Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.

A/N

Going through Chapter 12 I have found out I am guilty of being severely influenced by my all time favourite fanfiction writer, \"Fabula Rasa\". Harry\'s concept of decision and indecision is borrowed from her, so is Hermione\'s notion of potions making. I\'d like to stress that I didn\'t borrow these themes consciously and only now, when editing the story, have found out the incrimination similarity.

Fabula Rasa is a gifted writer- if you still haven\'t read her stories, leave this fic at once and go immediately to http://www.restrictedsection.org/authorsf.html or http://www.tittisrealm.com/thinline/main.html and consume everything this fabulous author had ever posted.

I\'d like to thank to Tanyec, who helped me a great deal with my rather nonexistent Hungarian. You\'re priceless.

Criticism is, as usual; welcome.


Chapter 11 – God Has Pity on Kindergarten Children.


\"God has pity on kinderen cen children,
He pities school children -- less.
But adults he pities not at all.

He abandons them,
And sometimes they have to crawl on all fours
In the scorching sand
To reach the dressing station,
Streaming with blood.\"


As much as was possible, and in light of the actual circumstances – she found that fact surprising, Hermione had enjoyed her Christmas so far. Aubrey’s radiant presence; her contagious enthusiasm; the perfect scenery provided by an old castle and a Scottish winter, were enough to fill the awkward silences Hermione was expecting. Hermione knew these had everything to do with the lack of two people without whom, her former recollections of Christmas in Hogwarts were destined to remain incomplete.

Ever since her arrival she had tried to push every thought of Harry and Ron out of her mind. She had been partially successful. Sometimes the denial wore a practical façade – he’d be wondering about Christmas presents and what should she buy them. Sometimes she managed to sever the link between past and present – her emotions would leak out of the broken channel and flow elsewhere, and they would let her be. Sometimes they wouldn’t.

She was nearing the Hogwarts kitchens, where she had gone to ask for some ingredients to make a chocolate cake, and her thoughts drifted. She had long ago learned how to obscure her feelings, to wrap their sharper edges with a cloth so it won’t hurt so much when piercing her heart. It became something more like a dull itch; the presence of her past coiling around her ra tha than soaking her in. Her younger self stood beside her in the kitchens, graciously offering the house elves their liberty while the older woman asked them for some sugar, eggs, butter and cooking chocolate. Harry had used to blush like a ripe tomato, and Ron, torn between choked astonishment to hysterical laughter, stood frozen in his place, staring at her with horror in his eyes. The redheaded prat. She loved him as only a girl of sixteen years old could love a boy. With the completion and eagerness of youth – blindly, wholeheartedly and totally.

And she had betrayed that love, or the remnants of it. Turned her back on the two people who endangered their life for her, and at that point, probably would have been ready to make the universe circle backward in order to help her. They might have even let her go- but it hadn’t been enough to enable her to face them. At the time, it seemed like it nothing would ever be sufficient. Like there would never be enough time until she could bear to have familiar eyes resting on her disfigured body. But there – it had turned out to be possible, and yet she was still cowering away from Harry and Ron.

Hermione sighed. She couldn’t escape them forever. Not even for as long as she might have liked. A meeting of the Order would be held in several days time and Dumbledore had simply told Hermione that she would be expected at Number 12 Grimmauld Place at that time. Well, Dumbledore was indeed fond of his role as Deus ex machina. And would she, perhaps, be kind enough to bring some more of those wonderful cookies to the meeting? If not for his legendary sweet tooth, Hermione might have suspected the ancient wizard of pulling out a weak excuse for his lack of subtlety. Hermione laughed, somewhat bitterly, but was forced to stop as her breath caught in her chest and she found herself hyperventilating. God. She forgot that Hogwarts corridors were meant for hormone-crazed teenagers and not for overweight mothers. Readjusting, she levitated some of her cargo, watching it closely all the way back to her rooms. That was better.

Aubrey was nowhere to be seen. She had probably gone to thank Professor Snape, as she had mentioned doing earlier. Perhaps she had gotten carried away with the idea and didn’t want to wait for the cake. Perhaps she wanted to be finished with it as soon as possible. Hermione scanned the room for a note, relieved to find a piece of parchment scribbled with Aubrey’s disorganized handwriting. \'To Mummy\' – it read, ‘I went to see Professor Snape. Love you a bunch, Aubrey. V. Granger. P.S. Take care of Furball.’ Hermione smiled at that, turning to look for the Kneazle.

