Chapter Seven

"It was so cold and rainy in Ireland, I nearly froze my cods off," said RCMC Director Marcus Thoreau cheerfully, inviting Hermione to sit on the visitor's chair in his cluttered office. He offered her a cigarette, and when she declined, lit one for himself and sat back, bluish grey smoke trickling from his nostrils like a sleeping dragon's.

Thoreau had just returned from an extensive field trip along the windy northern coast of Ireland, travel-stained and completely knackered. At first, he had found it difficult to reconcile seeing Hermione assigned to his department. There were many reasons, not the least of which was prejudice against her inferior blood status. The idea that the Minister's pet Mudblood was meant to loiter about his domain, taking up space and disrupting the other staff, made him grouchy and resentful. But after a few days, he noticed she was distinctly not a disruption, and that she actually seemed to want to pull her own weight. His attitude became much friendlier toward her, though he still tended to make disparaging remarks about Muggleborns when he forgot who he was talking to.

"There was a rumor of heightened activity among the banshees along the Giant's Causeway," he continued. "A whole load of 'em, seen leaving the coast. Floating on charmed doors, of all things. That's one of the reasons I traveled up that far. Nothing much on paper...just one blip in one report...but eventually I had to go and check it out."

"I know," she replied. "I read the report."

That stopped him. "You did?" She nodded. "Nobody reads the reports," he mused, surprise colouring his voice.

She shrugged. "I like to read. Besides, what else do I have to do?"

"Hmm. Well, when I got there, the bloke who wrote the report...Tankersley...hadn't the faintest notion what I was on about. Didn't remember writing the bit he wrote about a ruddy big group of banshees sailing away on doors. As if you could forget such a sight! He must've been drinking. We went 'round to visit the largest of the banshee communities and found no changes in the population, so there you are."

He took a drag. "It wouldn't matter in the long run...nobody cares if we have fifty banshees in Ireland or five hundred, particularly not the Ministry. But it's the department's job to keep track of them, so that's what we do."

He stubbed out his cigarette with a quick motion. Tipping back in his squeaky chair, he crossed his boots on his desk and eyed her with new interest. "All right, Miss Granger, if you're serious about wanting to keep busy, there're plenty of reports 'round here to file. Rangers like to write reports. It's what they do. Let's face it, there's fuck-all to do up on Derrywarragh Island besides write reports and pull the local girls."

Thoreau explained that after the blood purges, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had become severely short staffed. RCMC field researchers, called rangers, had simply failed to show up to work from one day to the next. The few rangers who remained had had to take over territories vacated by former colleagues.

Hermione bristled at the casual annoyance in Thoreau's voice. He made it sound as if his half-blood and Muggleborn rangers had skived off their jobs instead of being forced into hiding or imprisoned by the Ministry on account of their blood status.

"Nowadays, with almost everyone out in the field, very few rangers check in here at base. Even I have to fly up and spend a great deal of time in the northern territories, doing admin, that sort of thing." He gestured to the stack of parchment on his desk. "And so all these reports tend to pile up without someone competent to file them." He grinned. "I mean, we have June, of course, but I've never trusted she knows her way around an Alphabet Charm. Great old bird, but sometimes I wonder how far they climbed up her family tree, if you know what I..."

Hermione stood abruptly, chest heaving. "Mr. Thoreau. I'd like to remind you I'm Muggleborn myself, and I don't appreciate the way you're talking."

Thoreau waved his hands in supplication. "Now, now, Missy! I meant no offense. I like June. She's brilliant at what she does." He gestured to her chair. "Please, please sit down. I didn't mean anything by it." Unmollified, Hermione resumed her seat, staring hard at Thoreau, who suddenly appeared to want to hurry his story along.

"Anyway there are boxes of field reports and no one to file them. I'd like you to figure out the system we used before, or set up a better one, and help us get organized."

