SIX: The Scar

Dear Hermione—

I want you to know that everyone told Ron to leave you be. Harry's livid that he went ahead and wrote you anyway, despite our very firm advice, so just chuck Ron's letter straight in the fire and don't read a word. No one expects you to acknowledge him, I promise.

I hope you're enjoying yourself at Hogwarts. Neville mentioned in his last letter that you looked a bit peaky, but I suppose that's to be expected, isn't it? You work too hard, we all say so. Your students don't need all their compositions back right away. Give yourself some time to relax.

I absolutely hate my body at the moment. This one's being so much more difficult than the last. I swear we're breeding a monster. Harry just won't let go of this stubborn notion to really thank Snape. Albus Severus Potter, don't you think that's the name of a child who just gets picked on? It means so much to him, I just haven't the heart to disagree. I can only hope that the combination of the names of two of the greatest wizards who ever lived will be enough to keep the bullies at bay. Then again, he might just manage on his own. He's kicking something terrible at the moment. He's a Slytherin, I can already tell. Mum and Dad will be horrified.

Speaking of Slytherins, is there any chance you'd be able to persuade Snape to come to the naming ceremony? I know it's far off, but I reckon if you're going to have any chance at all, you're going to have to start getting in his good graces straight away. And it would mean so much to Harry, if he just turned up and sat in a chair and just watched. I'll keep Harry from forcing the poor man to speak to him, I swear, but will you try? I reckon you have a better chance than any of us. I'm not due until late December, which gives you about three months.

I seriously hope you're well. We all miss having you near. I'll have to visit soon, but I don't want to intrude—let me know if there's a good time for it, will you?

Lots of love,

Ginny

Ginny brought with her a life and energy that would be welcome, considering the gloom of the dungeon she currently inhabited. She had no misgivings on the subject of persuading Snape to come to the naming ceremony, however; even if she did somehow win any portion of his affection by December, chances were low. He wanted nothing to do with Harry, which she thought was obvious to anyone except her dear friend, who could be both very stubborn and very oblivious by turns.

She pulled a scrap of parchment toward her. If she could afford a break from the compositions, anyway, she might as well see if tonight was a good time to start Occlumency lessons. She scribbled out a message and slipped it under the collar of the cat curled in her lap. "Go to Snape, will you?" she yawned. "I might as well make a whole-hearted effort."

Crookshanks willingly leapt from her lap and slipped out the office door. Hermione pulled a stack of compositions toward her to begin grading while she waited for a reply.

How the damned cat managed to get inside, he had no idea.

In honour of it being Friday, and relishing in two days free and clear ahead of him, his tumbler was full of a well-aged brandy. The fire in the hearth washed over his body, giving some relief to the ache that intensified throughout the week and flared up most noticeably at night, when the castle was at its coldest. His collar was loosened, and he welcomed the air that breathed against Nagini's scars, soothing the chafe that his many layers of black wool had imposed over the week. All was routine, all was as it should be, and then—

The hideous orange beast leapt lightly into his lap with a purr of greeting.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. The passage to his office was closed tightly, the wards still intact, and yet the monster had managed to get in somehow. With a heavy sigh, he replaced the decanter on the side table and pulled the scrap of parchment from beneath the creature's collar. It settled into his lap, purring with full force now, as he unfolded the note.

Her script was tiny, neat, and perfectly legible.

S.S.—

Do you have an hour or so free tonight in which we might begin my Occlumency lessons?

—H.G.

"Damn it, girl," he muttered, his fingers lifting to massage his temples.

He wanted to tell her simply no. To call it off, let his damned curiousity simmer until there was nothing left of it, to leave her be. They had established a tentative peace, but at some point, and he could not be sure how soon it would be, he would say something or do something that was utterly unforgivable to her. She would be furious with him or disappointed with him, and the level of discomfort he experienced inside these walls would multiply tenfold.