Furball, she discovered, was lying on the sofa, burrowed into the heap that was Aubrey’s blanket. She could feel his yellow eyes resting on her, following her every motion until he finally decided she was safe. At that, the Kneazle rose to his feet, arched his splotched back, and jumped gracefully to the floor. Attentive, he circled Hermione, and brushing against her legs, lifting a hopeful gaze to look at the pile she was carrying.

Mrrrfff?

“Oh no!” Hermione told him, placing her cargo on the kitchen’s counter. “This is a chocolate cake.”

Mifff.

“Alright. A chocolate cake In Progress.”

She saw Furball prepare himself, and with one fluid motion, the Kneazle was on the counter, sniffing at the closed bag. Ha! Unceremoniously, she pushed him aside, watching the feline land steadily on the floor. He didn’t seem to mind her rudeness, but once again, brushed against Hermione\'s leg.

“A sycophantic piglet,” she murmured, pulling out a low bowl from the cupboard. “There.”

Pouring in some milk, she placed the bowl near the basin, absentmindedly stroking Furball’s head as the Kneazle bent foreword to lap up his milk.

“I know it’s not ideal, but I don’t store anything here suitable for a Kneazle. I promise to improve, though. The house elves will be happy to spare you some meat scraps and Aubrey will probably stuff you until you’re as fat as Crook was… Do you want to watch me make a chocolate cake?”

The Kneazle mirfffed kindly as Hermione washed up his empty bowl and started preparing the ingredients.

“There- you can lick this,” she offered some time later, allowing him to lick some whipped cream off the end of her spoon. “Like it?” Hermione tasted the foamy mixture herself, nodding in agreement. “I like it, too. I swear these damn sweets will be the end of me, but I can’t resist the temptation… Do you think I need to diet? No, don’t answer that,” she hurried to silence the Kneazle, “I already know the answer. Wretched metabolism. Wonder where Aubrey is? She can eat whatever she wants without gaining a single pound. Furball? Do you think she’s still with Professor Snape?”

Mrrrfff.

With a flick of her wand she lit the oven and brought it to the right temperature, then put the cake tin inside. Within ninety minutes the viscid batter would be transformed into a steaming chocolate cake. Hermione wondered whether she ought to be worried as to Aubrey’s whereabouts. However, remembering that whilst Hogwarts might not be an entirely innocent castle, it certainly wasn’t a harmful one, she decided to let the matter lie for the moment. Picking up several Potions textbooks, the Ministry’s curriculum for each of the three lower classes (a copy of which she had retrieved from the library) a notebook, a pen and a cup of coffee, Hermione sank onto the sofa. Madam Pince couldn’t provide her with any documentation concerning Potions classes’ actual progress, and had given her a detailed account of Snape’s repeated refusal to help with any written detailing of his work. Snape’s syllabus would merely be another thing she would have to ask of him when they met –better sooner than later, as the new term was about to begin within nine days.

Hermione sipped her coffee, peacefully taking notes and running lesson plans through her head. Apart from his cruelty, she remembered Snape having been a good teacher. He was snide, intimidating and inaccessible, but no fifth year had ever failed Potions under his supervision. And his advanced classes were a sheer intellectual pleasure. Harry, who somehow managed to scrape into advanced Potions in his sixth year, needed only one term before he admitted failure and dropped out. Aurory was glad to accept him with or without a Potions NEWT. Nevertheless, Hermione knew she could never be the teacher Snape was, even if she did approve of his attitude -which she didn’t. She’d have to find her own teaching style.

Back in school, Potions was one of Hermione’s favourite subjects. To the Muggle born girl who watched wand being flicked with total amazement – trying desperately to capture the single moment when a notion became reality – Potions was a wonder. The demonstration of magic being done and applied instead of swished and flicked – an empirical form to this evasive power that was strong enough to defy reality and adjust it to its whims. Potions you could sense and smell and touch. Potions were… fun. And Snape would probably suffer an apoplexy has any of his students ever shown the nerve to enjoy his lessons. Hermione giggled at the thought.

