A Rock and a Hard Place

It's "family are," not "family is," right? Over here, it's "is".

*

The days took on a sort of rhythm. Trudy no longer accompanied Snape to class. She stayed in his rooms and studied, hunched over his desk, the enormous medicinal-herbs book open before her and her pen scratching away on a long roll of parchment. She did not even emerge for meals, but seemed to have forgotten altogether that she must eat. At first Snape decided to let her suffer the consequences. But when she became thinner, then thinner still, he began to have niggling doubts and started having house elves bring her sandwiches. He didn’t pretend to miss her in class. Her absence made their relationship easier to conceal. He sneeringly told Granger—the only student bold enough to ask about Trudy—that Ms. Mills had been called away to conduct independent research. And Trudy’s absence at his side as he headed down to the dungeons also obscured her role from Snape’s fellow Slytherins.

Every night Trudy continued to work, a thick candle guttering over her quill as it sped across her parchment, long after Snape himself turned in to bed. Occasionally Snape lingered a half second, but she seemed oblivious to him or to her surroundings, so he would turn wordlessly to bed. Inevitably, he would be awakened in the middle of the night by her thin form at his bedside, her head down, an unwilling and mute supplicant for the relief only he could provide. And he found himself supplying her needs, also mutely, but with a thoroughness that often put her to sleep directly afterward and for several hours thereafter. Snape found himself hoping she stayed asleep. He was starting in spite of himself to worry about her, something he was at pains to hide.

Things took a nastier turn when Snape returned from classes one day to hear an awful retching noise. Trudy sat, breathing hard, at his desk and clearly, she had just been sick in his rubbish bin.

“You’re ill?” Snape said, trying to sound nonchalant but coming off to his ears as apathetic.

“Stomach flu,” she said faintly.

He took a good look at her face. She was the color of chalk, and her eyes, usually huge but now enormous, looked purple.

“Perhaps you should lie down,” he said.

Trudy shook her head. “I’m at R,” she said, still little above a whisper, and nothing he could say would change her mind.

He watched her closely for the next hour, how she huddled over the book, shivering, occasionally pausing to retch in the basket again. A thought began to enter Snape’s mind: It wasn’t natural.

Two days later, his suspicions grew. Trudy was thinner and paler than ever, vomiting periodically, not eating, and working away at her studies in a manner that seemed almost feverish. She still came to his bed, but each time, he had the impression that he was embracing a fainter and fainter edition of the woman, already faded, whom he had first met.

When he couldn’t take it any more and was on the point of insisting that she take a potion of his own devising, Trudy announced, “I’m ready.” Her eyes were glittering, and she was breathing quickly and shallowly. She pushed the book forward.

After the briefest of pauses, Snape took the book without looking at it and without revealing anything in his expression.

“Tell me about fluxweed.”

“In Latin, it’s Isanthus brachiatus,” Trudy said. When Snape didn’t reply, she went on, “It’s a member of the mint family. It’s also called "false pennyroyal". It’s native to the eastern United States and is threatened or endangered in several areas.” Snape still didn’t say anything. “If you pick it at a full moon, it can be used in Polyjuice Potion, whatever that is.”

“Belladonna,” he ordered her, ignoring the implicit question.

“It’s a poison,” Trudy said, her eyes glittering all the more. “It can be used as a narcotic, diuretic, sedative, antispasmodic, and mydriatic... .”

She spoke for five minutes about the uses of belladonna. And then Snape asked her about pennyroyal, foxglove, wormwood, and dittany. Trudy’s knowledge proved to be extensive. He was able to correct her on several points and prod her for more information on others. With each proof that she hadn’t measured up to his standard, Trudy was visibly upset with herself, twisting her hands and interrupting, until he barked at her to listen and be still. However, Snape found himself impressed. Her comprehension was wide-ranging, and she showed signs that she had not merely memorized words, but had made inferences about what she had read.

After a bit, he said, “These plants are all known in the Muggle world. Let’s move on to lesser known herbs.”

Trudy’s eyes lit up in a way that made Snape increasingly uneasy. Not natural. Something wasn’t right. He walked her through shrivelfigs, gillyweed, and venomous tentecula. Then he delved into the most obscure magical herbs, the ones they did not teach about at Hogwarts. Again, he was surprised at the depth of her understanding and ability to remember. He couldn’t help correcting her here and there, corrections that she took badly. When he neared the end, she abruptly spun and ran into the bathroom, where she was noisily sick.

