The Half Hitch

A/N - I'm so sorry to everyone that it's been such a long time since I updated. I have a fabulously time consuming job. But ... I think once you read this chapter you'll understand why it took me such a long time. It's rough and it's long, my babies, so batten down the hatches: the calm is ending and a storm is brewing ...

Chapter Six – The Half Hitch

Half Hitch –

“The Half Hitch is a capsized overhand knot; it is very useful to carry light loads that have to be removed easily. As for all knots, working the knot well is extremely important. Work it wrong and you might end up with another (probably unwanted) knot. Capsizing the half hitch might end up in a granny knot, the worst of all knots.”

Severus Snape’s feet dragged as he trudged away from the now-quiet tree. His body ached dully with the exertion of the last few minutes, but it was his mind that truly screamed. He had been here before, but he had never had to carry this burden. He took a great, heaving sigh, unable to reconcile anything and figuring it was best not to prolong the inevitable. He thought briefly of the sound of the anguished cries that would echo in his head soon enough. Soon enough.

With a swirl of robes and a muffled crack, Severus Disapparated into the pinkening summer morning.

Hermione was shaken awake by insistent hands. The visions of the events of the evening had haunted her, and when she felt herself being tugged back into reality by Ginny, Hermione could have sworn that she had only just now fallen asleep.

“What is it?” Hermione groused irritably, trying to turn over despite Ginny’s relentlessly shaking hands.

Ginny gulped and shook. Hermione sat up quickly. Her friend trembled head to foot in such a violent manner that Hermione was reminded forcefully of the night after her emergence from the Chamber of Secrets. When Ginny didn’t speak, Hermione pressed on, her voice now clear, her mind painfully awake. “What is it? What’s wrong? Any news?”

Ginny shook her head so hard Hermione thought it might fall off. “I don’t know. But there’s banging and noises downstairs. Something’s wrong.”

Hermione all but leapt out of bed, not even bothering to throw her dressing gown over the knee-grazing, periwinkle t-shirt she was using for a nightdress. Her hand encircled Ginny’s wrist and she made quickly for the source of the now growing sounds: the kitchen.

When Hermione pushed through the double doors she was not quite prepared for the site that met her. The kitchen was full. Lupin was prowling the room, nervously glancing from person to person; Arthur Weasley was holding an ice pack to the side of Tonks’s head and delicately muttering a charm over her bruised eye. Harry was sitting at the hearth, staring into the fire and muttering to himself. Fred, George, Bill and Charlie were all seated at the table, each one fidgeting nervously with a piece of cutlery that had been set for breakfast. Snape was standing in the far corner, his robes smudged with myriad blotches of dirt and grass, and four inch-long tears rent the front over his abdomen, allowing just a smattering of pale flesh to be seen. His eyes were hooded from above by his heavy brow and shrouded underneath with deep black circles.

Before Hermione and Ginny could begin to ask what was happening, Mrs. Weasley burst through the double doors. Her hair was disheveled to say the least, flying away from a mobcap still perched precariously at the back of her head; she had thrown an inside-out jacket over a flannel nightdress and still donned a pair of worn slippers. She was gibbering incoherently.

“I had gone home for the night … the clock,” she mumbled. “It said—and I was sleeping—but it rang and I—where?—it can’t be that he—”

She continued much in this manner for several seconds until she scanned the room and found Snape. She practically ran to him. Much to Hermione’s surprise, when her voice left her, Mrs. Weasley was not racked or nervous, she was furious.

“WHERE?” she demanded.

Snape looked back at her, but quickly averted his eyes. Hermione’s stomach lurched. Severus Snape would not look away from someone …

“Where is he?” she demanded again, grabbing a hold of the front of his robes and shaking him. Her anger simmered to a cold fury. “What happened to Ron?”

Every person in the room stopped any kind of motion, slowly circling with either eyes or whole bodies, to regard Snape. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and then, with a deep breath, leveled them at Mrs. Weasley. They held nothing when he opened them.

“He’s dead.”

Hermione felt as if she had been kicked in the chest. Throughout the night, pictures of Ron’s violated body had assaulted her vision – causing her to shake and sweat in fear and guilt – but she was little prepared to hear her fears confirmed. Mrs. Weasley wavered on her feet and opened her mouth, her jaw wavering but no sound issuing from it.

“He is … gone then?” Arthur’s voice shook as he worded the question to Snape, determinedly straightening his back, a twitch at his forehead.

Severus nodded quickly but said nothing. Mrs. Weasley’s eyes wildly searched the room, but found no place comfortable to stop, not even on Arthur who was still determinedly forcing deep breaths. Mrs. Weasley’s eyes finally rested on Hermione. She started to open her mouth to speak to Hermione, but instead, pitched forward the few inches between them and sobbed hysterically on her shoulder as Hermione fought to keep her off the ground. Hermione could not unglue from her face the look of shock and, as her knees buckled under the extra weight and they collapsed to the floor, Hermione could only manage to pat Mrs. Weasley’s back distractedly and stare straight ahead. She dully registered Bill swearing in a furious whisper, Fred and George’s sniffles, and a hysterical shrieking sob issuing from Ginny.

