The Love You Take

A/N: This chapter was betaed by Sshg316 and DeeMichelle, and Brit-picked by MagicAlly.

This chapter is not good reading material while you are eating.


The Love You Take

Chapter 21: Prostration

Hermione lay upon the wooden floor, barely conscious of what was happening around her. Her throat throbbed and burned in the aftermath of Voldemort’s Strangulation Hex. Her arms were sore from Professor Snape’s rough handling, and her knees ached from kneeling on the hard surface. Now she was on her side, curled in a tight, defensive ball, praying for her professor to get her out of this. I will do all I can to prevent lasting harm from coming to you he had said. Every action I take will be toward that aim.

It wasn’t exactly a promise, was it?

She remembered falling when the giant snake had slithered past her feet. In confusion, she had first taken it for a Basilisk, but as she lay at her professor’s feet, she realised it must be Voldemort’s own pet snake, Nagini. Talking progressed above her; she heard the horrible high sibilance of Voldemort, as well as the calm, measured baritone of Professor Snape. Were they talking about her? She hoped not, but she could scarcely bring herself to care; it was much more comfortable to be left alone, unnoticed, safe beneath the protective shield he had cast, until her professor could take her back home.

Home … where was her home? The suburban house with the neat garden where her parents lived? The Head Girl’s room at Hogwarts? Or Professor Snape’s dungeon rooms, where they could be together with no artifice or shame? Might it even be the elegantly appointed room at Prince House where she slept curled against him?

That was the answer, really. Home was where he was. It wasn’t a place; it was a state of being. She was only at home now when she was with him, and she feared that it would always be that way, regardless of what choices were forced upon them in the future.

Abruptly, the Shield Charm was lifted, and hands grabbed her roughly by the hair and wrenched her upward. Hermione cried out in pain but very little sound was heard because of the bruising of her larynx. Scrambling upwards to loosen the unrelenting grip upon her hair, she found herself much too close to Bellatrix Lestrange, with her mad eyes and her sickly scent, reminiscent of mothballs and ambergris. Hermione twisted, attempting to pull away from the other witch, but Bellatrix held her cruelly, her long, horrid fingernails digging into Hermione’s arms nearly hard enough to break the skin.

Standing to her right was Professor Snape, whose attention was focussed on Voldemort. Hermione looked up at the group on the dais: Voldemort, Wormtail, and Dolohov, all of whom were looking at Hermione expectantly, and Morgen, whose eyes shone with a disturbing malice. Frantically, Hermione searched her mind for the last words she had heard spoken—had not her name been part of it?

Dimly, it came to her that Voldemort was speaking of her curse—was speaking, somehow, of removing her curse—no! No, if it were taken, she would have no excuse to be with her professor! Even in her terror, surrounded by dire enemies, with her throat so badly bruised she could scarcely speak, she had it within her to feel panicked at the notion of being separated from her touchstone, as Professor Snape had become.

Sluggishly, her brain caught up with the conversation, and Voldemort’s last words solidified, communicating themselves to her reason with sickening clarity:

Wormtail, who knew her when he was a rat, or Dolohov, who tried and failed to kill her in the Ministry of Magic?

Hermione lurched forward helplessly, her hand flying to her mouth, to no avail. Further ravaging her poor, abused oesophagus, what little remained of her dinner revolted against her digestive system and hit the floor with a disgusting splatter. Both Morgen and Bellatrix sprang back with cries of revulsion, but Professor Snape simply threw Hermione a look of brutal indifference before addressing himself again to Voldemort.

‘While my brothers are no doubt both completely deserving of the attentions of the—’ he cast another disdainful glance at Hermione as she stood in the midst of her own sick, her hair tangled and wild, before he continued, ‘charms of the Mudblood,’ here there was a rising murmur of merriment from the surrounding Death Eaters, ‘might I make a suggestion, My Lord, for your consideration?’

Voldemort’s eerie red eyes were riveted on the professor’s face. ‘You have frequently given Lord Voldemort good counsel,’ he stated. ‘You may continue, Severus.”

Professor Snape bowed. ‘You are gracious, My Lord,’ he said. ‘It occurs to me that neither of my brothers have a reason to be at Hogwarts, which means that the Mudblood would be unable to return there. Even if Dumbledore were not to hold me responsible for her death in such a case, I would still be held responsible for her loss. My trustworthiness would be called into question by Dumbledore, which would only lessen my usefulness to you, My Lord.’

