Five

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. I intend no infringement and am making no profit.

***

I was aware, having spent so much of my time immersed in his memories, of the deep-seated feelings I was developing for the man I watched. As far as I could discern, there remained only one memory that I hadn't yet witnessed, and I was in dire need of the opportunity to reassess my motivations, look over my notes, make any additional comments, and critique presentation and grammar.

My notes remained as distant and objective as they had begun after that first memory. I reported none of the emotional upheaval and debilitating loneliness the Potions master displayed in his most private of moments. Of that fateful meeting with the young Muggle woman and his subsequent defection to Dumbledore, I reported only the barest facts...he had raped the girl at Voldemort's behest and then returned to Hogwarts castle, where he informed Dumbledore that he was turning himself in and preferred to be of any assistance he could provide before he was killed. The flat, emotionless tone in which he had delivered his submission absolutely floored me. Their meeting had been surprisingly short and businesslike considering the seriousness of the agreement they reached, and I recalled Professor McGonagall's words: the true extent of his cruelty had not hit him until later that night, when he'd sought solace in sleep.

The next morning Professor McGonagall inquired as to the progress I was making, and I informed her quietly that only one memory remained. It was the twenty-second of August; I intended to finish with the memories that day and report immediately to her so that she might then convey them to the Wizengamot. They wanted nothing more than my written notes on the memories, she informed me, not my verbal opinion; they would brook no further involvement on my part. The moment the notes entered their possession, they instantaneously became confidential government property.

"What about him?" I cried, and she looked slightly startled at the vehemence of my outburst. "Surely they plan to give him the opportunity to defend himself against the charges verbally? I've been keeping a tally of all the crimes he committed versus all the times he himself was victimized..."

"Hermione," she said gently, putting down her toast and sighing, "they have promised to give him another opportunity to defend himself, but you and I both know that he stands little or no chance against them. Unless there is a memory contained within that vessel in which Albus specifically orders Severus to murder him atop the castle, which will prove beyond all doubt that he deserves to be freed..."

My stomach was literally sinking through my body and into the floor. I thought of the hours he'd spent at his father's mercy and the sight of that small, frail boy crouched in his room, biting down on his tongue until it bled in an effort to repress the need to scream with terror and pain.... No one, having seen the misery and loneliness which comprised his life, could possibly doubt that he had paid his dues and served all the time necessary for his sins. Yet there was nothing concrete...nothing that would offer him the Wizengamot's unquestioning exoneration. Dumbledore had mentioned the Vow that Severus had been insisting from the time of his capture he had agreed upon, but they might consider that circumstantial.

What if they claimed he had tampered with the memory, altering it somehow so that if he were ever caught, he would have something to substantiate his false claims?

They're not false, I thought furiously, recalling the look of misery that had crossed his face when Dumbledore had openly stated the fact that his death would likely be at Severus' hand. He had known throughout that entire year what was likely to happen, and due to Dumbledore's stubbornness and damned omnipotence, he'd had no choice but to agree to carry out the act, maintaining his cover for as long as possible.

"Now," McGonagall said softly, "I suggest you finish with that last memory so that I can report to the Wizengamot, and you may then have the remainder of the day off. I'm sure you would like some time to spend with your parents before..."

"I want to attend the trial," I repeated obstinately, unwilling to let the matter drop. She sighed again.

"You cannot. It is not a public trial...only Severus and his solicitor will be present to face the council. You can, however," she murmured with a conspiratorial smile, "sit in the waiting room with me, as I will be... listening in on the proceedings, shall we say?"

I had a sudden flash of Ginny crouched down on the dusty floor of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, clutching an Extendable Ear as she desperately sought to eavesdrop on the Order meetings. I grinned despite myself. Professor McGonagall was a more devious woman than I'd taken her for. She'd always seemed so rule-bound, even more so than me.

"And might I add, Miss Granger," she continued with a small smile, "that there is nothing stopping you from visiting him in Azkaban and... informing him of what will proceed."

I understood, then, and I didn't spare a moment to say goodbye to her. I had to make a copy of those charges I'd written down in the hope that he could formulate some kind of defense. I would see him granted the freedom for which he'd suffered and toiled so long if it was the last thing I accomplished in life.

