EIGHTEEN: Veritaserum

Moments after waking and adjourning to her sitting room for coffee, someone knocked on Hermione's office door. She glanced at the time. It was barely ten in the morning, and she had a free period on Tuesdays; she'd hoped no one would come looking for her. Cinching her robe tightly around her waist, she made for her office.

Neville was levitating a tray of food behind him; she was forcibly reminded of Harry. "You just missed breakfast," he pointed out as she raised an eyebrow at the platter. "I thought…"

She stood back. "Come in, Neville." She let the door fall shut behind him and followed him through to her sitting room.

"You should hear the whispers," he told her as they settled in on the couch, barely suppressing a grin.

"I doubt I'd like the sound of them," she muttered.

He looked askance at her. "What do you mean? Sure, it's kind of annoying to be talked about, but—"

"Something happened." She nibbled at a piece of toast, not remotely hungry. "Not what they think."

He waited for her to elaborate, and when she didn't, he said, "Hermione, what's wrong?"

"It's just not as simple as all that," she said quietly. "It's not as simple as it should be."

She hesitated, but something about the time felt right—and if she couldn't tell Neville, one of her oldest friends, one of the kindest people she knew, then who could she tell? She pulled up the sleeve of her robe, baring the scar that had reappeared from beneath the worn-away glamour. Neville promptly dropped his piece of toast.

"It's hard to tell the details," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "But…have you heard of Posttraumatic stress disorder?"

Nervously, he nodded. "Harry's been…do you know? He's been pushing the Ministry to look into it. Too many war veterans still not sleeping, turning up at St. Mungo's for problems caused by sleep deficiency and constant anxiety…I got one of the charms, but I stopped having trouble sleeping a few years ago. Nightmares from time to time, but I guess I got off easy."

"That's good," she said. "Thank Merlin."

But recognition was dawning in his eyes; the puzzle pieces seemed to be falling into place. "You didn't, though," he said quietly.

She shook her head, pulling her sleeve down. "Until about a month or so ago, I was barely sleeping three or four hours per night. Still having nightmares. I stopped self-harming after seventh year, but…I've been distant. Cutting people out. Getting worse. And Severus…" She swallowed. "Obviously, he's been there, he's experienced the worst of it. I can't begin to imagine the nightmares he must have…all those years…and he's by no means the picture of mental health, but he found his way through it, through the most horrible things. So he's been…helping me. Trying to get me well."

The shock on his face was surreal. She wasn't sure why she was telling him this, only that the weight of the secret suddenly felt as if it might crush her if she didn't tell someone, anyone.

"That's why you've been hanging round him so much," he said slowly.

"It started off that way. Sort of. He noticed, you know, he understood the signs, and he's been teaching me Occlumency as a way to help…cope. To recover. And we've been friends, obviously, for some time now—"

"And that's why it's not simple," he concluded.

She nodded. "He won't…he won't explore this…whatever there is between us…until I'm recovered to his satisfaction. He thinks," and she laughed, a disbelieving chuckle, "that the only reason I care about him is because of all the work he's done to help me. It's ridiculous, I mean—of course that's part of it, but…" Tears pricked at her eyes, and she brushed them away.

"Seven years," Neville said hoarsely, extracting an arm from between them and wrapping it around her shoulders instead. "Bloody hell, Hermione. I'm so sorry. I can't believe none of us noticed." He gave her a gentle squeeze.

She shook her head. "It isn't anyone's fault," she insisted. "I was good at hiding it."

"Even Ron…"

"Ron noticed something, he just didn't know how to help me because I wouldn't let him," she interrupted. " I didn't want to share this. I thought that, if I did, I would never get better...or that I would make us worse. And I didn't want to burden anyone. I have to tell Harry," she said miserably. "And Ginny, and even Ron, if we ever get on speaking terms again. I've been keeping this from them for so long…and it isn't fair, is it? It's not fair at all. I'm just…I'm terrified of how they'll react."