When she returned, he said, “You will need to take something for your illness. It’s gone on too long.”

“I think it’s been just three days,” she said in a faint voice.

Snape had already prepared the potion. Now he pushed the beaker toward her. The liquid inside was amber and sinister-looking, even to him.

Trudy eyed it distrustfully, but Snape pushed it into her hand, saying, “I was under the impression that I was the potions master here. Drink it.”

Trudy made a face and downed the potion in one go. For a second, nothing happened. Trudy started to smile. Then she doubled over. Before Snape could act, she dashed to the bathroom and banged the door shut behind her. Snape ran after her, but was uncertain whether to force his way in. She might be making legitimate use of the facilities—A deep moan came from within.

“Trudy, open up!” he said in what he hoped was a bored and condescending tone.

More moans. Snape pounded on the door. “Open up!”

He waited. It was suddenly, eerily silent inside the bathroom. He twisted the knob. Unlocked. He swung the door open. And stopped short.

Trudy was lying in such a way that the toilet blocked his view of her face. But he could see the blood. It was all over the inside of the toilet bowl. Drips of it were on the tile floor. Trudy’s robes were hiked up, and the blood was smearing the cloth.

Quickly Snape tore open the fastening of his cloak and wrapped it around Trudy’s still form before slinging her over his shoulder. He had expected a heavy weight, and her lightness fanned the flames of his apprehension. Students would be swarming the corridors at this hour, everyone making their way to the Great Hall for dinner. Snape strode out of his rooms and wended his way to a little-known staircase to the hospital wing.

“Severus! What is it?” Madam Pomfrey whispered harshly at his entrance. Snape looked around. Evidently a small flu epidemic had hit what appeared to be third year, Ravenclaw. Some half dozen teenagers were dozing fitfully on hospital cots.

“A private room, if you please, Poppy,” he said in a low voice. Madam Pomfrey glanced up at his bundle and retreated without a word. Snape followed.

She led him to a private room deep inside the hospital wing. As Snape deposited Trudy onto a cot, Madam Pomfrey said, “What are the symptoms?”

Quickly Snape recounted what he knew. Madam Pomfrey pressed her lips together. “Please wait outside,” she said.

Reluctantly, Snape departed the room and stood outside the door. There was a muffled choking noise, and he swiveled around to come face to face with Harry Potter. The boy was pale and his lightning scar stood out lividly on his forehead.

“Flu, Potter?” Snape sneered.

Potter’s face darkened, bringing some much-needed color to it, and his hand strayed unconsciously to the scar on his forehead. “No,” he said, “...sir.” He looked around meaningfully, as if to say, “What the bloody hell’s brought you here?”

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey put her head out of the room and said commandingly, “Severus? A word, please.”

Potter looked at Snape, a long, searching look, and Snape felt himself staring at those green eyes with their dark fringe of lashes, so like hers…so like hers… . He tightened his jaw. Fate had played a cruel trick on him, to grant Potter those eyes. He saw some small expression of perplexity flutter in Potter’s eyes. “When I come out,” Snape said, leaning close to Potter and showing his teeth—the teen took an unconscious step back—“I expect you will be gone.” Then he turned on his heel and entered the room with Madam Pomfrey.

He turned, only to see worse storm clouds in Madam Pomfrey’s face. “You’ve always been very reticent, Severus, but you might at least have told me you were the father!”

Snape’s mind spun frantically, and his Occlusion shields snapped into place out of habit. He was certain that his face was as smooth and unreadable as a cipher. “The father of what?” he said carefully.

“Please!” Madam Pomfrey waved her hand. “And the abortifacient...very efficient.”

“Poppy? What are you talking about?” he said in a low, dangerous voice.

Madam Pomfrey paused, and Snape could tell that even she feared him a little. “Then you aren’t her,” she cleared her throat nervously, “lover?”

“Ms. Mills? Indeed not.”

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat once more. “Severus, you aren’t trying to be, er, eh, gallant, are you? I mean, you’ve always been a bit, well, reserved, but now is not the time...not if I’m to treat Ms. Mills effectively.”

Snape did not hesitate. The truth was no one’s business and would help no one. It was bad enough that Dumbledore knew, although Snape knew he could rely on Dumbledore’s absolute discretion. “Ms. Mills is of no personal concern to me,” he said flatly. “She has been using my books for her research on magical herbs, trying to be useful about Hogwarts. I found her today unconscious and brought her here straightaway.”