Hermione stared around the room. The ice pack had slipped from Tonks’s forehead and she leaned forward to rest her head in her hands, staring down at the cool wooden table. Lupin had moved to hoist Mrs. Weasley off the floor and was now stroking her back and whispering in her ear.

Hermione suddenly noticed Ginny’s wrist still enclosed in her hand; she released the delicate arm and moved across the room to stand at the fireplace where Harry was now resting his head against the warm bricks. Huge glittering tears were sliding down his cheeks as Hermione stood over him, her hands clasping the mantle as if it were a lifeline.

“Ron,” she whispered. “Oh, Ron, what have I done to you?”

Hermione felt her body shaking as she fought to keep her sobs inside. She could not … would not break down. ‘Not here …’ she told herself, ‘not now.’ She bit her lip to stifle a sob, but a squeaking cry came out despite her efforts. Seemingly as a result, Mr. Weasley snapped as if bent and broken and dissolved into silent tears. Despite this however, he moved to Remus and Mrs. Weasley, threading his long thin arms under Mrs. Weasley’s solid shoulders and transferring her body from Remus’s grip to his own.

She collapsed against him and cried, “Oh, Arthur!”

He merely shushed her, mumbled, “I know,” and “my poor boy.” Remus backed away across the kitchen to lay a hand across Harry’s shoulders, but made no move to further comfort the boy.

Hermione stared around the kitchen. Ginny’s upper body now rested in Tonks’s lap, the purple-haired witch stroking the younger girl’s tomato-colored head, whispering words of comfort. Every person in the kitchen had dissolved into clutching hugs, sharing their grief with each other; even the twins were huddled, Fred’s arm around George’s shoulders; Charlie had grasped Bill’s hand in a tight hold though the young men said nothing. The kitchen was quiet except for muffled sobs and words of strength; all parties grieving together. Everyone except her. And Snape. She was suddenly aware of how alone she was in the room. Helpless. Hopeless. She had sent her best friend to his death.

After a few moments, Mrs. Weasley straightened up against Arthur and looked to Severus, still standing in the corner, quiet, alone, haunted. “How did it happen?” she asked quietly.

Snape took a deep, raspy breath. He licked at his lips, now dry and cracked. “A revel, organized after the kidnapping. To teach him a lesson.” Severus spat the last phrase with obvious disgust. But it wasn’t anger that Hermione saw, piercing and clear, in his eyes. But she felt it slowly build in hers.

She remembered, with a bitter taste in her mouth, the point of Lucius Malfoy’s knife against her throat, and the feel of Bellatrix Lestrange’s fingers at her cheek. “Who did it?”

Snape turned away, brushing absently at the mud on his robes.

“Who?” Hermione bellowed, her taste for vengeance, for blood, building in her throat. Her mind raced with a need for Lucius Malfoy’s throat in her hands. Severus still did not speak. Hermione shouted until the whole house rang with her voice and every head turned in her direction. “Damn it you tell me this instant: WHO KILLED RON?”

In what Hermione would register – vaguely, through her anger – as the only gesture of defeat ever exhibited by Severus Snape, he lowered his head slightly, his long black strands curtaining the tortured eyes.

“I did.”

“What?” she asked, her voice more hysterical than she would have believed likely.

“That’s impossible,” Harry muttered, his face still coated in shock and grief.

“I assure you, it’s quite unfortunately possible,” he said, his voice now flat. “It is both possible and true. I killed Ronald Weasley.”

“Why?” Mrs. Weasley choked out, her voice strangled.

“To save his life.”

“Bullshit,” Hermione spat angrily. “Admit it! You were furious at us just because we didn’t follow your sage advice. And then you saw your chance and you took it; you’ve always hated Ron. And me. And Harry. And the Death Eaters just happened to offer you the easy out you’d been looking for! Isn’t that right, you reprehensible bastard?”

By the end of the rant, Hermione had moved to him and was pounding her fists viciously against his chest. She lashed out at him with everything she had, but Snape merely became rigid and accepted her assault. Until she called him a name. Then, as swiftly as she had moved to strike him, he swept up his right arm and captured both her wrists in his long thin fingers. His grip was crushing as she struggled to release herself, clawing at his skin, an inch away from becoming completely feral and setting her teeth on him.

Snape yanked on her wrists so that she stumbled into him bodily. As he stared down at her, the hungry, murderous stare returned to his eyes. “Make no mistake, Miss Granger, that I allow this only because of your grief. Do not dare to presume comprehension of situations you cannot possibly understand.”