***

The final memory was shockingly familiar to me; I realized it the moment I stepped in, for there I was...sitting on the battlements, staring out at the Forbidden Forest. It was that evening during sixth year when I'd fled from Ron and yet another of his acerbic comments about my lack of a love life. I'd sat up here for hours, alternately reading and reminiscing about my childhood, my life as it was currently, and what...or whom...I wanted so badly.

I remembered sitting there thinking of him and of a dream I'd had the night before in which we were brewing the Wolfsbane together in the dungeons. I had often thought of pursuing a career as a Healer, ideally in a close-knit, supportive community such as Hogwarts, and in my dream I had succeeded Madam Pomfrey as resident mediwitch. He had required my assistance with the brew for some obscure, half-cogent reason I couldn't possibly remember; in dreams it never mattered to one's subconscious why one's presence was required, only that it was. I still remembered how it had progressed, with his hand wrapped around my waist and his warm fingers encircling mine.

"You are stirring it incorrectly, Madam," he'd murmured, his breath hot and caressing against my ear, and something about the way he enunciated my title seemed completely lascivious. It hadn't been long before the potion was abandoned altogether, and I was propped up against his desk, my legs wrapped around his naked waist, running my fingers through his hair.

My dreams had certainly been graphic, I realized with a sigh. And then it belatedly occurred to me that during all my time spent observing the ethereal memory-Hermione as she sat and stared contemplatively at the soft night around her, I had not thought to locate him. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen, and yet it was his memory. Where was he?

Ignoring my memory-self, I wandered around the small area and found him ensconced in the shadows, arms crossed over his chest, leaning with a surprisingly relaxed countenance against the wall of the castle. He was watching me, simply staring at me, and I noticed the speculative look in his eyes, absent for once any scorn or accusation.

The memory-Hermione rose with an audible sigh and began to pace back and forth. It had been an unseasonably warm night, and she was wearing my favorite summer dress, seafoam green with spaghetti straps and a long, loose skirt. The light breeze made it catch around her legs, and I thought I saw him swallow hard.

Surely he wasn't... Was he attracted to me? Impossible...I was only seventeen, and if anyone was bound to consider the many unpromising dunderheads who walked the halls of Hogwarts completely repugnant, it was him.

But then the memory-me stripped off the light sweater I'd been wearing, baring her...my...shoulders, and he shifted slightly but silently. I watched as his eyes followed her, never leaving her form, while she paced back and forth, bare feet slapping lightly against the brick of the castle. He cocked his head slightly to one side, and I choked on a giggle. I could have sworn he was openly regarding my ass as the breeze blew the dress forward, molding to my body more obviously.

Why did he not say something or give me detention? It was not past curfew, but it was highly unorthodox for a student to be up here unless they were pursuing more illicit endeavors...which I certainly was not, but he would have been within reason to demand that I return to the castle nonetheless.

Instead he simply watched me as I took my hair down from its ponytail and ran my finger through it thoughtfully, meditatively, untangling the many curls as I stared off into space. He watched the movement of my hands, and I noticed his own fingers twitching lightly.

Then, a grim set to his mouth, he turned and stalked out as silently as he'd no doubt entered, leaving the memory-me standing alone, still staring forlornly out at the Forbidden Forest; and I remembered with sudden clarity that at the moment I'd taken down my hair and run my fingers through it, I had been contemplating what it would feel like if it had been his fingers dancing lightly through it.

***

It was nearing two o'clock when I emerged from the final memory and jotted down my hasty observations. I quickly copied the two sheets on which I had been tallying his crimes and those crimes committed against his person, respectively, and then I gathered all the materials. I shrank the two extra copies and slid them into my pockets; then I dashed up to the Headmistress' office, where I presented them to her rather nervously.

"Thank you, my dear." Her face had grown grim with the passing of the last couple hours, and I knew that she was deeply dreading the errand before her. "Whatever happens, Hermione..." I struggled to refrain from tearing up. "All of us here at Hogwarts know that you tried to help him, and that is all anyone could have done."

I nodded mutely, and she left, her shoulders slumped with the defeat she no doubt felt lay before us all. I wasted no time in drying my few tears and Flooing off myself, but to an entirely different destination.