“Yes,” Madam Pomfrey said a bit doubtfully. “Well, then, whom should I inform about her condition?”

“You might as well inform me,” Snape said in his most imperious tone. “She has no family nor friends. I oversee her research.”

Madam Pomfrey looked even more dubious, but continued nervously, “Then I regret to inform you that she has just, er, miscarried. It appears that she was given a potion right before the, erm, incident. Which is why I suspected you were involved.”

“She has been ill for several days,” Snape admitted reluctantly. “I gave her an anti-nausea potion, Finite Nauseatum, if you must know.”

Now Madam Pomfrey looked puzzled. “That shouldn’t have an adverse effect. Even for a woman two months along.”

At that, Snape felt a surge of anxiety race through his veins. “Will that be all?” he said coldly.

“Of course,” Madam Pomfrey said, and Snape stalked out of the hospital wing.

He knew he had given Trudy that contraceptive potion on time last month and every month! He had calculated the times himself, measured out the ingredients.

He ignored the students and teachers he passed in the corridors, heading for his rooms with one thought in mind. Once inside, he stood before his book case, skimming the spines of the books until he found the one he wanted. He pulled out a slim, musty volume, cracked open the stiff leaves, and began to read.

That night after classes, Snape arrived at the hospital wing again.

“Really, Severus, she isn’t up to seeing visitors,” Madam Pomfrey hissed at him.

“I think she is,” Snape overrode her. “Don’t meddle, Poppy, and let me in.”

Reluctantly, Madam Pomfrey drew back to allow his entry. The hospital wing had cleared out some, but Snape saw Potter twitching in his sleep along the far wall. “What’s wrong with Potter?” he snapped in a low voice.

Madam Pomfrey swelled up like an offended hen, and Snape said by way of mollification, “He doesn’t seem to have the flu. I would hate to think he was…malingering.”

Madam Pomfrey sniffed. “He isn’t, not that it’s any of your business. He’s been having terrible pains in his head. Says it feels as though his head might split.”

Snape ceased to be interested in Potter’s imaginary pains. “I see,” he said tonelessly, and Madam Pomfrey led him back to Trudy’s private room.

When the door opened, Snape saw at once that Trudy looked better. He was relieved to see a half-eaten globe of chocolate on her bedside table and a normal color in her cheeks. He stood in the doorway a moment, then turned. “A moment alone with her, Poppy. We have business.”

“No more than a moment,” Madam Pomfrey said reprovingly. “She’s had a hard time of it, and I don’t want you worrying her.”

Snape nodded once to show he had heard, and Madam Pomfrey closed the door with a admonishing cluck of her tongue.

The room was suddenly still and quiet. Snape sat down slowly at Trudy’s bedside. The old manuscript in his library had been unequivocal about what must follow. “Trudy,” he said in a low voice. The woman stirred. “Trudy.”

Her eyes opened at once, blue with the drop of honey in the right. At the sight of Snape, Trudy looked down. “Hello, Professor.”

“I think you should call me Severus now.”

She looked back up at him, solemn and unblinking.

“Trudy, I have wronged you.”

“What? No, you didn’t do anyth—"

“I have wronged you,” he repeated more forcefully. “I didn’t understand what I was dealing with.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“’Lisa Mills’. I should have realized it sounded too ordinary.”

“I haven’t lied to you--!” she said in frightened voice. “That is my name! Or was.”

He put his hand over hers on the coverlet. “You haven’t lied to me,” he agreed in an even, soothing tone she had never heard him use before. “But I should have recognized the signs.”

“Signs of what?”

“Abnormal memory capacity for a Muggle, extreme emotional sensitivity—" she made an outraged noise, but he went on—“overly perceptive, immunity to contraceptive potions--”

“I beg your pardon! The pill worked fine for me!”

“I thought you said you didn’t have, er, relations with your husband after your daughter’s birth,” he said delicately.

That brought her up short, her throat working.

“And perhaps you got pregnant before you were married and had to move the date up a bit?

“I wasn’t on the pill then...”

“Any other men?”

She looked away, and he had his answer.

“And your father—he hates you because you look like your mother,” Snape stated. “Perhaps he remarried quickly?”

“My mother’s best friend,” Trudy admitted grudgingly. “So what?”