He picked up the cat and his brandy and prowled toward the cabinet where he kept Dumbledore's Pensieve. Putting down cat and brandy on the table beside the cabinet, he lifted the device carefully out of its hiding place. Crookshanks—fuck, he must be tired, for the name of Granger's beast came to mind unbidden—kept his distance, ears laid flat against the back of his head as the Pensieve was set down.

He hesitated for only a second before putting his wand to his temple and drawing out the silvery, delicate thread of his memory. Leaning down, he deposited it into the stone basin, where it swirled and joined the other strange materials within. The glassy surface became a window. He bent further, preparing himself for the lurch of falling.

The Room of Requirement had been a place he had avoided; during his school days, he had known of its existence, but had been sure that Potter and his gang had known of it, too. He would never risk straying across their path just out of curiosity for the place. His adult years in the castle had not given him reason to seek it out. It was just another room, one which most students were not aware of, and had therefore never given him incentive to search it during patrols. He didn't visit the seventh floor at all if he could help it. There were far too many raw memories there, and he had no desire to revisit any of them.

The Room was less interesting to him at the moment, though, than the play of emotions across Granger's face. She face betrayed her; her expressions were not as obvious, perhaps, as those twisting the features of the Boy Who Wouldn't Die, but he could still read the subtle flickers of feeling in the movement of her eyes, the teeth on her lip, the colour or lack thereof in her face.

Anxiety: she was watching him with worry while he turned to the side to remove his robes. His curt tone had undoubtedly been the cause of it. There was a hint of frustration, too—perhaps with him.

As he turned back to face her, her expression changed, became blank with something like surprise. For a fraction of a second, her eyes remained fixed on his face; then she swallowed and glanced down, the lightest of pink in her cheeks. She was embarrassed, but he couldn't imagine why, and her next action distracted him from any contemplation of the matter. She didn't follow suit in rolling up her sleeves, and her expression hardened again as she watched him do so.

She hadn't bared her arms a single time in company since her arrival at this castle, if he recalled correctly, and he was certain that he did. He would have to examine some older memories in greater detail, but he didn't remember her rolling back her sleeves at any point during her belated seventh year, either, even when many of her classmates had done so due to the effort of advanced Defence work. She was hiding something—whatever it was he'd glimpsed the day he'd visited her office, he was certain. He felt a momentary pang of foreboding; self-harm was uncommon in the Wizarding world, but she had not always been a witch...

He shook the thought away as he watched their battle, analysing her weaknesses. She was, as she'd said, out of practice, that much was obvious, but still—he admitted it grudgingly—quite good. She had a grace and intellect in battle that many lacked, a subtlety; possibly because of her ability to swallow textbooks, she rarely cast the same curse twice, and was even acceptably inventive. Conjuring a natural barrier and using it as a shield was creative enough.

They were arguing now, her voice rising, and then she was pleading. The change was almost instantaneous. Her near-shout had dropped to a whisper, and if he put himself in the path of her gaze, close to where his memory-self stood, he could see exactly why he had given in to her request.

Her eyes were begging. Open, vulnerable, hurting—the depth of the pain in her gaze was tangible, and it wrenched him to his core yet again. No one had willingly made themselves so weak in his presence, so open to his wrath. No one had even attempted to invest that much open faith in him. It was a small thing—just a request to learn—but she was inviting his scorn, knowing full well that snide remarks and cruel dismissals were more likely than any sort of empathy.

If he was honest with himself, it was not just her vulnerability which had swayed his decision. It was the pain. The way she looked at him as though, in that moment, she was being burned alive. As he hesitated on the verge of turning her away, the smallest of hopes appeared in her features, a desperate wish that he would agree to it. As if it would help. As if he would help.

A small smile curved her mouth as he resigned himself to the task, and though she ducked her head to hide it, he saw it anyway: relief.

He jerked out of the memory. Crookshanks made a quiet noise and chanced moving nearer to Severus in order to gently bump his furry head against the dark man's hip. Automatically, giving in, his hand dropped to the beast's head. It gave a quiet meow, arching into his fingers, and gazed up at him with yellow eyes.