"Hermione," he said gently, squeezing her shoulders again, "they're your friends. They'll want to know. They'll want to do what they can to help. Even if that just means dragging you out of the dungeon every once in a while to see the rest of the world. And about Snape," he added, and she tensed. "Just give it time. Get better. And he'll see it eventually."

She smiled finally, a little relief stealing over her. "Thanks, Neville." Suddenly hungry, she leaned forward to inspect the bacon. They talked of less dire things while they ate, and her heart felt significantly lighter.

Hermione didn't send an owl ahead to warn Harry that she was coming. She knew she was more than welcome at the Potters' for dinner. Despite the tumult of the last day, she was looking forward to seeing her godson for the first time in months. He would have grown considerably by now, she thought, smoothing her cloak as she pressed the doorbell and craned her neck to look up at the house in Godric's Hollow. For a moment, she saw double: the house with the bedroom blasted out overlaid on the repaired, cosy home. Harry had done considerable work to fix the place up after the war.

"Coming!" Ginny's voice called, and then yelled over her shoulder, "Are we expecting someone, Harry?"

The muffled reply was lost in the shuffle at the door, and Ginny, very pregnant, James propped on her hip, cracked the door open. "Hermione!" she said, obviously delighted. Warmth and the scent of cinnamon curled out of the house, brushing welcoming tendrils against Hermione's face. It felt strangely like coming home.

It was so strange to see Ginny now, Hermione realized. It had been months, but that wasn't the difference she saw; it was, instead, the difference of seven years. Sometimes she forgot that the young girl she'd known in her childhood was gone: this was clearly a woman, with shallow laugh lines appearing around her smile and the corners of her eyes. Her red hair was a bit shorter now than it had been in her youth, only falling just past her shoulders, but it was as vibrant as ever, and her brown eyes sparkled with a familiar, faint mischief.

"You're just in time for dinner!" she was exclaiming, as she grabbed Hermione's wrist with her free hand and pulled her inside. "You are staying to visit for a bit, won't you? Don't tell me you're running off to—"

Hermione interrupted her friend with a hug, being careful not to squish James. He gurgled happily and tugged at Hermione's hair. "Hermy!" he screeched.

"Of course I'm staying for a bit," she said, letting go of her friend, "I didn't come all the way from Hogwarts to say hello and be on my way."

Ginny smiled. "Good. Your godson clearly missed you."

Hermione held out her arms for the toddler. "I missed him, too." Ginny handed James over with relief, then shut the door behind Hermione. "Hello, darling," Hermione murmured, bouncing James on her hip.

"Hermy," he said happily, pressing his face against her shoulder.

James was Harry in miniature, but with Ginny's brown eyes. Hermione had always found that rather poetic. She followed Ginny to the kitchen, keeping a firm hold on her godson.

"Dinner's ready," Harry said from the stove, clearly having not heard their exchange at the door. "Who was it, anyway? I heard James—"

"We have a visitor," Ginny chimed, taking a seat at the small table, "and it's about damn time."

Hermione felt heat rush to her face, and Harry turned in confusion, but when he caught sight of her a grin split across his face. "Hermione," he said with delight, and strode forward to envelope her in a tight hug. James grumbled at being crushed between them. "You'll stay for dinner?" he demanded, holding her at arm's length. "I reckon it's nothing like a Hogwarts feast, but I do all right with chicken—"

"Yes, yes," she said, smiling up at him, "your wife has already threatened me, I'm staying." Ginny laughed.

Dinner was a cheerful affair; she would save the real conversation until after James had been put to sleep. She told them stories of her classes, Ginny thanked her for the potion—which had helped considerably—and Harry told her about his recent work at the Ministry.

"The charm," he asked, while they sipped their after-dinner tea, "did it help?"

Hermione glanced at James, and shook her head incrementally. "Later," she said quietly, and sensing the weight in her voice, Harry dropped the subject.

When Ginny suggested it was time for James to be put to sleep, he threw a fit until Hermione promised to read him his favourite bedtime story first. It was comfortable, she thought, curled up with the toddler and a silly book about rabbits, which she read aloud to him until he fell asleep. She could even see enjoying children of her own someday, perhaps. The little family seemed so bright and happy; it was a distant point on the horizon, but at least it existed now.