“Oh, you think I don’t understand do you? I can understand just fine you—”

Hermione began her tirade again, but found that Lupin had moved across the room to stand behind her. Remus’s hands now encircled her wrists in a delicate yet firm gesture of restraint.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione, Professor Snape wouldn’t kill Ron on purpose,” Remus intoned. Snape smirked down at Hermione in a somewhat smug way, but when she turned to regard Lupin, there was something in his face that said he was not 100% certain that he was correct.

“Wouldn’t he?” Harry asked from the hearth. “How much choice did you have Professor? Did you even try to save him? Or did you just take the path of least resistance?”

Hermione could see just a tinge of a seething anger that was in him, but Harry remained seated on a stool near the hearth. He was wound tightly, like a bedspring waiting to uncoil, but he made no move to relieve himself of his anger. Hermione was anxious to unleash her spleen on Snape but the gentle yet firm pressure of Lupin’s cool fingertips against her wrist stopped her from making her assault any more physical.

“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley spoke up, steady despite her tear-stained face, “that won’t help Ron. Of course Professor Snape didn’t hurt Ron on purpose.” Mrs. Weasley, also, didn’t look quite certain, but her voice was strong and left no room for arguments. “But I would like to know how it happened…”

“No,” Severus replied shortly. “I cannot … I will not recite the entire evening in front of my students.”

Fred cleared his throat loudly. “Former students.” George nodded emphatically.

“Not all of you,” Snape hissed, glaring pointedly at Hermione, Ginny and Harry.

“But don’t we have just as much right to know what happened to Ron?” Ginny spoke up.

“I will not retell the entire night,” Severus said, a note of distinct finality in his voice.

“You will not have to,” came a voice from the doorway.

Hermione turned to see Dumbledore standing there, leaned against the doorframe as if he had been there for hours. He had what looked like a large bowling ball bag in his left hand. Amidst the hush that had fallen over the room, Dumbledore motioned for everyone to follow him and moved out of the kitchen. The entire party stood up and wordlessly trailed after him into the study.

Hermione seated herself in one of the wingback chairs aimed to stare directly out the now dark and curtained windows. The lump in her throat was practically choking her as she sat alone among the people cuddling and clutching. They all stared starkly at Dumbledore; Mrs. Weasley seemed to be hoping against hope that it was not true, that Dumbledore would tell her that Ron was alive somewhere. Arthur clutched her shoulders, standing behind her at the couch, ready for the worst; Fred and George perched next to their mother and Bill stood next to Arthur, but Charlie was pacing the room anxiously. Tonks, Ginny and Harry had clustered on the other couch, none of them touching, looking for all the world like they would shatter if they did.

Snape was standing only a few feet from Hermione. His hands were buried in the pockets of his robes, and he was staring out the window at the Muggle apartment complex across the street. She was quite certain he was trying determinedly to resist the urge to run from the room, though she was completely at a loss as to where this realization had come from. She regarded him closer and noticed for the second time the tears just above his waist. Her curiosity got the better of her and she reached her hand out the few inches distance.

Hermione’s fingertips didn’t even move the material; she threaded them into the open spaces and had just barely brushed against his skin. Snape jumped away as if he had just been burned. Hermione had fully expected a firm, scathing response, but instead Snape looked so startled at her touch that his face paled to a ghostly white. She was so intrigued by this that she had not even retracted her arm, but instead let it hang in mid-air, her fingers outstretched towards him. Snape was visibly struggling to wipe the shock her touch had caused from his face; he grumbled something as he moved out of the reach of her hands.

“My dear friends,” Dumbledore’s voice began quietly as he seated himself at the desk, “I cannot even begin to speak my grief at this horrific loss. Unfortunately, it has come about as I had feared, and Gryffindor and Hogwarts alike have lost another fine, brave and valuable student. Molly, Arthur,” he spoke, turning his head to each one in turn, “Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, Ginny: words cannot express my sorrow and sympathy.”

Arthur nodded graciously while tears leaked silently from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes. Dumbledore continued.

“I understand that you all must be anxious for answers, explanations, anything connected to Ron’s tragic and untimely end. However, I do not think it would be fair to force Severus into recanting his entire evening.”

Hermione heard the barely-audible noise of a held breath being released just over her right shoulder. Mrs. Weasley began to sob and managed a tearful, “But we should … we need to know how …”

Dumbledore raised a shaking hand to silence her. “My dear Molly, I have no wish to deprive you of closure regarding your son. So, I have a proposed solution, if Severus will consent.”

Snape turned to Dumbledore, his shrouded eyes wide in question. Dumbledore reached underneath the table and produced the bowling-bag-like container and placed it on the desk in front of him. From the gnarled leather bag he reached in deep and produced a carved stone basin, the contents of which threw wavering, bright cobalt bands of light on the walls and ceiling of the study. Snape turned away again.