He summoned the parchment to him and scrawled his reply.

Hermione was deep in grading compositions when Crookshanks finally returned. She had carefully not thought about what the reply to her message might be—if he had thought better of the whole arrangement, she did not want to get her hopes up too much—but the instant the cat slipped into her office she was anxious to see what his answer was.

Crookshanks mewed angrily as she removed the parchment from beneath his collar and unfolded it without bothering to pet him.

Present yourself at my office at nine o'clock. Do not be late.

She sank back into her chair in relief and buried her face in her hands. Crookshanks, recovering from his resentment, curled up on her bare feet, warming her toes. Part of her was quite terrified at the prospect of Snape doing any digging at all in her brain, and another part of her was quite interested in the process. She had done some reading-up on the matter, years ago, but with no one to test her, she could hardly be sure that she would have any success.

She would be restless the rest of the evening. If she was honest with herself, the compositions didn't need to be graded right now—they had only just been turned in today. She was bound to be unfair to her students if she tried to keep working.

With a sigh, she pushed back from her desk and made her way into her quarters. A bath sounded lovely. It would give her an opportunity to relax and hopefully unwind before having her head broken into. She winced at the thought and tried to hope for the best as she stripped out of her clothes and sank into the claw-footed tub in her bathroom. Crookshanks plopped himself just inside the doorway, stretching himself out on the cool tile.

The warm water was soothing, the bubbles fragrant, but even as she settled in with her head pleasantly cushioned on the rim of the tub, she felt fidgety. It was nothing out of the ordinary; sitting still did not come easily to Hermione, and it never had. Every moment not spent being productive was a moment wasted. This philosophy tended to create more stress than it eased, however, and she was making a real effort to take time to just sit idly.

The problem was this: Sitting idly gave her more space to think, and she was never pleased with the direction her thoughts strayed. She took a deep breath and let it out before pulling her left arm out of the water and letting it rest along the rim of the tub, her head tilting sideways to look at her bare skin.

The word stared at her. Her screams, faint and tinny in her ears, echoed back at her. Her eyes fell closed, but the scar was etched into her eyelids. Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood.

Bellatrix Lestrange was seven years cold in her grave, but she had left her mark.

Hermione had always thought well enough of herself until the night she'd been tortured, and since, she had thought rather little. The Cruciatus Curse had been nothing compared to the psychological horror of having derogatory slang carved into her flesh. She could only be grateful that she had not been asked more pressing questions, that the truth had been acceptable to scream out during those minutes which seemed more like hours. She would not have had the strength to do anything but tell the truth. She would have been quite incapable of lying while pain and panic blinded her.

Ron had always given her space about this particular scar. He'd never asked, for example, why it looked so very permanent, or why fainter scars criss-crossed through the words. When they'd started sleeping together she had managed to keep the lights off, and he had gone along with it—until the day when he had wanted the lights on, and she could still remember the look of horror in his eyes as he really looked at her body for the first time.

There were the scars wrapped around her ribs and chest, for example: thin and whip-like from the curse she'd been felled with in the Department of Mysteries. There was a slim line on her throat, where Bellatrix had held a knife to her flesh. And there was the word, stark and raised on her flesh.

On men, scars were marks of bravery; on Ron, the scars left from a brain's tentacles made him courageous, debonair. But underneath a woman's clothes, even her oldest friend expected smooth, uninterrupted skin, not the marks of battles past.

Her fingers trembled as they traced the letters. Crookshanks made a noise from the doorway—half-worried, half-admonishing.

"Calm down, Crooks," she murmured. "It's behind me now."

She held her breath and dunked her head beneath the surface of the water, firmly putting an end to her dark thoughts.

The knock at his office door came at precisely nine o'clock.

"Enter," Severus intoned, rising from his desk as he spoke.