She closed the door to the nursery behind her and found her way to the sitting room, where Harry and Ginny were talking in low voices. "He's asleep," she said, and Ginny breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, Hermione," she said, leaning against Harry's shoulder. "We're both so tired of that story. It's his favourite, and he wants it every night now."

She smiled, seating herself in a nearby comfortable armchair. "It wasn't a problem. He's lovely."

"He's a trouble-maker," Harry said grimly. "I'm terrified of the day when that child goes off to Hogwarts. You're going to have your hands full if he ends up in Gryffindor."

She laughed. "Maybe he'll be more obedient for me than the other professors."

"One can hope." Harry looked at her closely. "How are you, Hermione?"

She took a deep breath and leaned forward; they both tensed. "Look," she said quietly. "I have something to tell you both, and I'd really like it if you just let me talk first and get through it."

Harry nodded. He'd developed a good poker face while working as an Auror, she thought; she couldn't quite read the expression there. "Of course. Fire away."

So she talked. She told them about the years of nightmares and sleeplessness and the choking panic that rose up and tried to kill her; she apologized for pushing them further and further away until they were at arm's length; she told them that Severus had been helping her, the story of their friendship, the events that had transpired last night; she insisted that they not blame themselves, that no one was to blame, and that she was healing. And she apologized again, for good measure, before waiting for them to interject.

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. She didn't think she'd ever seen Ginny look so horrified.

"The charm didn't do a thing, did it," Harry said wearily.

Sighing, Hermione shook her head. "Severus thinks it's quite beyond charms and spells." She looked more closely at her oldest friend, now with his head in his hands. "Harry? What is it?"

He stood up abruptly and began to pace. "Those idiots at the Ministry, that's what," he said, his voice low to contain his fury, but she heard the strain nonetheless. "They've been batting aside my suggestions for years. You're not the only one, Hermione."

"How bad is it?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"Bad, and getting worse," Ginny said. "It's not just war heroes, obviously, it goes so much deeper than that, and the ones who are still suffering are a hundred times worse than the symptoms we saw initially. It's so taboo, the idea of mental illness in the Wizarding world…"

"In the Muggle world, too," Harry interrupted, frowning. "But it's a hundred times worse here, because it isn't something that can be fixed by magic."

"The young adults who most recently graduated from Hogwarts," Ginny said sadly. "That's the worst. They were just children when we were fighting the final battle. Imagine the effect, when you're eleven years old. And the Ministry…"

Hermione stood up too. "We have to do something," she said, looking pleadingly at Harry. "What happened to draw your attention to this? How did you find out?"

He and Ginny exchanged a look. "There has been a rash of suicides," Harry said quietly. "The Ministry's leaning on The Prophet to keep is very hushed up, but I doubt you've been reading that rag lately, anyway."

"There hasn't been anyone we know, has there?" Hermione asked, her voice shaking.

Harry looked at his wife. Her face was quite stoic as she replied, very quietly, "We have to keep George under watch quite closely now." She spoke to her hands. "It's been…getting worse and worse for him, you know, worse than for the rest of us. He has to see Fred's face every time he looks in the mirror. It was hard enough, without that, but I can't imagine…" She cleared her throat.

"Oh, Ginny," Hermione said miserably, sitting down next to her friend to put an arm around her. "I'm so sorry."

Ginny nodded against her shoulder. "It's all right. Mum and Dad are being careful."

Hermione looked up at Harry. "We have to do something," she said pleadingly. "I haven't…I haven't even been that far down, and what I have experienced was still so horrible. We have to stop this."

"You have to get well first," he said firmly. "I won't have you handing out leaflets while you're still recovering." He shook his head. "Look," he said. "What you're doing, with him, it's helping you, right?"

She nodded.

"And you don't reckon that's just because of the thing you've got going." The ghost of a smirk crossed his lips.

She smiled weakly. "Not a chance. I didn't believe for a second that we would ever get a thing going at all."