She saw she'd flustered him badly; the new, Slytherin part of her heart wondered how she could use it to her advantage. She deliberately softened her expression. "Of course, Mr. Thoreau, I'm here to help, whenever I'm not making appearances on behalf of the Minister." An idea came to her. "But I know I could be more useful if I knew my way around the building better. I once heard there's a second, secret entrance to this department, but I've never known where it is. I've asked...certain staff members, but nobody in the department seems to have a clue what I'm talking about."

Thoreau grinned again, appearing to be relieved that he and Hermione were finally on friendly terms. "That's because it's secret! It keeps disappearing. It's charmed that way. I don't remember exactly why." He regarded her a moment. "Only senior staff are supposed to use it, but with you working for the Minister, I expect you qualify as such.

"What you do is, you look for a transom in the wall...a transom without a door. Kind of odd, yeah? When the transom appears, walk right underneath it and say 'Chalk Farm.' The door'll appear and take you right straight to the file room. Don't go and wander now! It'd be easy for a Mud..." he caught himself, "a young person like yourself to lose her head and get lost." He stood and extended his hand. She rose and accepted his friendly handshake. "Right. Off you go, Miss Granger."

Hermione laid down the banshee report after a second read-through. In her opinion, Tankersley's sudden amnesia concerning his peculiar sighting along the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland sounded very much like the effects of an Obliviate. Hermione had had more than her share of practical experience with them when she traveled for the better part of a year with Harry Potter. By contrast, she didn't think Thoreau would have had much occasion to become familiar with Obliviates during a career spent counting Jarveys.

But if she was right, who would Obliviate a man over the sight of a lot of banshees riding the waves on magical doors? Unless...she flipped through the pages of the report again. Unless Tankersley hadn't seen banshees at all, but something else...something concerning people. And when he had been discovered, his memory had been wiped, and then this report had been altered for good measure, changing it from incriminating to merely amusing.

She rubbed her fingers across the print. It sounded daft, like nothing more than a conspiracy theory. There was no way to prove such a thing. Still, the idea gnawed at her. She wished it were true; she really could use an ally against the Ministry right about now.

Walking back from the loo the next day, she finally spied the department's transom. The rectangular window was set in the wall, high above a lurid pink motivational poster. She hurried over to it, checking to see she was unobserved.

"Chalk Farm," Hermione whispered to the garish poster. For a moment, nothing happened. She started to think Thoreau must have been playing a joke on her, and that she would turn and see him standing there, wearing his insufferable grin. But then she blinked to see a nearly-invisible outline of a door before her. She instinctively groped the wall where a doorknob would be and felt a cold brass knob in her hand.

"Holy Merlin," she breathed. She twisted the knob and pulled. The door opened. She scooted inside.

She found herself in a pokey corridor, slightly curved and dimly lit. The only light seeped in from transoms above a row of doors along one side. The door Hermione had just come from was visible from this side, and had a transom of its own set above it with the words "Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures" painted on the dusty glass.

It was still too dark to see clearly. A whispered Lumos gave her confidence to proceed. She quickly found the door to the file room, but continued down the hall until she understood the layout. The hallway appeared to encircle this entire floor of the Ministry. There was even a very cobwebby stairwell in a dark alcove. Using this hallway...and possibly connecting ones...she would not have to be seen coming and going by way of the elevators or the more populated central halls.

Excitement gripped her. This corridor would be the key to searching the Ministry for Headmaster Everard's portrait unmolested.

"Oh, Mr. Thoreau," she whispered aloud, "You're a complete arse, but you've been as generous as Father Christmas."

She spent an hour exploring the circular hallways and stairwells until she felt she knew her way around the periphery of the building. She managed to scoot into the RCMC file room seconds before Draco made his customary morning appearance.

"Granger, didn't you get the owl? You don't actually have to work at this job." Draco laughed from the door of the file room as he took in Hermione's dishevelled appearance.

She stood waist-deep in files, pretending to be overwhelmed by a daunting task. "Yes, well, all I meant to do was start filing these reports by location, cross-tabulating them by date... but then I got to reading, and..."