“Severus, if it would be easier for you, you could release the memory to the Pensieve, and each of us here could view your memories without your direct relation to them. It would offer the parties here closure as well as you some much needed separation from the events of the evening.”

Snape did not answer, merely moved in front of the desk and stared back at Dumbledore. For the first time in her memory, Hermione recalled that Snape’s eyes were neither menacing nor angry; he merely stared back into the old man’s eyes and then heaved a great sigh. From the inside of his robes, he drew his wand and placed it to his temple. After a few seconds, he drew forth a long silver strand and released it to the basin. Without a word, he then swept from the room.

The instant he left, most of the room was on its feet. Hermione remained in her chair, resuming her deep gaze out of the window. She dully registered Dumbledore’s instructions.

“We shall all view at once, that way no one is left in suspense. One at a time please,” she heard him say. She heard the shuffling that she realized must be each person entering the Pensieve, but she could not will her legs to remove her from the chair.

After several moments, she heard Dumbledore’s soft, “Miss Granger?” She could not move.

A few seconds later came Harry’s voice, even quieter, “Hermione?”

She turned. Dumbledore stood in front of the fireplace, his hands shaking, his eyes sad. Harry stood in front of the Pensieve, hands on the edge. He then reached out his hand to Hermione. She shakily stood and crossed the room to take his hand.

Harry’s voice came quietly to Dumbledore. “Can we go together?” he asked.

Hermione heard Dumbledore mutter, “Engorgio,” widening the basin to accommodate the two of them. Hermione had never used a Pensieve before and wavered nervously. She turned to face Harry, watching him as he gently guided her down towards the surface. Her eyes were still on him as she pressed her face to the swirling force of Snape’s memories.

Much to Hermione’s surprise, her feet, still bare from being roused out of bed, slapped against the warm pavement of downtown London. The muggy, mid-August heat was rising off the street in almost visible waves. She felt the warmth of the day around her, but surprisingly, her feet were not burned against the hot sidewalk. Her mind raced in questioning, unclear as to why Snape’s memories of the events leading to Ron’s death would start here. He was not assigned to guard them, so what was he doing here? But it was then that she looked directly ahead of her, down the streets of Muggle London. She started slightly – causing Harry’s hand to tighten against hers – as she looked a down the street and saw herself. And Tonks. And …

There he was.

Her heart ached seeing the sun gleam gold sparks off his ruby hair, knowing it would never do so again. This was the last sunshine Ronald Weasley had seen; he had most likely taken for granted the big, energetic city, thrumming under the hot summer sun. She heard the scuffle and clatter of the Weasleys and the other viewers around her, but her head instead searched for someone else. She found her target standing just off her left shoulder. Snape had been following them through London, watching their moves.

She was startled as she appraised his apparel. He had attired himself as a Muggle and – to her very great shock – had done so quite well. His appearance was much altered: he seemed so much less intimidating in the long, loose, light blue jeans that were faded white at the knees. His broad square shoulders and thin, lithe frame were much more apparent beneath the loose black T-shirt that was tucked in at the waist. His heavy combat boots made a soft flump as they hit the pavement, nearly two streets behind the three wizards he was tailing. A long black trench coat flapped about his calves. He sat himself carelessly on the end pillar of a brownstone’s stoop and lit a cigarette. She started as she realized that had she not known him, she would have passed him on the Muggle-filled street without a second glance.

Since she had begun to guess his motivation for being there, she noted how easily he blended into the mid-afternoon rush. As he sat taking long, almost insolent drags on his cigarette, his eyes darted pointedly – but not suspiciously – to and from Hermione, Tonks, and Ron, who had just grouped together outside a dumpster.

Hermione’s stomach plummeted. This was it.

She heard a slight popping noise, and the Snape that she had been watching rose quickly – but not jerkily – to his feet and started a quick pace. Hermione had to run to keep up. She jerked to a stop and watched in horror as Lucius Malfoy Apparated from behind the dustbin and used the hilt of his knife to knock Ron unconscious. His body crumpled to the ground.

Bile rose in her throat as she saw Bellatrix Lestrange now Apparate behind Tonks, striking her with a quick Stunner, the purple-haired witch twitching beside her as well as crumpling to the ground three-quarters of a street ahead. Hermione felt Tonks’s grip grasp her unoccupied hand as the entire assembled party of viewers watched the scene unfold in front of them. Hermione could still feel the point of the knife as she watched Lucius bring it to her neck nearly half the street ahead of her.