***

Diagon Alley was filled with people, throngs moving quickly past the little boutiques and apothecaries. I cast my eyes around in vain for the opportunity to slip into the crowd but had to wait several moments before I could safely join the sea of people moving in a slow, inexorable current along the sidewalks.

It did not take long for me to locate what I sought, the Wizarding equivalent of an ophthalmologist's. As vision exams could be completed efficiently and rapidly with magical equipment and spells, I had only to step inside and wait a few moments, during which time I removed my contacts and tossed them in the nearest trash bin. I'd never really bothered to research whether or not I could pursue some magical equivalent of contact lenses; when I'd complained the summer after my fourth year about being unable to see, my parents had suggested glasses or contacts, and I had immediately chosen contacts and never thought about it again.

The woman attending the desk ushered me into a nearby booth where a distinguished-looking older wizard of perhaps eighty or so stood patiently. He waved a wand quickly in front of my eyes and then examined them more closely.

"Hmm," he remarked. "You definitely need glasses, I'm afraid." He peered at me curiously. "How have you managed to see in school, young lady?"

I shrugged and demurred, muttering something about sitting in the row nearest the blackboard, and he scowled reproachfully at me and grabbed a catalog off a nearby table. He handed it to me and instructed me to flip through it and choose the frame which I felt would be most appropriate and flattering for my face and lifestyle. The entire speech seemed, and undoubtedly was, dully rehearsed, and within moments I was ignoring him in favor of paging excitedly through the catalog, seeking just the perfect pair...

There! I smiled in triumph and pointed at them. They were perfect, indeed: black, medium to thick rims, slightly upturned at the corners...a very intellectual, sexy-librarian type of look, and they were precisely identical to the ones Severus' favorite witch had been wearing in the magazine. While he Transfigured them for me, I stared at my feet shamefully, attempting to justify to myself my rationale for suddenly and spontaneously tossing out my contacts and getting myself into this mess.

It's not for him, I assured myself halfheartedly. I just think they're cute, and those contacts were irritating my eyes and making them rather dry. In fact, they have been for some time. It's time to accept that it wasn't healthy to wear them anymore and seek an alternative...

Oh, who the fuck was I kidding? I cringed at my own mind's vulgarity, but really, I knew better than to insult myself with these absurd excuses. I wanted to see if wearing the glasses would get a rise out of him. Over the past couple of days, I had been confronted...not once, but twice...with indications that he might actually be attracted to me. I intended to pursue it as boldly as I dared, and the glasses were a bold statement indeed.

The older wizard finished, and I was startled from my mental self-examination when he put them on the table in front of me, along with a small hand-held mirror. My heart fluttering nervously, I put them on and then dared a glance in the mirror.

And immediately, much to my humiliation, I squealed happily, causing the poor old man to jump. They looked absolutely fantastic.

"Thank you!" I cried, and he nodded, rather perplexed by my change in mood. I dashed quickly back out to the waiting area, where I charged them...and they were quite reasonably priced, I thought...to my Gringotts account. I had always lived frugally while at school, and my parents would never begrudge me the use of the money when I had saved my allowance for so many years rather than squandering it on clothes or makeup like other teenage girls. After getting hasty permission from the witch at the counter, I grabbed a bit of the complimentary Floo powder, stepped through their fireplace, and found myself in my parents' living room.

***

"Hermione!"

My mother was of course startled to see me, as I was her. I hadn't expected her to be home. I'd fully anticipated that she and my father would both have a full day at the office, and when they returned, I would have dinner prepared for them and surprise them with my new glasses.

"Hi, Mum!" It was fantastic to see her after all the time I'd spent at The Burrow. We hugged for what felt like ages, and she praised my glasses to no end, saying how intelligent and grown up they made me look. When I couldn't stand to continue blushing under all her praise, I finally asked, "What are you doing home? I thought you and Dad would be at the office."

"Oh, it's been a slow day," she replied with a shrug. "Everyone off on holiday, you know. I thought I'd get some errands done and then make a nice dinner for your father. You know"...she glanced at her watch and then beamed at me..."I've still got a couple hours before he can be expected home. Do you want to go shopping with me?"

