fifty-eight ~ sixty-five

    The waning moon gave just enough light for Hermione to find her way as she sought the cliffs. Not the rock bridge— that would be deliberately suicidal— but a hollow near the edge; cross-legged, she gazed out at the liquid black sea.

    Harry had told them of Snape's memories. He'd said nothing of calculating manipulation. But would he have? Hermione didn't know. Could she trust Snape's version of events? He'd seemed sincere, but he was a spy, a consummate actor. And why had he confided in her?

    How could she trust him when she no longer even trusted herself?

~~~

    He listened to the gusting wind— thick repetition of rattling windows, susurration of shifting grasses. Hermione had left; he wondered if he'd handled her correctly. But ambiguity would have been misleading, and she was already bidding fair to become emotional about him. Something he should have forseen. A humourless huff of laughter. Something he'd never have expected. After all, who had ever cared about him? All she felt was some form of Nightingale syndrome or hero worship. It wouldn't last.

    She cared enough to find you. He ignored the thought and returned to not-listening for the sound of the door.

~~~

    Well, why shouldn't I? The thought swept through her mind, bringing her to her feet to pace the cliffs. Why shouldn't she trust herself? She'd kept herself and her friends alive. She'd survived Her— Bellatrix's— cruelty. She'd kept faith with her comrades. They'd kept faith with her. Even Snape. And even he, miles beyond her in intrigue, admitted to being duped by Dumbledore.

    Besides, she thought with some humour, her cat was an infallible judge of character. He hadn't objected to her. Nor to Snape, confirming her own judgment. Dumbledore, she realized, had avoided Crookshanks.

    Why shouldn't she trust herself?

~~~

    Too much damned silence. Never mind the bloody wind; he was used to that. Severus tossed back his bedclothes. The interior silence was deafening. He didn't even hear that damned owl hooting.

    He grumbled sourly to himself as he paced into the kitchen, prepared to make a pot of tea. Bloody awful packet tea, at that. Even Hogwarts elves used looseleaf.

    No noise except his own.

    Habit, he told himself. He'd always had listening spells keyed to the Slytherin dorm. He missed the constant low buzz of adolescent noise.

    He conveniently forgot he'd been sleeping perfectly well for several weeks.

~~~

    There were things she couldn't do. She knew that. In her head, anyway. She'd always had trouble accepting it, even when circumstances beat her over the head with it. She knew that, too, when she bothered to remember. But she'd always been so successful, for so long, that failure hurt her, far more than other people, she imagined. Hermione Granger was a genius; Hermione Granger wasn't allowed to fail.

    And she had, spectacularly. Being captured, and tortured, and not saving her friends… Fundamental failures, far greater than a failed exam. But did that mean she should doubt everything she did?

~~~

    His mind drifted to Hogwarts. He didn't like children; he knew every drop of nastiness that 'childhood innocence' masked. Adults turned childhood into some golden age, conveniently forgetting the bullying and sheer, self-centred cruelty.

    Still… there were a few— precious few— brilliant lights worth protecting. Lupin had become one, genuinely good, honestly innocent without naïveté. And— eventually— willing to stand up for right. Honoria Lightwand… a student ten years gone. He'd found her a position in Cathay; she was so gentle, her soul would have died in this war even if she survived. And now Granger, teetering on that edge…

~~~

    Hermione continued to pace, working through the tangles of events in her mind, ordering and reordering everything she knew, everything she remembered. Realigning it with memories Harry had shared, knowledge Severus had given her. Picking and pulling and teasing out her place in events— something she'd refused to do, telling herself the war was over and what was, was. Brooding over it changed nothing, she'd told herself, it merely encouraged the melancholia that surrounded her.

    No-one else seemed to need to relive events in order to cope. They simply celebrated the victory.

    But now, perhaps… perhaps it might help.

~~~

    The first glimmerings of light on the water startled Hermione, who glanced up to see the sun's rim burning over the horizon. She'd been walking the cliffs most of the night, she realised. Blinking, she looked around to see where she was. Or, actually, where she wasn't. She must've walked miles in the dark; she'd never turned around and never stopped. She was probably lucky she hadn't twisted her ankle. But… she felt better. Better than she had in ages. It was time to go home.

    Hermione eyed her surroundings. Home was at the end of a bloody long walk.