Granger slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her. The draft that followed her in hit him with the full force of her scent—some combination of vanilla and apple. Her eyes lingered on his rolled-up shirtsleeves before meeting his gaze.

Yes, she was certainly hiding something, and if she was as bad at Occlumency as Potter had been, he would find out exactly what. He was not without his misgivings about the situation, but she had asked.

"I assume you have a basic understanding of Occlumency?" he said.

She nodded. "Yes." She appeared on the verge of further explanation, but kept her mouth shut.

He raised his eyebrows. "Go on."

"It's very subtle," she said immediately. "The goal is, however, fairly straightforward: to keep any accomplished Legilimens from gaining access to your thoughts, memories, and emotions. To do so, one must erect a fairly powerful mental barrier. It's not something which is best accomplished with wandwork, from what I've gathered."

He nodded. "Sufficient. But theory will only take you so far in this field, and learning by example is usually most effective." He lifted his wand. "Wand at the ready. Use any means that occurs to you to block me."

She raised her wand, but her stance was relaxed, tension absent from the line of her shoulders. She did nothing to avoid his gaze, merely stared into his face with open eyes, as if she'd made peace with what was about to happen.

"Legilimens," he said.

He felt her hasty, weak mental barrier—product only of practice without being tested—and crushed it with ease, letting her thoughts and emotions flood into his mind.

She was as unlike Potter as possible in this very fundamental way. Penetrating Potter's mind had been like unstopping a dam, each thought provoking a quick leap to the next, to the associated memory, to the attached emotion, to another memory coupled with another thought. Breaking into Granger's mind, however, was almost calming. Even in this, the most abstract of places, she was organized. Her thoughts were a calm, singular current—for the moment.

Keep him out—

There was a surge of panic, a rustle in the calm, as she detected the breach; she'd been unaware that her barrier had fallen. He slipped past her attempts to build a new one and followed the panic.

Things you don't want him to see—

A flash; the memory was recent, but vague; she was trying not to think, keeping all mental activity brief, in her attempt to shield herself. He caught the scent of her, stronger in the memory, the vague image of a bare arm, of scars—her panic became terror, solidified into mind-numbing horror—

There was a very strong push, and he was locked out.

Well. Impressive.

He blinked and became aware of her eyes staring into his again: her gaze was vacant, and he knew that she was still focusing all of her strength on maintaining the barrier. She had been relaxed before, but every line of her body was tense now.

"Relax," he said. "I'm out."

A smile unfurled across her lips before she smothered it. "I don't suppose you were trying very hard," she said ruefully, shifting her weight to her other foot.

"Still, it was a decent attempt. You won't always be able to just construct walls, however. Your opponent will always know you're hiding something."

She sighed. "Yes, that makes sense."

"For now, though, it is a useful exercise. Eventually, you will construct a more...permanent...wall."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Permanent?"

"Think, Granger."

She thought, still looking at him absent-mindedly, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

"I see the purpose," she said finally. "I just don't see how it would be possible to maintain it permanently. It took all my effort just to hold the temporary one, and I'm sure my physical appearance was a dead give-away that I was holding onto it."

"It becomes second nature," he dismissed.

She looked as if she didn't believe him, but held her tongue.

He lifted his wand. "Again. Since you have a grasp of the idea, disregard your wand."

She slid it back into her sleeve, looking not at all worried about facing an opponent unarmed.

"Legilimens."

The first wall fell to his assault; the second creaked with the force and then gave way. Her mind was still so carefully organized, so he followed the slow stream of her panic.

Walls, walls, walls—

The soft feeling of flesh on flesh, mumbled words in her ear, dull pleasure—he recoiled, no interest in her physical relationship with Weasley, and she took the opportunity of his hesitation to put up another wall, a little sturdier. It still was not strong enough to keep him out for long; with a slightly greater effort, he regained access.