I didn't, in all honesty; I'd been looking forward to a relaxing afternoon in my childhood room, reading or napping, but she looked so elated at the prospect that I simply couldn't turn her down. She grabbed her coat and keys, and we were off to wander the streets of Muggle London, looking for, according to her, "the perfect evening dress" for some charity benefit she had agreed to attend later that month.

As we continued our leisurely stroll past a young women's boutique, my gaze was arrested by a simple, sleekly cut black business suit: snug, flattering pants, a fitted but appropriate jacket, and a nice little pair of black heels to complement the sharp quality of the ensemble. I must have stopped and stared for much longer than I realized because I caught my mother smiling fondly at me.

"You'll be working soon," she remarked wistfully, and I detected the faintest hint of tears in the corner of her eyes. It hit me then that I had never truly appreciated the sacrifice she and my father had made to see my youthful wishes fulfilled. They had been wonderfully supportive of my magical education, and it had to have been exceedingly difficult for them to live without seeing me ten months of the year for seven years. Now they would be giving me up to adulthood shortly.

"Would you like it?" she asked me with an encouraging nod in the direction of the boutique window. I stared at her for a moment, my mind whirling with sudden guilt over my new glasses and the thought that I shouldn't even consider costing my parents money for frivolous belongings; but she had me irreversibly hooked when she added slyly, "Every girl needs a nice black suit she can wear to impress someone, you know."

What is it with mothers and their omniscient ability to sense their daughters' secret, burning infatuations? I knew, through some inexplicable instinct, that it was precisely the sort of look that would turn Severus' head. I berated myself for thinking of him yet again rather than being an individual, but I had already made up my mind.

"May I?" I asked hopefully. She nodded and put her arm around me, and I didn't have to be told twice. We both giggled and dashed quickly into the shop, and I was reminded why my mother, for all her stern rules, uncompromising standards, and sage advice, was my first and only best friend.

***

Professor McGonagall owled me later that evening, a short but meaningful missive informing me that the trial had been set for the day after next. Her words urged me to act quickly if I intended to provide Severus with any kind of warning. Thus the next morning, after a night of restless turning and no sleep whatsoever, I bade my parents good day, promising them I would return that evening and spend the remainder of my summer holiday with them. Then I Flooed to the one place on earth I'd truly hoped I would never see.

The Wizarding prison Azkaban lived up to its terrifying reputation with pride. The guards who met me at the gate snarled and shoved me through the admissions process, forcing me to wait an hour before they verified that, as a temporary prisoner, Severus was technically allowed visitors. It was clear that they did not want me to enter and would have been perfectly happy to send me away, but they could not deny me entrance within the law, and I suspect they realized I knew that.

The halls of the temporary wing were dank and desolate, enough to drive anyone to slow and seductive madness, and I had no doubt that those of the permanent wings were infinitely worse. His cell was at the very end, set apart, and I felt a surge of righteous indignation at the thought that they had probably kept him separate so that they could tease and torture him independently of the others. Glowering at the guard who opened the door for me, I took a deep breath and glanced down at the floor, examining my reflection in the fetid puddle at my feet. My hair was pulled back in simple but artfully arranged chignon, courtesy of my mother; the glasses were perched perfectly on my nose; and I wore my lovely seafoam-green summer dress, a snug black sweater, and the black heels my mother had bought me the afternoon before. Telling myself that I was well equipped to handle anything, I stepped through proudly...and was then nearly knocked over by the sight that met my eyes.

He struggled to his feet the moment I entered, and I recognized immediately that he was in dire need of medical attention. He had no shirt, and his ribs poked prominently through the skin of his torso. They were violently bruised, several of them possibly slightly fractured. Long cuts and wicked lacerations were spread liberally across his chest and around his back, and his hair was scraggly and filthy. It was clear that they hadn't allowed him to wash properly in weeks.

Yet the cell was surprisingly clean. I noted a small rag in one corner and a pile of dirt nearby and realized that he had actually attempted to sweep the floor. A single blanket lay in one corner, obviously his bed, and a small, dirty toilet was located in the other. There was no sink, no chair on which he could sit to take his meals, nor any table. But then, perhaps I was being optimistic: there was no guarantee that they had even been feeding him. I doubted anyone would consider it a particularly remorseful loss if he were to die while languishing in prison.