So she wanted to show her students that Potions could be fun. To share her fascination with the subject, rather than frighten them into learning it. It was a vague framework at best, but once she could define to herself what she wanted to do, working theceptcept into practicality became possible. For the better part of ninety minutes, Hermione found herself forming half-materialinotinotions, tailing her progress with a route of scribbled notes that stretched into the tenth\'s and eleventh\'s page of the notebook. When her ninety minutes of bliss were finally ripped away by the shrill cry of the alarm clock, she forced herself to put the notebook aside and turned to check on the cake. Stabbing a knife down the fragrant sponge, she watched it slide out of the cake tin cleanly.

Satisfied, Hermione levitated the hot cake tine out of the steaming oven. Furball, who had supervised her actions from afar, gave an appreciative sniff of the warm, scented fumes. Aubrey would stand long minutes on the pads of her toes; nose up in the air, absorbing the sweet, heady aroma of baking. And the child was still missing. A haunting sense of urgency nudged the edge of Hermione’s consciousness. Aubrey shouldn’t have been missing for so long, unless she had met a friend on the way and joined him – and even so, it was well understood between them that Aubrey was always to tell Hermione if that happened.

Worried, she reached for her cloak. Hogwarts was enormous place. She’d have to establish some pattern to her search, unless she wanted to find herself wandering the corridors of the third floor eight hours from now, without even leaving the wing.

So, as Aubrey had been to see Professor Snape, first stop had to be the Slytherin dungeons. Hermione rather doubted that she’d find Aubrey in Snape’s rooms, but being as he had been the last person she’d knew for sure to have seen Aubrey, the Potions Master might be able to provide Hermione with some information as to her daughter’s whereabouts.

The dimly lit tunnel leading to the Potions Professor’s quarters was humming and echoing with the furious motions of the Great Lake above. Cautiously, she knocked on Snape’s door – once and then twice. No sound could be heard from the other side of the massive oak door. Hermione knocked again, calling for Snape, but still, there was no answer. The Potions Master’s chambers seemed to be deserted. So where to go next? Where would Aubrey possibly have gone? Which of the castle inhabitants might she have visited? There were Anne and her children… and perhaps Fawkes. Hermione made a quick calculation. The guests’ rooms were closer to the dungeons than the Headmaster’s office. She would start with Anne, then head to Dumbledore’s office, if she didn’t find Aubrey at her friend’s apartment.

Suppressing her rising panic, Hermione made the way to Anne’s small suite of rooms back on the second floor. David, Anne’s nine-year-old son, greeted Hermione at the door.

“Oh, hello, Miss Granger! How do you do?”

Hermione gave the boy a weary smile. “Oh, how do you do, Dave. Tell me, is there any chance I might find my daughter here?”

Dave shook his head. “Sorry Miss, but Aubrey’s not here.”

“Did you see her earlier?” she asked hopefully.

“Nope, Miss. Sorry…”

Hermione sighed, biting on her lower lip. “Do you have any idea where I should be looking for her?

The boy frowned a little. “Well, she always talked about checking on the greenhouses. And she really likes the swinging staircases too –“

Dave was interrupted by his mother’s joyous cry. “Hermione, darling!” Anne Rivers, a soft halo of chestnut-coloured hair emphasizing her fair features now lit up with a smile, stepped into the doorway. “Finally decided to drop by, haven’t you? Why didn’t you invite Miss Granger in, David? Please, step inside, dear. I’ve just brewed up and we’ll have tea in a matter of seconds-“

Hermione groaned. “I’m really sorry, Anne, but we’ll have to postpone this for another day. Aubrey is missing… well, I suppose I’m just exaggerating and nothing has happened, but she left our place nearly two hours ago to talk to Professor Snape, and hasn’t come back yet. I went looking for her in the dungeons but Snape’s gone and his rooms are locked and warded – I can hardly believe he’d let her stay there on her own. I hoped she might have bumped into Jack or Dave on her way back, so I came here to see if you know anything… but apparently she isn’t with any of your boys either…”

Anne nodded, giving Hermione an understanding smile. “I can see why you’re worried, dear. It’s happened to me more times than I care to remember with Jack and Davie. However, Hogwarts is a huge place. It is most likely that Aubrey simply lost her way, or got fascinated with something and forgot herself. It happens to children a lot.”

Hermione sighed. “You’re right, of course. So how am I to find her?”