She was curled up crying on a bathroom floor, but not at Hogwarts; her sobs were muffled by her arms, her entire body trembling—he thrust aside her attempt to block him with force this time, and she scrambled to recover—her memory unlocked itself, unstopping a flood of connected moments like this one—Weasley on the ground, bleeding—Weasley in a state of undress, a look of horror on his face—Weasley in her bed with Parkinson—silent crying again—

A stone slab fell into place, obscuring his view.

He pushed back; the barrier was fragile. Her memories were weakening rather than strengthening her resolve.

When he unlocked her mind again, however, the flood was gone, calmed again into the slow stream. She'd put a lid on her fear and there were no thoughts to follow, so he hunted deeper, searching out the scent of the first memory he'd seen in her head.

It was still vague. She wasn't thinking of it—her mind shouted with her determination not to think of it—but the general image was there. Pain in her chest. Eyes tracing letters. An echo, deeper, older, rooted in self-loathing and inadequacy, a scream, a laugh. All while focused on the word, the blurred word on her arm—

She didn't push him from her mind so much as shove him; she hadn't lifted her wand, but he staggered as if she'd Stunned him. He caught himself on the edge of his desk just in time. Her eyes filled with horror, but she didn't speak. Her breath was harsh with the effort it had cost her to repel him; she steadied herself against the chair in front of his desk, but she didn't look away from him.

He moved around the desk just in time. Her knees gave way, and his outstretched arm caught her before she could collapse.

"If I support you, can you walk?"

She nodded, her face turned into his shoulder, eyes shut tight now. A shudder racked her body, a shiver running the length of his side. He urged her forward, unlocking the bookshelf and the wards leading to his rooms. Her feet shuffled along, moving in the direction he towed her. He only paused to deposit her in his usual armchair, nearest the hearth, and then moved on to another set of cabinets where his stock of potions were kept.

Only one of the vials would be of use, and it would only ease the physical symptoms of her mental duress. There was no use in instigating repair of her mind; she would gain no strength, would learn no immunity, if he attempted to do so.

By the time he returned to her side, she had curled up in his armchair, her arms wrapped around her legs, which were pulled tight to her chest. She was shivering visibly. He flicked his wand at the hearth, and a fire sprung up, its heat washing over them.

"Take this," he said, holding the vial out to her.

She looked at it with suspicion. "What is it?"

"It will ease your physical discomfort."

For a moment, she shivered so hard that her teeth rattled. "Why?"

"Because," he said, impatience mounting, "I believe we pushed your limited knowledge of the matter too far for a first sitting. You would not normally take anything to relieve the symptoms, but this is an exception. The stress of expelling me with your mind has had strong side effects."

He knew before she spoke what she would say; her mouth was set in a stubborn line, now that she had locked her teeth together to keep them from chattering. "No," she said, her knuckles white with the pressure of locking them around her legs. "I'm sure it will pass soon, won't it? And it will help me build up some resistance to the physical side effects."

For a moment, he felt compelled to force her to swallow the potion, but whether she knew it or not, she was right. It would be easier to resist succumbing to the physical display of mental damage in the future if she learned to fight it now.

He pocketed the vial. "As you wish."

He seated himself in the remaining armchair, facing her to keep watch on her symptoms. The shaking was lessening, though if her locked jaw was any indication, that was merely a product of her force of will. He felt a grudging respect for her.

"I'm not going to die if you stop looking at me," she said, a last violent tremor ripping through her before she stilled, some of the tension leaving her muscles. Her eyes avoided his.

"I will not risk the event, as unlikely as it may be," he said smoothly. "Minerva would kill me outright."

She choked out a laugh. "Yes, I suppose she would." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Is it usually this bad?"

"No," he said. "But you were quite desperate in your attempt to hide that particular memory, and it gave you enough force to lock me out, at the expense of sapping your physical energy."

She frowned, staring into the fire.

He summoned the bottle of brandy and poured out a measure in two decanters, levitating one toward her. "You'll need to learn how to keep me out in a way that doesn't do great damage to your energy reserves," he said as she took the glass from mid-air.