She could not hear Lucius’s words but whimpered in horror and anger as she looked ahead and saw his fingers angrily seize her breast. Beside her, Harry swore loudly and pushed up the sleeves of his pajama shirt. Hermione was nearly certain he had forgotten himself and that he intended to charge after Malfoy. She felt a meteor-sized lump clog her throat as the scene became even more surreal. She watched Bellatrix run her fingers across Hermione’s cheek.

“Stop it!” she heard a voice scream out. It was only when Harry laced an arm around her waist that she realized that the voice had been her own. Of course, no one in that awful scene in front of her flinched. She couldn’t stop her feet as they took her forward, running towards Ron, not reaching him in time to save him before Bellatrix Apparated away. She couldn’t have saved him even if she had been on time, she reminded herself.

She stooped to a squat over her own body, her cheeks burning in embarrassment as she watched herself retch in the grass and then lie still, knowing that the rest of the party had witnessed this assault on her person and her ill-equipped response. She reached out a hand towards her own shoulder …

But before she could have ever made contact, she heard the heavy tread of boots. She looked up into the face of Severus Snape. The Snape of the memory glared down as if at her crouched body, but then stooped and grasped the wrist of the unconscious Hermione at his feet. Hermione watched, transfixed, as he flipped her body gently and searched for a pulse at her throat. He pushed an arm under her shoulders and knees. Snape lifted her body as if she weighed no more than a dried leaf. He moved to Tonks, who was now just showing signs of movement.

“Nymphadora—” he called, his panic starting to show on his face. “Nymphadora, if you don’t have the energy to stand, grab hold of my ankles.”

Tonks hauled herself to a kneeling position and threaded her arms around one of his knees. With a loud pop!, he turned on the spot and Apparated away, leaving the crowd of people watching in silence before they, too, were whisked to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix along with Snape and his memory.

Hermione found herself suddenly standing outside Grimmauld Place. She knew this part of the story. Despite her gut feelings, she followed them inside the house. The Tonks of the memory collapsed into the arms of Arthur Weasley the instant the door had been opened. Arthur and Tonks had proceeded into the sitting room, where Hermione knew Mr. Weasley had allowed Tonks to pass out on the threadbare couch. She would not rouse for hours. Despite some people’s moves to find out what Mr. Weasley had done in the meantime, the party itself was forced to follow Snape and his memory up the stairs.

Hermione watched, silently wondering why he was still bodily carrying her. Snape could have easily placed a Mobilicorpus spell on her and avoided the fatigue on his arms. But he hadn’t. Instead, he climbed the three flights of stairs to her room with Hermione’s limp form cradled in his arms. Any suspicion of a kinder motive on this, however, was quashed by the dark muttering that he partook in the entire climb.

In an exhibition of his typical amount of tact, Severus kicked the door to her bedroom open. Ginny, who was writing a letter at a desk in the corner, began to retort in protest but watched in silent horror as she noticed Hermione’s limp form.

“Which one?” Severus growled in reference to the beds. Ginny stood stock still for a moment, then indicated the far bed with the blue coverlet.

Contrary to what Hermione, and evidently all the people watching behind her, would have expected, Severus leaned down and gently laid Hermione on the bed. As he was laying her down, Ginny moved towards the bed, her mouth open and ready to question.

Before she could get a word out, Snape snapped a quick, “No. She’s fine.”

She began, again, to start to question. “What hap—?”

But Snape was shaking his head at her question, a vague hand gesture stating plainly that it would be explained shortly. He then pointed to the door and returned to his care of Hermione, even stooping to loosen the spread and bring it up over her body. Snape tucked the blanket gently around her waist and paused a moment until he realized that Ginny’s gaze had still not left him. He turned dramatically and glared angrily at her, to which she mumbled something unintelligible and turned back to her work at the desk. The party behind her made a move to return to the downstairs of Grimmauld Place, but Hermione stopped jerkily at the door to her room as she watched Severus bend minutely and swipe a lock of hair out of her eyes with his long fingers before sweeping out the door.

Hermione couldn’t stand to sit in for the next few hours and listen to Memory Snape recant the attack and danger to the rest of the people in Grimmauld Place. It had been bad enough the first time, never mind the horror of watching her own reactions to his damning explanation of the danger Ron was in. Instead, Hermione slipped the pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of the Memory Snape and went forth to crouch on the porch steps of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. She laughed quietly to herself when she realized that by sneaking the cigarettes out of the deep pocket of his trench coat in the memory, the real Snape would be out of luck when he went to smoke later.

Hermione sat on the stairs, tugging the nightshirt around her knees – she had forgotten to change before entering the Pensieve – and twiddling a cigarette between her fingers. She certainly hadn’t actually intended to smoke any of the cigarettes she had stolen. In fact, she was only mildly aware of why she stole them. She needed to do something else, to be somewhere other than in that kitchen where Snape would be speaking for at least another few hours. She couldn’t take it. And when she had seen the pack sticking out of Snape’s pocket, it had just occurred to her to take it, and she didn’t fight it. She hadn’t intended to smoke, just allow herself a reason to escape the house. But seeing as how she had forgotten to steal his matches, it didn’t matter whether she intended to smoke anyhow.