“Well - you can, of course, go straight to Dumbledore,” Anne told her. “He has a crystal ball that can show him the whereabouts of every person in the castle. It comes with the title of Headmaster, I believe. I went to the Headmaster the first few times I lost one of the little monsters, but the truth is he’s pretty busy and I’d rather not bothem wim with such minor things if I can avoid it. So now I simply go to Filch, and Mrs Norris tracks down the boys for me.”

Hermione smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Anne. I’ll keep that in mind. Filch is in his office, right?”

“Unless he’s stalking the hallways looking for some victims. Good luck with him –and please Floo me to say everything is all right, okay? I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

“Of course.” She then swallowed, contemplating her words. “Anne, I … just want you to know how grateful-“

“That’s all right, dear.” Anne leaned foreword to give Hermione a brief hug. “We single mothers should take care of each other. Now go and find your lovely daughter.”

Filch, to Hermione’s irrational relief, was found in his office, and had almost been kind when she explained her problem. Aubrey’s fondness of Filch’s familiar almost made the caretaker ready to forgive Aubrey for being yet another filthy brat to defile his immaculate corridors.

Mrs Norris, agile and ageless as ever, listened carefully to her master’s request. Her eyes, huge and yellow, wavered like a couple of flashlights in the darkness of Filch’s office. Jumping off the caretaker’s lap, she signed for Hermione to follow her, leading the plump woman out of the small office and into a long, winding hallway. Filch, who was making strange noises that reminded Hermione of dried bones rattling and squeaking in the dark, was lumbering behind them.

Snow began falling outside the castle, carried by shrill wind that battered the old walls. A low, dry scream was moving through the building’s foundations – a cancer slowly consuming its host. The soft taps of Mrs Norris’ paws were muffled completely by the wind’s continuous howl. The cat, dusty gray against the flagstones, flowed gracefully from room to corridor to staircase, like a sleek, shining seal, skidding through an uwatewater tunnel, light splinters falling on its back, illuminating his elegant undulations.

At last, Mrs Norris stopped at the foot of an old marble statue, not far away from the Ravenclaw dormitories. With one smooth hop, she disappeared behind the medieval figure. Confused, Hermione turned to look at Filch. The caretaker snorted. Only after a second glance did she notice the blackened niche, nearly hidden behind the statue’s midriff. It was small and uneven, barely big enough for a child of Aubrey’s size to crawl in. The little alcove seemed to be the result of an accident, now covered up and almost completely concealed by the sculpture. Hermione approached the hole, frowning. What was Aubrey doing crouched in this little cavity, as if she’d been hiding away from the world?

“Aubrey darling?” Somewhat awkwardly, Hermione found herself climbing up the marble stand. In order to avoid the figure’s right hand pocking into her eyes, she was forced to kneel down the stone pulpit. Only little light managed to reach this musty corner of the castle, and with Hermione crouched in front of the small alcove, the weak sunrays that spilled into the entry were now blocked. She cursed inwardly, reaching for her wand, then dropped the notion as she heard the low, shallow breathing coming from inside. “Aubrey…? Sweetie?”

A muffled sob shivered through the liquid black.

Damn, damn, damn. She forced herself to breathe. Be calm. Be rational. Hermione fought the blurry, red haze, which threatened to blind her. Something happened to her baby. Something had made her baby cry. A surge of violence flooded her body with adrenaline. Not now, she thought, soothing her raw, quivering anger into submission. Aubrey needed her to be calm. Hermione moistened her lips, ignoring the sharp pain that made her guts clench. “Darling…” she spoke quietly, “Aubrey, sweet… I know you’re in there. Please, come out and let me hold you…”

“Leave me alone!”

“Aubrey, please. You know I can’t leave you alone, please talk to me…”

The silence stretched for several moments. Darkness shifted and adjusted around them, allowing her imagination to form pictures out of husky voices and awkward movements. Aubrey was sobbing quietly, and Hermione wanted to cry as well. Her joints were sore, and she could almost taste Aubrey’s sorrow drifting in the humid, cold air.

“Aubrey… Darling,” she heard herself speaking, “I don’t know what happened, but I promise it will get better if you’d let me be with you…”

“Just leave me alone! You can’t make it go away…” Aubrey’s voice was weak and ruptured – two layers of bleeding melody refusing to be stitched together.

Hermione sighed. “No, I probably can’t make it go away,” She admitted. “Whatever pains you, I can’t make it cease, at least not until you tell me what it is. But I can hold you close y hey heart and call you all sorts of silly endearments and you won’t be so cold and lonely. Can’t you see? It’s always worse when you’re cold and alone.”