Hermione stood off-balance in her sick-spattered dress; she wished neither to draw forward, towards Morgen, nor back, towards Bellatrix, either of whom would be glad to further punish and humiliate her for having the temerity to exist. Adding to her burning shame was hearing her professor speak of her fate so clinically, in tones of such disregard, his glance, when he could be bothered to look at her, one of dismissive indifference.

Morgen stepped towards Voldemort, her tones honeyed but insincere, even to Hermione’s ears. ‘My Lord, Severus seeks to talk his way out of obeying you,’ she murmured urgently, her voice pitched for intimate conversation but easily carrying in the sudden silence in the room. ‘He wishes only to preserve his position at the school and to keep the Mudblood in his bed—he cares nothing for what you wish!’

With an elegance of motion, Professor Snape fell to his knees, drawing all eyes with his dramatic gesture, and he brought Voldemort’s robes to his lips, his face reverently averted. ‘My Lord!’ he cried. ‘I wish for nothing but your victory. I live to see you in complete power and in utter control of the wizarding world! As your spy at Hogwarts, the Mudblood gives me increased credibility with Dumbledore and unsurpassed access to Harry Potter—have I not brought you particularly useful intelligence these past six months? Such information as I have provided to you is invaluable; it cannot be measured in mere gold.’

Hermione knew from the whispers behind her that her professor spoke the truth. Not for a moment did she consider that he might have actually betrayed Harry or the Order in any way; all that she cared for was the minute shift of momentum in the professor’s favour, for even she could see Voldemort’s speculative stare at the top of Professor Snape’s unkempt head.

‘Surely, My Lord, there will be time after the war has been won for our petty, unimportant personal issues to be addressed.’ The professor lifted his face to gaze with burning earnestness into his master’s face. ‘It is my opinion, My Lord, that it would be ill-advised to throw away any advantage we currently have to be nigh to Potter as the time of your final triumph grows near.’

Morgen thrust herself forward, pushing Wormtail out of her way as if he were a house-elf. ‘Lies!’ she screeched at Professor Snape, her face pulled into a rictus of rage so hideous that no trace of her famous beauty was evident. ‘You care nothing for victory! You care only for your Mudblood slut!’

Hermione dared not breathe in the ringing silence which followed Morgen’s outburst. With her face averted, she was aware of the shift in mood in the room only because of the feeling of the rising excitement of the Death Eaters surrounding her. Obviously, the blood-thirsty bottom-feeders saw something which electrified them, but Hermione was fairly certain that she was the only one to witness the supremely self-satisfied smile her professor directed to the wooden floor.

‘You will be silent!’ Voldemort hissed at Morgen, the motions of his hands sending Pettigrew and Dolohov skittering back to their respective places amongst their fellows. Hermione bit her lip and watched with grim satisfaction as Morgen’s colour fluctuated wildly from rosy fury to ashen fear. ‘A loyal Death Eater, such as Severus, would think of nothing during wartime except how to bring me to ultimate power!’ Voldemort harangued. One stride brought the horrific Dark wizard within mere inches of Morgen; he loomed over her threateningly, his red-eyed face thrust belligerently towards her. ‘Do you place your own paltry, insignificant concerns above those of your master, Morgen?’

At last Morgen fell to her face, her fingers scrabbling miserably for Voldemort’s robes. ‘No, Master!’ she cried. ‘Never! I am your faithful servant—have I not always given of my time and my wealth? Have I not obeyed your every dictate?’

‘You forget yourself, Morgen,’ Voldemort hissed, jerking his robes from her fingers. ‘You have taken for granted Lord Voldemort’s over generosity,’ he added, his red eyes looking away from her and scanning the group around them, ‘which is an unwise thing to do.’

Instantly, all faces save that of the snake-wizard were directed to the floor. Hermione watched from beneath her lashes as Voldemort flicked his wand at Morgen, effectively shoving her from the dais to the floor with the rest of the rabble, uncaring that the costly-clad witch fell directly into the pool of sick. Morgen stifled her moan of abhorrence, and Hermione felt a fierce jab of satisfaction at the sight. Voldemort then drew himself to his full height and lifted his arms so that he resembled nothing so much as a malevolent bat.

‘There will be time, my Death Eaters, when Potter is dead and Dumbledore’s forces defeated, for Lord Voldemort to attend to the comfort and satisfaction of all his faithful followers,’ he said, his words a perfect parody of the promise of a magnanimous dictator. His arms dropped again and his tone changed, becoming brittle with rebuke. ‘As entertaining as this interlude has been, we have more important matters to which we must attend. Lord Voldemort has matters of consequence to consider, and you all have your assigned duties—perform them.’