“Incendio.”

Hermione turned to find Severus Snape looming above her as the cigarette dancing between her fingers lit itself.

Under her breath, she swore. Now she’d have to pretend to smoke. Out loud, she retorted in a fashion she thought befitting of his startling her. “But … but …,” she stammered gesturing into the house.

Snape sighed heavily. “Are you always this articulate?”

She ignored the insult and regrouped. “How am I talking to you? You didn’t come along with us. This isn’t part of the memory.”

“Of course not,” he growled, stemming the insistent flow of her questions and taking a seat next to her regardless of his annoyance. She jumped in earnest when he reached into her lap where her nightshirt pooled. He retrieved the pack of cigarettes from her lap, withdrew one, lit it with his wand and took a drag. “Dumbledore forced me to come back for ….” He stopped. “For the culmination of Mr. Weasley’s fate. He felt that I need to see it. As if seeing it once wasn’t enough.”

Hermione had no real response, so instead raised the cigarette he had lit for her which was going to ash in her inattentiveness. Despite her previous thoughts, she didn’t even bother with the pretense that she was actually going to smoke. Instead she merely sat, her cigarette burning itself out, and tried not to stare as continuous, serpentine curls issued from Snape’s elongated nostrils.

After a few moments, he flicked the cigarette away from the porch and stood. As she stubbed the rest of hers out – disregarding his chuckles that she hadn’t actually smoked it – he growled, “Those will kill you, you know.”

Hermione merely plastered her most syrupy simper across her face and said, saccharine sweet, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Snape smirked a trademark sneer that was all too genuine for her own comfort and swept back into the house, leaving her alone as the scenery swirled into blackness.

Hermione found herself standing apart from the rest of the group that was now surrounded on all sides by an ever-encroaching blackness. A few yards away, staring into the trees, was Snape. But then, with a loud snap! she also saw Snape standing before her, shrouded in a long, draping black robe and hood, a white porcelain mask dangling precariously from his fingers. As she watched in horror, he placed the mask over his face and tightened the hood around it, allowing the mask to stay in place without any visible clasps.

Snape the Death Eater moved into a growing circle that had formed around a bonfire. The forest around them seemed to be consciously leaning back out of their way as more and more Death Eaters Apparated into the clearing. Hermione squinted across the fifty or so yards between herself and a Death Eater that had just now apparated. He seemed to be dragging something … or someone …. Hermione ran, and she was conscious of the rest of the party hot on her heels. She skidded to a halt as she heard the smooth voice rise above the crowd.

“Comrades,” came the voice behind the hood and mask, “Countrymen, the first of a band of meddlers has been apprehended. And shall be dealt with forthwith. Ennervate.”

With the muttered charm, the heap at the Death Eater’s feet began to struggle in earnest. After a great twist and a familiar grunt, a shock of red hair became visible in the slim hand that jutted out from the sleeve of the thick black cloak.

“Malfoy, you bastard,” Ron’s voice echoed through the clearing. “Let me go this instant! You gutless son of a bitch!”

Ron thrashed and fought, wincing in pain, hollering in anger. The Death Eaters assembled in the clearing hooted with laughter, catcalling at Ron and shouting in glee. A flash of orange light and a small pop issued in front of the bonfire at the group’s center. As a figure rose out of the fire, the Death Eaters collapsed into prostrate bows.

The skeletal figure beneath the voluminous robes straightened as it walked towards the struggling pair not ten feet from where Hermione had stopped and stood, shaking. A bone-thin gray hand snaked out of the robes and touched lightly the top of Malfoy’s hooded head, bent in abject worship.

“Rise, Lucius,” Voldemort spoke quietly, “and do inform me what we have here.”

Malfoy stood straight and yanked Ron to a kneeling crouch. “The miserable mudblood-lover that has been standing in my way, milord.”

“Ah yes,” Voldemort slickly replied, “the abominable marriage law. The Minister is again encroaching upon my plans. Why is this miserable excuse for a wizard important to me, Lucius?”

“Well, milord,” Lucius began, his voice distinctly panicked, “in my family’s attempt to appear law-abiding, I petitioned for the hand of a particularly bright – if annoying – mudblood. In order to … breed a line of brilliant children to serve the Dark Lord, of course.”

Voldemort sneered beneath the hood that shadowed his eyes. “And this has nothing to do with your vain attempt to reinvigorate a weakening gene pool, does it?” Voldemort smirked again, while Lucius lowered his head in humiliation.

“Succinct as always, milord,” Malfoy responded, but Hermione could hear the humiliation and barely restrained anger in his voice.