Aubrey sniffed. “I want you to go away.”

“No, you don’t want me to go away. You’re simply too weak and too tired to reach for me and let me help you. Please, love, I know how it feels when it’s too raw and too fresh to let anybody touch it, but we’ll make it better, Aubrey.”

“It hurts.”

“I know it hurts,” she pleaded, whatever it may be, whatever Aubrey might be talking about, “but it gets better. Come on, darling, please let me help you… there,” Hermione whispered, drawing away so she could help the little figure out of the moldy niche. She stood up, her knees quivering under her weight, and assisted Aubrey to her feet.

The child was a mess. Her hair, tangled and uncombed, was entwined with straps of dirt: dark and grainy against the fine, blonde strands. Dirt was sullying Aubrey’s elfin face, diluted into mud by the tears that were running freely down her cheeks. Her clothes were thoroughly dishevelled, clinging to her fragile form in a stack of stained fabric and unkempt wool. Breathing deeply, Hermione knelt and pulled Aubrey to her arms, placing her own cool cheek against the child’s wet, feverish one. Aubrey sobbed, and Hermione tightened her embrace, allowing the girl to crawl deeper into her embrace. Little fingers were digging into her flesh, looking for warmth and reassurance, and Hermione let herself sink to the floor, Aubrey enwrapped in her as if they had never been disconnected.

Murmuring softly, she let her voice work a soothing rhythm into the girl’s troubled mind, waiting for the desperate sobbing to subside and be replaced with the small hiccups of the aftermath. They sat in the empty hallway until the coldness chased them away.

Back in their chambers, where the fire was burning off the cold, she coaxed Aubrey to speak.

* * *

The waters of the Great Lake, buffeted by the gales and storms above, were soaking through the moss-covered walls and dripping onto the floor with the small taps of thousands and thousands of clocks. Tiny and huge, fancy and shabby, old and new – Captain Hook’s confiscated and shattered collection coming to life at once. They were all ticking in her head: invisible pendulums monitoring her heartbeat in a pitiable attempt to allay her anger.

The fucking bastard. Frozen glass emulation of a man. She was going to castrate him, then let him choke on his own amputated organs. How utterly, utterly cruel could a person be to say such horrible things to a child? Hermione tried to choke down the nervy bundle of tears that threatened to block her throat, failing miserably as a shrill cry escaped her lips. She stopped breathless, leaning against the wall. There was a certain part of her that wished to collapse, loosen the tight strings that kept her standing and simply sink to the floor and cry her heart out. Another part of her was enraged. She could almost feel the angry movement underneath the skin, clean rage sizzling in her veins like raw magic.

How could he? The question played in her mind time and time again. How inhuman should one be to stick in that dagger, then deliberately twist it? Oh God. She didn’t know she could hate him so much. It was literally consuming. Not even back then did she hate him so. No, she hated him more, but she didn’t feel so damn helpless. His assault on her was real, and it left literal wounds she could watch healing. More than that – the memories were hers to handle. She could reach inside and sew the punctured blood vessels, evacuate the passageways and allow white blood cells to kill the infection. She could do nothing of that sort for Aubrey. Just hold her child tight and wish she could take away the pain. Oh, Severus Snape was a dead man, if only because Hermione would rather kill the scum than let him see her cry.

Composing herself into a fragile impersonation of calm, she stood in front of the massive door of Snape’s chambers, outstretching her hand to knock. Once or twice during her frantic voyage to the dungeons, it occurred to her Snape might still be missing. If that were the case, she’d simply drop to the floor, and wait for his return. She tapped the oak surface, first with cold restraint, and then, when no answer came from inside, harder. It became harder to hold her rage leashed.

“Open the door, Snape, I know you’re in there…!” She cried in frustration, fingernails notching a path down the moldy, rotting oak. Her fingers closed around the doorknob, and she turned it open, expecting to slam her bodyweight against the unyielding wood plane. When the door slid open, Hermione lost her balance. Breathing heavily, she steadied herself; almost stumbling across the thick, green carpet. Shit.

The room was morbidly quiet. The low, neglected fire, chased some of the darkness away, but mostly it seemed more of a companion to the shadows. These were no longer hiding in the corners, but freely roaming the living room, swirling along the blunt poles of better-lit areas. Snape, expressionless and composed, sat in his armchair, and stared blankly at the dying fire. Judging by his lack of reaction, he could well be totally unaware of her presence.