And in an impressive swirl of green smoke, he Disapparated.

Hermione closed her eyes, relief flooding through her body with force, raising gooseflesh. She wasn’t home yet, but the concentrated evil that was Voldemort was gone, and her confidence that Professor Snape would yet bring her safely off from this nightmare increased.

The Death Eaters began to break up into groups, chatting idly amongst themselves, some taking immediate advantage of the order to get busy and Disapparating away. Shifting slightly to one side, Hermione was able to see her professor more clearly, exchanging small talk off-handedly, almost pointedly dawdling, as if to emphasise his victory over Morgen. Clearly, he would not be the first to retreat from their field of battle. Hermione wished only that he would move closer to her; standing half-dressed and vomit-covered in the middle of a group of Death Eaters gave her still a feeling of vulnerability. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to maintain her submissive posture, wishing not to attract the attention of any of the milling crowd.

As Hermione watched, Antonin Dolohov approached Professor Snape, who greeted him with perfect equanimity. ‘Antonin,’ he said, inclining his head politely.

‘Snape,’ Dolohov answered, sneering. ‘Near miss for you tonight, eh?’

‘Oh, much more a lucky miss for you,’ the professor replied silkily. ‘You’re not as young as you were, Dolohov, and you’re not terribly fit—I sincerely doubt you could properly attend to a lust-cursed teenage girl.’

‘Tell me, Snape,’ Dolohov said, his pasty complexion now flushed with anger, ‘when the Dark Lord succeeds in selling you to Morgen, will you be called Mr Leclercq or Mr Singer?’

The tightening of Professor Snape’s lips was his only response to Dolohov’s question. Apparently oblivious to the tension between the two wizards facing off before him, Peter Pettigrew sidled up to them.

‘Tough luck, eh, Dolohov?’ Wormtail said, his ratty little eyes gleaming salaciously. He nudged Dolohov with an elbow. ‘A tasty little morsel, she is—for a Mudblood.’ His tongue moistened his lips, and he looked from Professor Snape to Dolohov and back again, waiting for them to join in his idea of manly conversation.

Antonin Dolohov drew away from Pettigrew, gathering his robes about him as if to keep them from trailing in filth. ‘Don’t speak to me, you despicable vermin,’ Dolohov spat before turning on his heel and sweeping across the room.

Pettigrew gasped his outrage and turned to the professor, who gave him a thin, cold smile. ‘I cannot defend your honour, Wormtail,’ he said. ‘After all, he spoke only the truth about your … rodency? Rodenthood?’ With one long, thin finger, he traced his lower lip, seeming to ponder. ‘What is the proper word for you, I wonder?’

Hermione’s covert observation of the professor’s conversation was interrupted as Bellatrix Lestrange walked into her line of sight. Bellatrix moved stealthily, her Death Eater robes whispering over the floor. Her shining black hair fell heavily down her back, almost a mockery of the former beauty of her face, now marked by her years of incarceration. Hermione realised that Bellatrix was watching Morgen, her expression jealous. Morgen had moved only so far as to sit on the edge of the dais, where she was spelling the sick from her garments and muttering irately to herself.


‘It is fortunate for you that the Dark Lord is so generous,’ Bellatrix said to Morgen, her tone haughty.

‘Go away, Bella,’ Morgen said irritably, continuing to tidy herself.

‘If it had been me, you would be in the dungeon at the Manor, with the other ingrates,’ Bella continued. ‘How dare you importune my master when he is so busy with important matters?’

Morgen snorted. ‘I didn’t importune him—I made a generous contribution to the war chest. He offered to grant me a boon.’

Bellatrix took a step forward, her indignation on behalf of her master driving her. ‘And it was your duty to decline! Decline, as I have done time and time again!’

Morgen stood wearily and shook out her robes, inspecting them for any further evidence of Hermione’s sick. ‘Bella, it’s not precisely a secret that you receive your “boons” from our master in different currency than the rest of us do,’ she said absently, her attention elsewhere as she found a stain near her hem and cast a cleaning charm on it.

‘Outrage!’ Bella screamed, her dark eyes alight with fury. ‘How dare you befoul him with your filthy, unworthy tongue!’