"Then listen." He sat down on Ginny's other side. "I can't do a damn thing with the Ministry because I don't have a solution. Those charms obviously haven't helped at all. And when they don't have a solution to a problem, they just won't advertise the problem. Kingsley supports me, of course, but his hands are tied by Parliament, too. He can only do so much. But if…if we had a solution…something that worked in a third-party research trial…" He looked at her meaningfully.

"Then we could get it working," she said immediately. "If Severus and I submit our findings when I'm through, if I recover, then…then we could implement the strategy and start helping people." She took a deep breath. "Severus is already keeping very detailed notes, I'm sure. I ought to start, too."

"Every little piece would help," he said. "It has gotten quite serious, and it's not exactly my division, or anything, but…I fought next to some of these people." He looked at Ginny. "With Voldemort gone, it just seems unfair that he's somehow still manipulating their lives. It seems wrong."

"We'll fix it," Hermione promised, giving Ginny a squeeze before getting to her feet. "I ought to inform Severus."

"Hermione," Ginny asked hesitantly, "have you talked to Ron, yet?"

She shook her head. "I will soon," she said firmly. "I owe him an explanation."

"He's still a prat," the redhead said stiffly.

Hermione smiled. "Yes, he's still a prat," she said. "But it wasn't all his fault. And of course, it wasn't all mine, either. But we still ought to sort things out. I can't go on ignoring him forever." She glanced at Harry. "I ought to get back."

Harry stood. "I'll walk you out."

She waved goodbye to Ginny, and she and Harry walked to the front door. A blast of cold wind greeted her when she opened it.

"Don't make it so long between visits next time, yeah?" Harry said, his smile crooked. "Your godson's not the only one who misses you."

She thought she would cry if she spoke at all, so she just nodded and hugged him, hoping that he understood.

She had not made an appearance at breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

Severus knew better than to think that she was avoiding him; if anything, she was avoiding the excited buzz of the entire staff, who were simply overwhelmed with what they had seen at the Masquerade Ball the night before. He was forced to make a few remarks at breakfast to remind the Headmistress that she was not entitled to every detail of his personal life, but she subsided in a good mood, as though convinced that something had transpired.

Once, he had been unable to scrub the sound of Hermione's sobs from his memory, though he desperately wanted to erase them; now, as he corrected compositions into the night, he couldn't help but remember her voice—her touch—her kiss—and wanted never to forget them. He abandoned the essays eventually. It was no good while he was distracted by the fantasy of her lips, the curve of her waist, the sincerity and determination in those sparkling brown eyes…

He poured himself a goblet of nettle wine and settled in his armchair beside the fire, ruminating. It was pleasant, he realized as he swirled the liquid beneath his nose; he was experiencing a quiet, rueful sort of happiness, one that couldn't even be erased by the surety that she would change her mind when she was finally well. Perhaps it was because he was actually quite unsure, and not certain at all, that she would change her mind. He had never known her to be determined on a topic and eventually choose the opposite. She was far too stubborn for that.

Someone knocked, quiet but sharp, on the door of his office. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner as he rose to his feet. Not yet nine, but he was certain it was her. Minerva's pounding was more demanding. He left his goblet on the table beside the fire and ducked through to his office, dismantling wards as he went.

Hermione was, as expected, on his doorstep; less expected was the state of her, pink-cheeked, cheerful and windblown, her hair tangled and wilder than usual. "Hello," she said, smiling brightly at him. "I have things to tell you. May I come in?"

Caught off-guard by her merry disposition, he stepped back to let her through, then re-built the wards behind them as they retreated to his sitting room.

She threw off her cloak over the armchair that had become unmistakably hers; evidently, she had come straight from the outside.

"You're…in quite a good mood," he said cautiously as she seated herself. "Wine?"

She beamed. He hadn't seen her so effortlessly cheerful in a good many years. "Yes, please," she said, and he poured out another goblet of wine before seating himself across from her. "And yes. I am. I just came from Godric's Hollow."

He raised his eyebrows. "Visiting Potter, I presume."