She smiled ruefully. "I suppose I will, at the risk of being invited into your quarters and given an expensive drink ever again."

She was teasing, and it caught him by surprise; he didn't—couldn't—suppress a smirk as he lifted his own glass to his lips.

Her eyes wandered the walls as she set down her glass. "Books," she noted. "I might have guessed."

"You are dangerously obvious in your attempts to stray off-topic."

She met his gaze, her features impassive again.

"It reveals exactly how dangerous you believe that memory to be," he continued. "Which leads me to consider how dangerous it truthfully is." Her fingers twitched on the glass—a minor tick, but telling. "You weren't nearly so worried about any that contained the ginger menace."

She snorted and hastily tightened her grip on the brandy. "What was that?"

"What was—"

"What you just called Ron. Ginger menace?" She was snickering now, the liquid in her glass sloshing dangerously, and she hurriedly put it down on the side table.

He scowled at her, but it made no impression; she was doubled over, shaking with silent laughter, struggling to contain herself.

"I believe it an apt description," he said finally.

"It's perfect," she agreed, the laughter bubbling out of her now. "Absolutely fantastic! I must tell Harry and Ginny—they'll be delighted to have something new to call him..."

She got herself under control after another minute of his glaring. "I'm sorry," she said, still smiling. "I wasn't laughing at you, honestly. It's just been a while since I've had the occasion for a good laugh." She took a deep breath, her features smoothing. "And as for the memory, I suppose you're going to demand to know what it contains? You saw enough to have a good guess, I'd wager."

Her features were untroubled, but the mirth on her face was tightening to anxiety again.

He would just ask outright; it would save time. "Are you a danger to yourself, Granger?"

She got to her feet. "The scar is old," she returned, her voice just as frank as his. She moved toward him, rolling up her left sleeve, and turned her arm up for his inspection.

The word was carved there unevenly, older and lighter scars criss-crossed through it, but the word itself was cut deepest, most permanent. Mudblood. He stood, taking her wrist in his hand—she flinched at the contact—to look closer.

"Who did this?" he asked.

She looked up at him—blinked, right on cue. "Bellatrix Lestrange," she murmured. "Crucio was no longer sufficient in satisfying her bloodlust, I think."

His finger traced the thinner scars, and she shuddered. "And the rest?"

She nodded. "Me. My seventh year."

He released her. "What were you thinking?"

"That if I cut deep enough, I could cut it away." Her voice was soft, thick with sadness.

His proximity to her burned; her scent filled his lungs, clouded his head. He couldn't think past a clawing fear that was rising up, taking hold in his chest, stretching for his throat—

"Don't mention it to anyone, would you?" she said quietly. "It's a rather embarrassing weakness, and the fuss that Harry and Ginny would make if they caught wind of it…"

"Weasley has seen the scar," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"He's not as thick as you think, but he never looked closely enough to decide that someone other than Bellatrix had left the mark. He hated my scars, I think—hated looking at them."

He forced his voice to work, to plow forward. "It could have been healed. You are a witch."

"Yes," she murmured. "But sometimes I forget, and this reminds me. I fought with everything I had for my place in this world. Even against myself. I'd like the reminder that I came out on top."

"Inane sentimentality." His pulse was too fast; he could hear it, accelerating, racing toward some unknown point.

"Fitting, for a Gryffindor," she said with a forced smile, and scooped up her glass to drain it.

He disregarded her statement. "We'll continue next week. Same time. Practice emptying your mind of all thoughts and emotions before you sleep. Do you usually dream?" She nodded. "The judge of your success will be whether that continues."

She nodded again and allowed him to escort her back through the bookshelf to the door of his office, where she turned to face him again.

"Thank you for agreeing to this," she said, and before he could formulate a reply, she was gone.

Her memory lingered in his quarters—the imprint of her body in his armchair, the scent of her present on the leather, the echo of her laugh as the night deepened around him.

Disturbing revelations aside, it had been a long time since he had made anyone laugh.