Fully conscious of her danger, now, Morgen whirled to face Bellatrix, a move which she had undoubtedly employed with perfect grace many times in her life—but this time, her robes were wrapped about her awkwardly, from the twisting and turning she had done to clean them, and she lost her balance. Falling back onto the dais, she cracked her bony bottom upon the hard wood surface, crying out in pain.

Hermione snorted in dark amusement, drawing a puzzled glance from Bellatrix—and the focus of Morgen’s fury.

Rising from the dais, Morgen twitched her shoulders once, causing the folds of her robes to fall correctly down her tall figure, then advanced upon Hermione, her wand outstretched, her face full of murderous ferocity. Hermione stepped back from her, her bare foot coming down with a horrible squelch in her own vomit, her right hand scrabbling uselessly at the empty ornamental sheathe at her waist. Of course the professor had not allowed her to come armed into the presence of Voldemort! Enraged that the other witch would draw down on an unarmed opponent, her chin came up, and she sneered in the best imitation of the wizard she loved. She would not show fear to this mad bitch.

Without a word of warning, Morgen cast her offensive spell in a voice barely above a whisper, almost as if she did not wish to be heard by others in the room. ‘Crucio.’

Hermione fell, the jolt of pain so intense that she was unable to keep her feet. A vicious knife was scoring her nerve endings, laying them open for the fire which burned like an inferno in its wake. She snapped rigid with agony as the full force of Morgen’s considerable unhappiness with her poured into the spell, and an unearthly scream was torn from Hermione’s savaged vocal chords.

As suddenly as it had begun, it ceased, and Hermione curled again into a protective ball, too traumatized even to cry. Above her head and coming from a great distance she heard voices, talking all at once. She very much wished for unconsciousness, but the fighter in her made her struggle to hear and understand.

Bellatrix, annoyed: ‘You’re too soft on the Mudblood, Snape—the Cruciatus Curse is all she deserves. Morgen is thoughtless and greedy, but she casts an exceptional Unforgivable.’

Morgen, incensed: ‘Give me my wand, Severus—give it to me this instant.’

Professor Snape, insolent: ‘Or what, Morgen?’

Hermione’s body ached and her muscles cramped in the aftermath of the curse, yet even so, the low throb of the compulsion woke and began to pulse painfully; she realised that it had probably been building for some time, but her fear had overshadowed it. Now, however, in spite of the fact that she lay in her own sick in a room full of Death Eaters, the compulsion rose to the top of the multitude of impulses plaguing her.

Opening her eyes, she saw her professor and the two witches standing over her. Morgen lunged for her wand, and the professor held it high over his head, out of her reach. Bellatrix laughed, and Morgen spoke again.

‘Give it to me, or I shall kill you,’ she threatened.

‘Oh, that would certainly please the Dark Lord,’ the professor said sardonically. He held the wand at her eye level. ‘I’ll have your word that you’ll not use it again on the girl,’ he said brusquely.

Bellatrix snorted. ‘I would not make that promise, Morgen, but it is none of my concern,’ she said, suddenly languorous, and Hermione knew with a certainty that the lust-cursed Bellatrix Lestrange was in the same condition as she was. Bellatrix ran a hand over her hair. ‘The Dark Lord waits for me—I must go.’

Bellatrix turned on the spot, and nothing happened. With a mutter of annoyance, she turned again, with the same result. In the next moment, a loud clatter from without echoed about the ballroom like a gunshot.

‘Anti-Disapparition Jinx,’ Professor Snape said tersely. ‘We’re under attack.’

Bellatrix whirled to face the double doorway, instantly transformed to a confident battle commander. ‘It’s the Order of the Phoenix!’ she cried. ‘To me, Death Eaters!’

The mass of black-hooded figures converged upon Bellatrix and formed a defensive line, wands drawn.

‘Severus,’ Morgen said, a note of desperation in her voice.

With a sigh of disgust, Professor Snape tossed the wand to Morgen, and she caught it neatly. ‘Don’t put your eye out with it,’ the professor said with disgust, then turned his back to the others, his unfathomable eyes focussing firmly on Hermione for what felt like the first time in an eon.

Hermione looked up at him, torn between the compulsion-driven need in her quim and shame for her vomit-caked condition. She saw that he understood at a glance that she was in need. ‘Hang on,’ he murmured, then more loudly, ‘Tergeo!’

The sick was removed from her body and her clothing, followed by a further cleansing spell. An imperative hand was held out to her, and she took it, rising with his assistance and steadying herself against him.