She sobbed. “You cruel, malicious, heartless, bastard. Can’t you even look at me?”

His eyelids fluttered. Hermione thought she could see a flicker of response in Snape’s black, lifeless irises, before he became completely inanimate again.

“If you think that by ignoring me you’ll make me go away you’re in for a nasty surprise. I’m warning you, Snape, I have no time for these petty games of yours.”

This time, he raised his head to look at her. “Jó estét, Miss Granger. May I remind you my office hours extend from six to eight every Monday and Tuesday, and are held in my office? And five points from Gryffindor for disrespect.”

“That’s pathetic,” she spat. “Even for you. Now stop this foolishness and explain yourself.”

Snape leaned into the backrest. “I’m, tired,” he dismissed her. “Go away.”

“The hell I’m going away, you insolent bastard. You’ve hurt my daughter beyond every possible measure and I’d like to know why.” Tears were streaming down her face and her voice was husky and sore.

“She forgot her place.”

“The fuck with that! Do you honestly think that’s a reason to tell her you that if things were up to you, she would never have been born?”

“Mmm…” Snape was removing invisible lintel from his robe. “That seems pretty rash.”

“Rash?” she cried out. “Rash?? That was cruel and vindictive and spiteful!”

“Oh, well. The world isn’t a nice place. Sooner or later she’d have to face cruder realities. I was merely toughening her up.”

“How can you say such things?” Hermione clenched her fists. “She is but a child!”

Chemically enriched blood was flooding her system, making it harder and harder to keep her fury under control. She wanted to beat the man, to tear his cold, indifferent demeanor with her bare hands and hurt him until she herself was numb. Shutting her eyes, Hermione let her fingernails dig into the skin of her palms. “You sick, twisted fuck.”

“Miss Granger!” Snape roared, jumping to his feet in one stiff movement. “I will tolerate no such language in my classroom! Apologize at once and take your leave!”

The blood was screaming in her brains, whirling in front of her eyes until she saw nothing but the bloodstained figure of the monster who raped her and crushed her daughter’s heart. “Apologize?” Hermione screamed, hurling her fists in his chest, “Apologize to you? You sadistic, insolent bastard. I would never, not in a thousand lifetimes apologize to you!” She flung her weight on Snape, knocking the unresisting Potions Master to the ground. Crying, Hermione went down with him, fingers digging in the soft material of his robes, slashing the side of his face with sharp nails and drawing blood. The tears that kept flowing down her cheeks landed on the sallow, torn skin. Snape hissed at the contact, jaws tightening, then let his head drop.

“Do you hear me?” She cried, her voice shattering into sharp slivers of vitreous pain. “I would never, ever, apologize to you. You ruined my Godamned life and I forgave you, but if you think you’d hurt my daughter and survive you’re fucking wrong! To hell with you Snape, answer me!”

Hermione stopped, gulping air until her head swam with the oxygen, unable to replenish her broken voice. Her lungs were heaving under the pressure, suffocating around these small, insolent fists of air she managed to pump in. The world spun around her, in an endorphins\' induced haze and short, cutting breaths.

Snape, who reclined motionless underneath her body, was limp and cold as a corpse. Her hands, buried in the fine fabric of his robe, were shaking. She tightened her grip, as if the contact could pour some calm into her, and then opened her eyes, to look at the man she had been assaulting.

Sweet Jesus.

A deep cut ran from his left temple to his jaw. Blood was oozing from the open wound, down Snape’s chin, and along his white, graceful neck. Some blood was trickling into his hairline, staining the unblemished whiteness before it disappeared against the raven black strands. Snape’s hair was dishevelled, as was the neckline of his robe. His eyes, these big, inky eyes that bore grave-holes into her heart, were shut, and translucent dampness was shining in the long eyelashes.

“Oh God, oh God…” she heard herself whispering. “Oh God…” Still shaking, Hermione brought her hand to cup Snape’s angular face. His breath, she noticed, came out with small, deliberate heaves. Carefully, she rose up, shifting her weight off Shape’s body, and came to rest by his side. Supported on her elbow, Hermibentbent foreword to gaze into the taut, stern face of her former Potions Professor. The blank expression he wore at the beginning of their conversation was gone, replaced by that of restrained, trembling agony.