“Why should this boy be a purpose for a revel, Lucius? I do not appreciate a waste of my valuable time.”

At this point, something brushed past Hermione. She noticed a sweep of black robes and a familiar hook to the front of the white mask. “This is Ronald Weasley, milord. His fate could prove most profitable to us.”

Voldemort whirled quickly to regard Snape. Despite the continued humility and fear of the rest of the collection of Death Eaters, Snape’s body was unbowed. And though Voldemort was currently regarding him with a stare of utmost annoyance at his impertinence, the Dark Lord made no remark at his posture.

“I did not direct this question to you, Severus. Your loyal service at present has not yet overshadowed the betrayal and incompetence of the past. You are in no position to try my patience.”

“Forgive me, my Lord,” he replied strongly, “but I merely wish to illuminate more on the lucrative position which we currently find ourselves in.”

Voldemort regarded him again for a moment, clearly warring with his instincts to hear Severus out or punish him for his intrusion. “Explain,” he responded shortly.

Hermione’s eyes were glued to Snape’s face; her ears seemed to ring with the effort she was now using to concentrate on the deep reverberations of Professor Snape’s voice.

“Well, my Lord, Weasley is a student of mine, and I can tell you for a fact that he is Potter’s closest confidante. It could prove truly profitable to have Weasley in our possession to tap him for information. Who knows? The mudblood lover could even prove to have the key to Potter’s downfall.”

Snape looked down to where Ron had stopped struggling beneath Lucius’s grip. Ron was staring back up into Snape’s eyes, his hazel ones burning with a sort of vindicated hatred. Hermione understood in that moment that this was the backstabbing retaliation that Ron had been expecting out of Snape for seven years. There was a sick swooping sensation in her stomach as she longed to yell to Ron that he was wrong. She didn’t know exactly know how she knew she was wrong; in fact, it had been the exact conclusion that Hermione had come to earlier. However, something in her was screaming now that Snape was not at fault.

But Snape’s face revealed nothing as he stared down. He then swept his eyes back to Voldemort, who had been watching the whole incident, his eyes still shadowed by his hood. “Severus would save him,” Voldemort said, addressing the crowd of Death Eaters, who were now standing straight and laughing nervously. He lowered his voice again and whispered, “And what would you suggest we do with him Lucius?”

“Well, milord, the boy is standing in the way of my plan. Miss Granger, whom I petitioned for Draco, is engaged to this boy. I have it on good authority that Potter would have petitioned for Granger himself, had he been allowed. Granger is supposedly Potter’s girlfriend.”

Hermione laughed a sick sort of giggle at the idea that Malfoy somehow knew Harry’s feelings and supposed her to be his girlfriend. At that moment, she noticed Harry standing only a few yards away, his face twisting in hurt at her laugh. She moved to explain herself, to wipe away that look of disappointed betrayal, but was caught back by Malfoy’s words.

“If I have my way, Granger would be forced to marry Draco. That way we would have all the assets of information against Potter without the hassles of Weasley.”

“Hassles?” Voldemort questioned, his mouth – the only feature visible on his face in the waning light – twisting into a gut-wrenching smirk. He knew what was coming next.

“Well, the hassle of keeping Weasley alive of course. With the laws of obedience in wizarding marriages, Granger would be under our control of discretion. With Weasley, it would be necessary to keep someone guarding him at all times. Eliminating his intrusion would allow us to welcome Granger into the fold with little effort.”

“So you’re suggesting we kill the boy in lieu of your son marrying Potter’s intended?”

“Yes, milord,” Lucius replied, bowing. “It would be simpler.”

Hermione sucked in breath as she prayed fervently for a quick, painless death for Ron. She knew now that it was out of the question to think that this was all going to end differently.

“Fine Lucius, his life is yours,” Voldemort decreed. Voldemort then very slowly raised his arms and lowered the hood surrounding his head. With the thin, craggy features of his skull now visible, Ron drew a horrified gasp. Voldemort bent slowly and purposely to place his hands around Ron’s face and force him to look into the serpentine eyes. Ron cried out as if the fingertips were burning his skin, but stared back into the reddening eyes.

“Make sure to show him how much Lord Voldemort dislikes meddling.”

Hermione heard Harry swear loudly behind her, Mrs. Weasley and Ginny start sobbing somewhere in the distance, and felt her own heart throb within her chest. Ron had suffered. And greatly, if she was not mistaken.

Lucius Malfoy carefully took down his mask. For what seemed like hours, Hermione and Harry – who had come up beside her and slipped his hand into hers – watched in horror as Lucius used the Cruciatus on Ron. Hermione lost count at fifteen curses and could barely focus her eyes through the tears pouring in rivers across her face. She buried her head in Harry’s shoulder, as he stared on stoically, as if he owed it to Ron. After a while, Ron’s screams no longer drowned out the hysterical sobbing of the party she was with, which of course went unheard by the players in the horrible dance.