‘Disillusion, Snape,’ Bellatrix hissed over her shoulder as the doors shivered on their hinges. ‘Do you want your fellow Order members to find you here?’

Without deigning to speak to Bellatrix, Professor Snape rapped Hermione sharply on the top of the head, and she felt the Disillusionment Charm spread down her body. He repeated the spell upon himself, then put an arm about Hermione and led her up onto the dais, half-supporting her weight when her uncooperative legs nearly collapsed beneath her. He wrapped her shivering form in his cloak and seated her with her back against the wall.

‘Do not move, and do not speak,’ he said urgently. ‘Do you understand me? I cannot protect you if I do not know where you are or if you give your hiding place away.’

‘I understand,’ she replied, clutching the warmth of the cloak around her.

The double doors shuddered one more time and then burst open in a flurry of movement; in the middle of it was the bubblegum-pink of Nymphadora Tonks.

‘First time I’ve ever been glad to see that atrocious hair,’ Professor Snape muttered—and then the spells began to fly.

Hermione saw Order members amongst the invaders, as well as Aurors who weren’t members of the Order. She watched the battle without breathing, torn between absolute terror on behalf of her friends and the desire to have her wand in her hand so that she might help them fight. She could not see Professor Snape, but she could feel him standing before her, moving restlessly from side to side. The Death Eaters fought their attackers with wild flashes of red and green, orange and purple, yellow and blue; no streams of light issued from Professor Snape’s wand, yet she knew he was casting spells, for the backwash of the magic tingled over her skin.

At last, the great chandelier in the centre of the room came crashing down to the floor, setting the room in near-dark and pinning two Death Eaters beneath it. Jumping back just in time was Bellatrix Lestrange, who turned upon the perpetrator with feral ferocity.

‘You!’ she screamed, and Hermione blinked to see a witch who might have been Bellatrix’s twin cast a Stunner at her. ‘How dare you bring this filth into our father’s house?’

Hermione gasped, earning a warning growl from Professor Snape. The other woman was Bellatrix’s sister—that meant she was Tonks’ mother!

‘How else could the Aurors get in to capture the murdering rabble you brought into our father’s house!’ Andromeda Tonks roared, sending another spell at her sister, who neatly deflected it.

‘Mum!’ Tonks cried, fighting her way over to her mother, covered from the rear by Alastor Moody and Remus Lupin. ‘Mum, you promised to stay out!’

Andromeda did not answer her daughter but cast again at her sister, until the two Tonks women stood shoulder to shoulder, desperately duelling the Death Eaters.

In the very thick of the fighting was Morgen, who fought with great skill, Hermione grudgingly noticed. She seemed to fight as if Voldemort himself were standing at her back and urging her on; Hermione rather thought she was trying hard to do well to earn back some of Voldemort’s regard. It was bad enough that she had angered her family so much that she was no longer to be invited for family holiday gatherings; if she alienated her master, as well, she would be without allies.

Some of the Death Eaters had battled their opponents through the double doors into the hallway; from shouts Hermione heard echoing into the house from outside, it was clear that the Death Eaters were Disapparating as soon as they were free from the Anti-Disapparition Jinx. The ballroom was emptier now, but the Tonks women still fought, as did Morgen and Bellatrix, and a few other dark-cloaked figures too far from the fallen chandelier for Hermione to make out who they were.

Bellatrix finally hit her sister, slashing with her wand and shouting, ‘Sectumsempra!’

Andromeda Tonks fell heavily, bleeding, and her daughter leapt before her fallen body with a shout and engaged Bellatrix in combat, firing spell after spell in such quick succession that Hermione was unable to keep count. Morgen dispatched the Auror she was duelling, sending him hurling against the wall, and she circled to her right, drawing up behind the pink-haired Nymphadora.

‘Oh, Bella,’ she called gaily, ‘is this your charming Muggle-loving niece about whom I’ve heard so much?’

Hermione tensed, seeing the two Tonks women effectively hemmed in by Bellatrix and Morgen, with no succour in sight; although there were sounds of duelling from outside the room, Tonks’ cry for help produced none.

Bellatrix did not dignify Morgen’s taunt with an answer, but struggled to move to one side or the other of her whirligig niece; it was obvious that Bellatrix wanted very much to finish the job she had begun on Andromeda. Morgen still laughing, called, ‘Let me assist you with your little family problem!’ and a jet a horrifying green light shot from her wand.