She breathed. Fuck you, Snape. This was just good enough to be another maneuver. Only it wasn’t. Couldn’t be. She still wanted to hurt him. She wanted to protect him as well. Perhaps cure him of his own demons so she could destroy him with clear conscience. Damn, damn, damn the man. Hermione shook her head in despair, leaning forward, examining her mixed feelings of rage and sorrow, projected on Snape’s face. Frowning, she trailed her index finger down his forehead, along Snape’s prominent, protruding nose, stroking the bitter, surprisingly soft mouth.

Snape quivered, dry sob escaping his lips. She wished he\'d gone to hell. Oh God. Giving in to her mother instincts, Hermione coiled around Snape’s body, pulling his head against her breasts, legs wounding to envelope his torso. She felt Snape shivering, trying to withdraw, and tightened her grasp. “It’s okay,” she murmured, “you can let go, it’s okay, I’m here now… You’re not alone anymore, I’m here with you…” Her voice was a low, smooth hum, merely a sound as it brushed beyond her lips. “Hush… that’s okay, I’m going to take care of you….”

The air around them vibrated with her half-formed words, whispered just loud enough to reach Snape’s skin before it dissipated. He was surprisingly light, nestled against the soft curves of her body; angular planes submerging into responsive, trembling warmth. Hermione was troubled to learn there is so little of him. Almost six foot and two inches tall, sweeping along a corridor in his black, billowing robes, Severus Snape was an intimidating figure. Lying on the floor, his face buried in her chest and his breath coming in ragged, hollow sobs, he was but a man. Cruel and hateful, whole and broken, strong and weak, and strangely beautiful.

Drained of her previous energies, Hermione felt empty. A vacuum opened inside her – hollow space in her abdomen, sucking tears and pain to bubble in her vacant womb. She held Snape close, breathing the earthy scent of him, feeling her chest rise and fall under his cheek. Somehow, she was satiated. So maybe Snape was another one of her un-christened, demon babies. Maybe he was hers to save after all. Maybe he was simply, eventually, hers. She couldn’t define the actual reason behind her actions. Perhaps she was weak; to let Snape’s anguish undermine her justified fury. Nevertheless, his pain quelled her indignation. And when the angry haze of wrath finally subsided, Hermione was able to notice the thing that escaped her all along. Snape wasn’t mocking or jeering her. He wasn’t trying to provoke her anger. Not now. Not today.

That someone, that some thing, could break a man of Snape’s stature, made her sick. Hermione wanted to scream her objections, but helplessness weakened her throat muscles. What kind of world was this, which drove her victimizer into her arms, and let him cling to her like a man drowning? Literature provided you with reasoning, not because the reality it pretended to reflect was reasonable or functioning according to detectable logic. Literature provided you with reasoning because it could. Because you demanded to receive one. In reality, Hermione knew, people were driven behind themes fes for the sake of capricious whim. And reality left her puzzling at her own motivations long after she surrendered her heart.

“Do you know what I think,” Harry had once told her, “I think that we make our decisions in the first few seconds, then spent our entire time trying to talk ourselves out of it. That’s what taking us so long, not the other way around. I think some people spend their entire life puzzling at one decision they made, or trying not to act on something they know they can’t avoid. And you know what… I think it’s stupid, because I would never have been clever enough to open Sirius’ package in time, or listen to you when you told me we shouldn’t be rushing into the Ministry. But I can savour the scent of Ginny’s hair when she clings to me after we’ve made love, and I can do whatever I can to make sure the bastards never prevent me from grabbing whatever happiness this petty world has to offer me. So, you see- some gs wgs we cannot change, but we can sure as hell try to make the best of it.”

She had been appalled by the notion. Or perhaps it had been Harry’s determination that made Hermione realize that her close friend was no longer a boy. Harry had been angry and restless for so long that when he finally settled down it was with an air of bitter realism, which somewhat baffled her. She made some weak protestations- uncomfortable that the small, bespectacled, always slightly misplaced boy she had met on her first train ride to Hogwarts should be this sober, wiry teen. She, like the rest of them, would rather have dealt with the boy instead of the man he became. Oh, Harry. It seemed like you knew better than I ever gave you credit for.