She took a sip of the wine, shivered a little, and set it beside her. "Yes," she answered, leaning forward. "I'm not sure what got into me. Neville visited this morning, when I didn't turn up to breakfast, you know—I fancied a bit of a lie-in, had a free period—and it felt like…" She searched for the word, frowning. "It's difficult to describe, but it felt as though I'd suddenly woken up, as though I've been in a fog for quite a long time, and dawn finally broke over it."

She looked at him, though her gaze seemed directed elsewhere—inward.

"I told him," she said finally, her voice almost confused. "I told Neville why I've been so distant, how you and I came to be…friends…" She smiled again, softer this time. "And then I realized that it was really time to tell Harry, and Ginny, what's been happening, what I've been sorting through. No real details, you see, just basic…superficial things. But something Neville said sparked my interest; he mentioned that Harry's been trying to get the Ministry to look into this for years. And when I visited Harry, we had an idea."

"An idea," he repeated, and she chuckled at his dark tone. "Terrifying."

"Yes." She looked at her hands. "You see, there's…" And her cheerfulness faded quite abruptly, swiftly, as he had expected it to; she was somber and sad once again. "It sounds quite terrible," she said quietly. "I don't know if you knew."

"What?" he said, a touch impatiently.

"There's been…a rash of suicides, among witches and wizards who were touched by the war," she told him, her voice strained now. "Harry says that the Ministry has been leaning on The Prophet to keep it quiet. They don't know what to do. They don't have a solution. Those charms…obviously they won't work, for the worst cases, and…" She cleared her throat. "George," she said softly. "George Weasley. His twin…"

"I remember," Severus replied, his voice harsh, not with impatience now but with painful remembrance. "His twin died in front of him at the final battle."

She nodded, eyes bright. "He tried." Severus didn't have to ask what tried meant. "They're having to watch him very closely, now, and obviously it's quite severe." She took a deep breath. "I have no right—"

"You have every right," he interrupted. "Ask."

She cleared her throat again. "It's just," she said, and her voice pleaded, "what we're doing, it's working. I'm better, aren't I? I've put on weight, I've—my sleeping has improved—the nightmares, they're not better, precisely, but they're starting to fade…and I figured you must have been keeping notes." He answered with a nod. "I ought to start, too. But I could be the test subject, the first, and if…if I recover…when I recover," she amended firmly, "we could present your findings to the Ministry—we could help them. We could stop all this from continuing to happen. And we could train others, we could train Healers the appropriate method—we could run trials, of course—"

"We?" he interrupted again, smirking.

She looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Of course," she said. "I want to work with you on this. If you'd prefer to present it yourself, I understand—I'm only a patient right now—but I thought I could be of use. And maybe…when I'm recovered…I could help too. Better than leaflets," she finished, with a shaky smile. "Something real." She leaned forward. "I would be honoured to do this with you, Severus," she said earnestly. "We could really make a difference. And I promise—you're the mastermind behind this, you're the one who discovered the method, you've been brilliant—it's all yours. I just want to help you make it known."

He inclined his head. "There is clearly no use trying to stop you."

She smiled at him, raising her glass in a toast, and he wanted nothing more to kiss her again; it took every morsel of his self-restraint to stop himself.

"Oh," she added, as he drank deeply from his goblet, "there's been something I've been meaning to ask you. Would you accompany me to the naming ceremony for Harry's second son? He desperately wants you to be there, and yes, it will be embarrassing, but I think you'll also be quite honoured, in an offended sort of way. They've set it for January, January 9th, as long as he doesn't take his sweet time the way James did."

He shot her a glare, but he was sure there was no real heat in it. "You're quite demanding tonight."

Her eyes twinkled. "I feel like myself again, for the moment," she murmured. "I might as well take advantage of it while I can."

He needn't tell her that the ninth of January would be his forty-sixth birthday; it was evident that she already knew.

"I would like it, quite a lot, actually, if you'd accompany me," she said quietly

He gave a curt nod of assent. "Provided that I will not be required to be particularly social, I will come."

"Thank you," she said. "You've truly no idea how happy it will make Harry, and—I hate being social at these things. Easier to hide in a corner, and you can put everyone off approaching us with that glare of yours."

He couldn't help but smirk.