‘Oh, fuck,’ Professor Snape muttered, and then the most powerful swell of magic yet pressed Hermione back into the wall.

Tonks fell as if she had been tackled by an invisible assailant, and Morgen’s Killing Curse found as its target the dodging, weaving figure of Lord Voldemort’s most faithful servant, who veered directly into its path.

Bellatrix Lestrange went down like a puppet whose strings had been cut, dead as a doornail, a look of arrogant surprise upon her face.

Before Bellatrix hit the floor, Hermione’s entire body seized, and she cried out at the debilitating pain which sliced through her. In an instant, Professor Snape grabbed her.

‘What happened? Are you hit?’ Blindly, his hands ran along her body, feeling for an injury, and just as suddenly as the pain had hit her, it ceased, leaving her as weak as a kitten.

‘No,’ she gasped. ‘It was a sharp pain, but it’s gone now.’

‘Quiet!’ he hissed and released her, moving to his feet again.

Hermione leaned feebly against the wall, watching the fallen Tonks as she lay inert across her mother’s body, and a bubble of grief rose in the swamp of emotion within her. Would this night never end?

The last duel in the far dark reaches of the room ended in a flash of red light, and Antonin Dolohov ran up behind Morgen, with Peter Pettigrew following. ‘You killed Bella,’ Dolohov said, staring at the dead witch in disbelief. Then he turned to Morgen and snatched her wand from her hand.

‘No!’ Morgen cried, beginning to back toward the double doors. ‘The Tonks girl did it! It wasn’t me!’

Peter Pettigrew was nearly bouncing in excitement. ‘It was you, Morgen! I saw you!’

Morgen backed further away, then turned to flee, but Dolohov was upon her in an instant. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said. ‘The Dark Lord’s going to want to talk to you, Morgen.’

Morgen struggled and fought against him, but Dolohov had her in an iron grip. ‘If you’d rather, I can leave you here for the Order of the Phoenix to deal with,’ he offered nastily, as sounds of approaching footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Morgen went as limp as a rag doll in his grasp. ‘Get Bella’s body, Wormtail,’ Dolohov barked.

Pettigrew approached Bellatrix, pausing to glance down at the bodies of the pink-haired Auror and her mother. ‘Oi, Morgen—you didn’t have to kill the whole family,’ he smirked.

‘They’re coming!’ Dolohov snarled. ‘Get Bella or I’ll tell the Dark Lord you left his favourite behind for the Aurors to desecrate her body!’

Pettigrew ran to do his bidding.

By the time Lupin and Moody re-entered the ballroom, Dolohov and Pettigrew were at the far end of the room.

‘Tonks!’ Lupin cried, and he ran to kneel at her side.

Moody saw the dark figures across the room and shouted to them. ‘Stop!’

Luck, however, finally favoured Dolohov and Pettigrew, who managed to shatter the windows and to escape the house, Disapparating. By the time Moody had limped over to the window, they were long gone.

The grizzled ex-Auror turned from the window and spoke in a voice etched with sorrow. ‘Well, Remus?’

‘Alive!’ Lupin gasped, wand in hand as he began basic Healing spells. ‘But we need to get them both to hospital.’

There was nothing left for the Order and the Aurors to do but to deliver the wounded to St Mungo’s and the captured to Azkaban.

Hermione watched it all as if it were a play, becoming more detached from her surroundings by the moment. She thought vaguely that some shock might be setting in, but she couldn’t rouse herself enough to care. When the last Auror had left the house, she was rapped sharply on the head, followed by a warm sensation which spread to her toes and fingertips. She blinked once and gazed into the abruptly visible face of Professor Snape.

Without speaking, he clasped her firmly to him and Disapparated to the same forest clearing they had visited before. Hermione sagged to the damp ground when he released her, and he crouched by her side. She shivered violently and hugged the cloak to her more firmly, staring down at the ground.

Taking her chin firmly in his hand, Professor Snape tilted her head until her eyes were forced to meet his. He smelt of sweat-soaked fear, his lank black hair hung on either side of his pale face in greasy curtains, but his eyes burned with intensity as he looked at her. ‘Well played,’ he said simply, his caressing tone communicating more than the words he would not speak.

And Hermione, who had been jerked from sleep, taken before a madman, forced to bow and scrape, been violently ill, tortured, and frightened in so many different ways she could not begin to enumerate them—finally began to cry.

‘Ah, petal,’ he said, and tenderly gathered her into his arms.