Intermittently, Hermione heard Lucius yell questions to Ron. She could only assume that he was checking to see if Ron had run mad with the torture. When his answers were no longer speech and had merged into incomprehensible sobbing, she looked up to see the Snape of the present standing behind the Death Eater-berobed version of himself, who was now entreating Malfoy to stop.

“Come now, Lucius,” he was saying, “if you do not give him time to recover from the first curse, it will dull him to the new.”

Hermione watched the face of Snape, not the one of the memory, but that of the watching man from her time. His features were slipping from the mask of indifference and starting to twist in self-depreciating horror. Hermione was suddenly caught by the noises coming from Ron’s twisting form.

“Mum …” he was mumbling, “Mum I’m sorry …I didn’t mean it …”

Hermione was sobbing again, concluding that Ron had indeed run mad and was now recalling a childhood scolding. She was resigned to his insanity until she heard another sound.

“Hermione …” he sobbed.

She felt her whole body tense.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Lucius, he’s sobbing for his beloved. Must we endure this ridiculous display?” Snape had spat it with disgust. Hermione wrenched from Harry’s grip to crouch over Ron’s battered, sobbing form. She knew he couldn’t feel it, but she wrapped her arms around his agonized face. Memory Snape glared disdainfully at Malfoy and then stood above Ron.

“Pitiful, Weasley. You know that? You’re pitiful.”

Suddenly, Ron stopped writhing and looked into Severus’ face, still swathed in his mask. Hermione guessed that at her close proximity she was most likely the only one who could see the twitch that ran the length of Snape’s body. Suddenly, he crouched down so he was only a foot or two away from Ron’s face and removed his mask and hood.

“Lucius,” he called, his voice shaky. Hermione had a feeling it was only shaky now, here, near to Ron. “This bores me. I tire of his suffering. This torture of Weasley is only your lip-service attempt at impressing of the Dark Lord. We end this now.”

Severus made to stand up, but before he did, he whispered furiously. “I pity you, Weasley. Do you understand? I pity you.”

For a moment – one shining moment that made Hermione’s heart lift a scant inch – Ron’s eyes emptied of their glaze and his face had an unblemished moment of clarity. Whatever it was that Snape meant by offering his pity (Hermione was not sure), Ron had understood. And as Snape stood to raise his wand for the green light that would encompass his student, Ronald Weasley’s eighteen-year-old face melted into serenity.

As Snape straightened up, however, Ron jerked up and sank his grip into the front of Snape’s robes.

“Hermione,” he squeaked in panic.

Snape, fear sliding under the coating of indifference on his face, shook his robes to try to loosen Ron’s grip. His fingers tore holes in the front of Snape’s robes, but before he let go, he yanked until Snape was jerked down to Ron’s face.

“Tell her I love her,” Ron whispered.

Hermione broke into sobs as Ron eased his grip; Snape painted his face with an appropriate level of disgust for the Death Eater role, and leveled his wand. Only Hermione noticed that Snape closed his eyes as he spoke the words that caused her stomach to drop away.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Hermione tried desperately to hold onto Ron’s body throughout the end of the revel. She kept her arms around him as the Weasleys filed up – Snape and the other Death Eaters had completely abandoned his body as they finished up the revel. The entire watching party filed up and bent around Ron’s body. Hermione’s eyes were the only ones that stayed dry. Bill, Charlie, Fred and George were huddled together. Ginny bent and laid a kiss on Ron’s forehead. Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears and collapsed at his feet. Even though she knew that Mrs. Weasley could no more feel his body than Hermione could, Mrs. Weasley pressed her hand to Ron’s cheek and blessed her “baby boy” as Arthur knelt beside her.

After they said their goodbyes, the party dissipated. She knew that they had gone with Dumbledore to the ‘real world’ outside the Pensieve. Hermione, however, stayed. She walked beside the real life Snape, silent as they watched the Death Eater Snape wait for all to leave, bend to pick up Ron Weasley’s finally still body and Apparate away from the site of the revel.

As the memory swirled to reveal a different location, she looked around to realize that she was the only one who had stayed to watch the Death Eater Snape of the memory bury Ronald Weasley with a crude, handmade marker, beneath the Whomping Willow shrouded in the stretching shadow of the castle at Hogwarts.

A/N - *ducks and covers her head* Okay, okay, so I know that many, many, MANY of you will probably flame me so bad my children will have psoriasis for killing Ron. I'm sorry. I know. But it had to be done. I don't know if you do/will understand, but it had to be done. The story wants what the story wants. And even if you’re pissed at me for killing Ron, please keep reading, it will get better.

Lots of love to everybody, THANKS FOR REVIEWING AND FOR FOLLOWING MY STORY!!!