“Have you considered that he’d rather not be reminded of your mother because he’s ashamed of her? Because he didn’t know what she was when he married her?”

“What do you mean?” Trudy snapped loudly.

Madam Pomfrey stuck her head in the room. “What is going on?”

Snape turned his head to look at her. “Nothing, Poppy,” he said in a soft, menacing voice.

“You’re upsetting my patient, Severus. I must insist you leave!”

“He’s—he’s not upsetting me, Madam Pomfrey,” Trudy said meekly. “Truly. Please let him stay a little longer.”

Madam Pomfrey’s looked from the one of them to the other. At last she said tartly, “No more raising of voices, or Severus, you go.”

Snape bowed his head in assent, thinking, “Bloody busybody.”

When the door had closed behind the medic, Trudy said, “Just what are you getting at? Why are you insulting me?”

“I’m not insulting you. I am only telling you that you what you are.”

She grit her teeth. “And what’s that?”

“You are what they call a Wanderer.”

She snorted. “I told you we moved around a lot. So what?”

“No,” he said patiently, “I mean you aren’t, strictly speaking, a Muggle.”

Trudy shot him a look of deepest disbelief. “You tested me! I took your wand and said a spell with it.”

Snape laughed, a harsh bark. “Right. It doesn’t change facts. You are at least half Wanderer. On your mother’s side, I should think.”

“What’s a Wanderer?” she said irritably but interested in spite of herself.”

“They are people of small magical powers who live among the Muggles but keep to themselves. They are generally high-strung and have the odd capacity of not responding to a spectrum of potions that includes most contraceptives, or over-responding to others. Because of their memory and perception, they can often be found in the healing arts, sometimes in the sciences. Their numbers are small, and they are generally despised—by Muggles because of their material success and powers (by Muggle standards) and by wizardkind because of their lack of powers, by wizard standards.” He paused, considering. “No Wanderer has ever been admitted to Hogwarts.”

Trudy sniffed. “Sounds like you’re trying to butter me up for something. I can’t think what, though. I didn’t do too well on your test.”

“You did better than anyone else has, certainly better than any Muggle would do,” Snape said intently.

“You don’t want a Muggle helping you. Anyway, someone like Hermione Granger would have done much better.”

“In the first place, as I explained, you are not, strictly speaking, a Muggle. And in the second place, if Hermione Granger had taken my test, then I would have had to put up with Hermione Granger.”

“The prospect can’t be so bad.”

“A prying teenager who thinks she has all the answers? Don’t be so sure,” he drawled.

“Well,” she said uncomfortably, “so what? So I’m not a Muggle, I’m a half-Wanderer, or whatever. I still don’t believe it, but if it’s true, what difference does it make?”

“The difference is this,” Snape said. “You have the capacity, however small, to help me take the Dark Lord by surprise.”

Trudy just stared at him with a growing glow of hope in her eye. But then, the glow was extinguished. “How do you know that’s true?” she persisted. “You say it’s through my mother. My mother was Billie Smith. That doesn’t sound very exotic.”

“Smith. Jones. Your family aren’t very original in their aliases,” he remarked with a touch of his old acid. But when he saw her head droop, he changed tack at once, silently berating himself. The book had clearly spelled out the rates of self-destruction among the Wanderers. They seemed to display a remarkable survival rate as a people while evincing an equally dismal survival rate as individuals. “Names mean little,” he continued more gently. “Wanderers were generally forced to take surnames, and they tended to select the most mundane, in an effort to blend in as much as possible. Smith…it is no matter.”

She raised her head a bit and looked less crushed.

“We shall go to Ollivander’s, as I planned before,” he continued. “We shall test you again, this time with a wand of your choosing. Then we shall see about some other alternatives to my potions—“ He broke off, suspecting this was not the right time to discuss contraceptive techniques. “How are you feeling?”

She just looked at him, unwilling to spell out her frailty and pain, unwilling to discuss her loss.

“I understand women can take these things badly,” he floundered.

“Well, I’m not happy about it, if that’s what you mean.” She sighed. “It’s just as well. You said before something about a ‘fatherless brat’. Well, there’ll be one less of those around now. Anyway, pregnancy’s hard on me, as I think I’ve mentioned a million times. It’s just as well.”

Again, Snape was at a loss. He cleared his throat and said, “Then I’ll call again later, shall I?”

“Whatever you want,” she said with a shrug and looked away.