"Miss Granger." His voice cracked from disuse, and I stifled the sudden and utterly irrational urge to fly into him and wrap my arms around his bony shoulders. "To what do I owe the... pleasure?" The scorn was still evident in his tone, but he somehow lacked the force and venom of the acerbic Potions master of my youth. The energy required for him to simply stand had to be enormous, considering how poorly they had obviously treated him. The thought of him existing day after day with such debilitating injuries was beginning to make me feel physically ill with disgust and sympathy.

"I've come to warn you," I began haltingly, "that the Wizengamot will be holding your trial tomorrow. They have in their possession..."

"My memories." He gave a short, abrupt nod. I wasn't sure if I imagined it, but his gaze seemed to linger on my figure a bit longer than strictly necessary, and it definitely caught when he registered my glasses. I resisted the anxious compulsion to adjust them on my nose. "I know. Minerva warned me." He narrowed his eyes at me then, the paranoia returning. "Why are you here?"

"I... I came to bring you this." I retrieved the two sheets of parchment from my pocket and enlarged them, handing them over to his filthy hands. He sank heavily to the floor and looked over the sheets, reading them silently and intently. I registered when his eyes reached the end of the first page, where I'd written the heaviest charge against him other than Dumbledore's murder: the young woman's rape. His knuckles grew white on the sheet, and his mouth twisted into something that might have been loosely termed a sneer. It almost pained me to realize he couldn't even sneer properly. So much of the life had gone out of him.

"These accusations are... surprisingly vague," he drawled softly, and I could see his eyes were fixed on the end of the sheet. They seemed incapable of leaving the harsh words, and I wondered at the depth of his remorse when he was confronted with such a cold and unforgiving summary of his life's transgressions.

I maintained my brusque, professional tone and simply said, "Rape is rape, Professor."

He became enraged then, and it happened so quickly that I jumped back, teetering precipitously on my heels. He was clenching the paper so tightly in his fist that I feared it would shred. He rose rapidly to his feet and proceeded to tower over me, no doubt attempting to intimidate me into leaving him to wallow in his own self-pity and loathing. Though the months in Azkaban had been inhumane, he was still as terrifyingly tall and dark as I recalled from six years of undue intimidation and unfair treatment, and my beloved heels no longer seemed to afford any additional confidence.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he growled, his eyes blazing. "If you had any idea what I had...what I did to that girl..." He shook the paper at me with halfhearted force. Already his energy seemed to be leaving him, and his posture was growing alarmingly weak and unsteady.

Immediately I was incensed, and all hope of remaining coolly detached fled from me. I had not asked, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time that week, for access to his private memories; yet I was forced to live and relive those moments in my own nightmares.

"I saw exactly what you did to that girl, Professor," I whispered in a poisonously soft, deadly tone which could have rivaled his voice at its most wounding. I advanced on him. To my immense satisfaction, every last bit of blood drained from his face, and he began to step backward, staring at me as though I'd just read him his execution sentence. "I saw every... single... excruciating... minute of it. Don't stand here and lecture me about how much she suffered. I heard her scream. I watched her bleed, and I watched her die." He flinched as though I had struck him when I spat out the final word.

I knew my behavior to be completely inappropriate, but my rage at what had happened to that poor, innocent girl...probably only my age...had been festering inside me. It had metastasized, unspeakably filthy and painful, and though I knew he had been forced to do it, I couldn't help but seize the opportunity to tell him precisely what I'd been through.

For the first time in my life, I had rendered my Potions professor totally speechless. He stared at me, the papers loosely dangling from his thin, bony fingers, looking as though I had slapped him across the face. He was stark white, a shocking contrast against the scraggly, dirt-streaked black of his trousers and hair. His gaze captured mine, and I truly believed, for one breathtaking moment, that he was about to reach out and touch me.

Then the normally implacable professor regained his composure, and he drew back slowly and deliberately. The suddenly haughty expression on his face seemed to dare me to try to hurt him further. His eyes, however, belied his continued unrest.

"You ought to be thankful I kept those observations as neutral as possible," I snapped at him. Then I turned on my heel and pounded on the door. The guard opened it quickly. As I exited, I heard him sink back to the floor, the papers falling alongside him.