"What kind of flowers? Not pansies, I hope." Ginny glanced over at the Slytherin table where Pansy Parkinson was chatting loudly with Millicent Bulstrode.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but stopped the instant Ginny's words sank in. There were flowers as in plants. Then there were other flowers as in girls. What a common thing it was; girls named after flowers. Pansy. Lavender. Rose.

An idea took root. James Potter, the bully. Harry had told her. His dad, the Marauders, they used to bully Snape. Why? She tried to imagine Snape as he must've been when he was a student at Hogwarts; pale, scraggly black hair, skinny, something of a loner, certainly not popular, but a genius at potions. Why would James Potter torment Snape? He'd been an easy target no doubt, almost too easy. Boys could be cruel, but what if there had been something—someone—else at stake?

Hermione snapped her book shut and jumped up from the table.

"Not a pansy, Ginny," she said a bit breathlessly. "A Lily."

OOO

Hermione slammed her hand against the heavy wooden door of Snape's office. There was no reply but she knew that he was inside. She'd go on pounding the door all night if she had to. Eventually, it swung inward to reveal Snape glowering down at her with a familiar and not at all unexpected glare.

"My office hours are long over, Miss Granger," he snapped.

"Surely you've a moment to spare for the truth," Hermione said. She pushed past him into the dimly lit space. The light of several candles caught and refracted in the rows upon rows of glass jars which lined the shelves behind the professor's desk.

Snape closed the door. He turned to face her. "And what truth is it you seek?"

"One which you won't give me," she said. "And since you insist on keeping it from me, I thought I'd share mine. Here is my truth. I can't do this anymore. I can't do this without answers."

She'd planned it. She planned the words. She'd known what she was going to say before she'd said it, so she was surprised to hear her voice waver; she was surprised to find herself choking back unshed tears. "What is happening?" she asked. "You have the answers. You know why the golem has turned. Something is happening to me and you know what it is."

Snape stared at her, his face impassive. The moment drew out between them. She was pleading with him and it had no effect. She'd expected that it wouldn't.

"You are imagining things," he said. "It is perhaps the stress of a magic that you are ill-equipped to withstand." Snape withdrew a vial from his robes. "I can help, perhaps. This can help."

Hermione stared at the pale, blue liquid which swirled in the vial he held between his fingers. Wouldn't it be lovely? Would it be lovely to sip from the vial and suddenly forget everything? She didn't know what the potion was, but she could be sure it had the sweet taste of Nepenthe—soothing, numbing, deadening.

She took the vial from his fingers and removed the stopper. "I can drink this," she said quietly, "but it won't bring her back."

Snape's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. "Who won't it bring back?" he asked.

"Lily," she said simply.

Something happened then. It began with the tic of a vein at his temple.

"You dare," he breathed in soft astonishment. You dare. You dare! He repeated the words over and over. They grew louder with each utterance until she realized that he wasn't uttering them at all, he'd sent them screaming inside her mind. You insufferable little brat! You dare! You dare to speak her name! You think to manipulate me by using her! You dare! You dare!

Each word seared her consciousness. Pain streaked through her mind, crippling her. She dropped the vial and sagged against the edge of the desk. She held one thought, one thought only as he tore his way through the fabric of her mind: Lily, Lily, Lily, Lily, Lily. She repeated it like a mantra, over and over again as if it could save her.

Hermione fell to her knees. Wetness streaked down the side of her neck. There was blood trickling from her left ear.

This, she thought, this was what had happened to Neville's parents. "This—", she screamed aloud, but was unable to finish the thought. Had she strength enough it would have run thusly: this is the sound of a mind as it breaks.

OOO

"Enough!" said a voice. "Enough, Severus!"

Snape shook off the hands that clutched at his robes. He'd barely heard the voice. Belatedly it registered. He spun to see Albus Dumbledore standing beside him. At his feet lay Hermione Granger, conscious but dazed. There was more speech. He heard it as if from a distance. He thought it was Albus who spoke but he couldn't be sure.

"What have you done, Severus? What have you done?"

OOO

Sorry for the delay in updating. The new job has seriously cut into my writing time, but no way I abandon this story.

A big thanks in advance for your reviews!