The fire-stained dimness poured into her eye sockets, snuggling in the valley between her breasts, where Snape’s head was rested; crawling to claim the narrow spaces separating and perhaps distinguishing Snape’s body from her own. Dimness was now blurring the rush contradiction between the man’s sharp, serious profile to the warm, wool clad body that cradled it. She heard herself humming, an old Muppets’ tune she used to sing to Aubrey when the child couldn’t sleep- it reminded Hermione of her own childhood, of rainy evenings spent in front of the telly and being crazily in love with Kermit the frog.

…Rainbows are visions,
They’re only illusions,
And rainbows have nothing to hide
So we\'ve been told and some chose to believe it
But I know they\'re wrong
Wait and see…

She could almost hear Kermit’s booming, cheerful voice chanting the lyrics, as somewhere in the castle the rain should have been tapping on a far off windowpane. Warm, thick steam had risen from the closer drainage channel, clouding the narrow alley underneath their small New York apartment. Infant Aubrey would close her eyes, and maybe Hermione could track down Snape’s sorrow and let her warm breath stroke its glass-cold surface. As if from a distance, she heard her voice trail, and her eyelids slipped down… “Everything is going to be all right,” everything is going to be all right… In her arms, Snape was finally relaxing. His retching subsided, and his taut, lean body had flexed, as if melting into her generous curves. Hermione wasn’t aware to the fact that she’s been crying until the flames flashed green and the sudden light shot off her wet face.

Albus Dumbledore hadn’t said much, but simply bent forward, extending his hand to wipe the dampness that coated Hermione’s cheeks.

“He is not well,” she murmured.

The old wizard nodded in quiet agreement. “What do you suggest, Hermione?”

She tightened her grip of Snape’s limp body, softly stroking the dark head. Snape\'s breathe was even, but she could almost imagine the black gaze, confused and unfocused, being scattered over the room. Snape’s lack of response – however expected – was nonetheless frightening. “I’d like to see him to the infirmary,” she told Dumbledore. “I think… I think today was too much…” she shook her head. “I was looking for him earlier, where do you reckon…?”

“A Death Eaters\' meeting,” came Dumbledore’s quiet answer.

“I should have known… No, I couldn’t…” Hermione breathed deeply, and then sighed. Cautious not to move Snape more than was strictly necessary, she shifted to seating position. Snape’s fingers dug into her biceps, but Hermione didn’t bother to remove his hands as she pulled him upward with her. He shifted obediently, curling into a ball and tiredly resting his head on her shoulder like a small child might do.

Hermione raised her eyes to look at Dumbledore. “He’s not responding,” she said quietly. “It looks like a post traumatic reaction. Did it ever occur before?”

The Headmaster frowned. “In a way- but not quite so… severely.”

Hermione was silent for long time, processing the information. Her hands kept moving along Snape’s head, tucking stray locks behind his ears, removing tear-stained hair off his face. Bowing her head, she placed her lips on the high, serious forehead. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she murmured. “I promise.”

Then, sobering up, she turned to face Dumbledore. “All right. Let\'s take him to Madam Pomfrey.”


God has pity on kindergarten children,
He pities school children -- less.
But adults he pities not at all.

He abandons them,
And sometimes they have to crawl on all fours
In the scorching sand
To reach the dressing station,
Streaming with blood.

But perhaps
He will have pity on those who love truly
And take care of them
And shade them
Like a tree over the sleeper on the public bench.

Perhaps even we will spend on them
Our last pennies of kindness
Inherited from mother,

So that their own happiness will protect us
Now and on other days.

--Yehuda Amichai, God Has Pity on Kindergarten Children.

A/N - 2

As some of you might have noticed, I\'ve changed the spelling of the name \"Oniko\" – which turned to be a mistake on my part – to \"Aniko\". The explanation to this mistake is somewhat lengthy, and originates from the fact Aniko\'s characters is loosely based on my grandmother, also named Aniko. Following a correspondence with Hungarian speaker, who had been kind enough to correct my spelling and grammatical errors on chapter 8 (and on next chapters), I went to check the correct spelling of my grandmother\'s name, which all those years I had thought to be \"Oniko\".

It appears, that the only written documentation of my grandmother\'s given name (she had changed it to Hanna when she immigrated to Israel), is engraved on a Star of David shaped medallion: a jewel she had ordered on a goldsmith\'s shop during her stay at Bergen Belsen at 1949, a refugee camp- formerly an extermination camp.