"Say no more...Hermione Granger got interested," he smirked.

"Right in one." She rubbed her eye with the back of her hand. "I'm hungry. What time is it?"

"Time to skive off and come with me. We'll have lunch at the Leaky. There's going to be an auction at Diagon Alley afterward, and..."

"Oh, no, Draco, not another auction." Hermione had attended the last one and regretted every moment. The Ministry occasionally shucked off excess spoils of war from the raided homes of Wizarding families who had either been incarcerated or had fled persecution. Furniture, portraits, jewelry and heirlooms...even the occasional house-elf, much to her chagrin...were sold to the highest bidder, the proceeds going to Voldemort Academy. She found it worse than sick.

Draco slid to her side. "Please, darling, say you'll go," he wheedled. "I need a second to save my seat while I bundle up my spoils. It's better when there's a second. Please say you'll go."

"All right," she relented. "Let me get my bag..."

Wordlessly, he handed over her purse, having already retrieved it. She gave a half-laugh as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and started off. With his other hand, he reached over and plucked something out of her hair. "Hermione, why are you all cobwebby?" he asked, throwing an apprehensive glance at the ceiling.

"Lot Number 93," droned the auctioneer. "Please refer to your catalogues. Ceramic busts, schoolbooks and implements, jewelry, a wand holster, a metal box, various furnishings from the Longbottom estate."

The name 'Longbottom' hit her like a punch in the gut. Neville. Wistfully, she let her eye wander over the furnishing and accessories that had belonged to his family. She recognised many of the schoolbooks, but not much else...

At the sight of the small wooden desk box, her heart leapt in her chest and she felt a huge wave of emotion, which she rode out, breathing evenly so as not to draw attention to herself. She knew that box, with its dark wood and its brass fittings...knew it like the back of her hand. How often had she seen it at Grimmauld Place? It was an antique piece, charmed to work only for its owner...or owners, as the case may be. Anyone could open the box and would see nothing unusual inside. But the box's owner need only place his thumb upon the catch, whisper a wandless spell, and the box would open to reveal its true contents. It had once belonged to Mad-Eye Moody. He had keyed it to the blood of each member of the Order. They used to keep important papers inside, shared by members when they stopped by...updates, maps, lists of names, Apparation points, and so forth.

The night the Ministry fell, she, Harry and Ron had fled the Burrow and taken up residence in Grimmauld Place, they had immediately noticed the box was missing. They assumed it had been stolen by Mundungus Fletcher, along with so many other valuables. And now it was here, having arrived by who-knew-what means, and it was about to be sold to the highest bidder.

"Bidding will begin at 50 Galleons for this antique silver ladies wand holster."

Draco sat beside her, absorbed in a lengthy catalog of the day's merchandise. "Blaise thinks we should get a house-elf," he mused, "and our parents all refuse to part with one of theirs. Don't go spare on me, Granger, but I see one here that..."

She took a deep breath and threw herself into her next role. "Draco," she began with a teasing tone, "You dragged me all the way here. Now I want you to use your hefty salary for a worthy cause and buy me something for a change. Buy me..." she cast her eye around... "that bust of Nimue."

"Hmm? Nimue?" He looked toward where she pointed and lifted one eyebrow at the sight of an ancient-looking ceramic bust of indeterminate color. Whatever facial animation charm had originally been laid within it was nearly used up. Now it only winked fitfully, as if it had something in its eye.

"Granger, really," he scoffed, clearly enjoying himself.

"And also that box," she added with an impulsive air.

"Your taste in household accessories is shite, Granger," he informed her delightedly. "You know what? It would serve you right if I did buy you that junk to clutter your flat. You can use the box to store your sex toys." And before she knew it, he had proceeded to bid exorbitantly and win both pieces for her. Five minutes later, she was clutching both the box and the ceramic bust to her chest, her heart beating with a slightly lopsided air.

Severus entered the Janus Thickey Ward feeling jaded and used. He'd been at Lucius' beck and call all day, serving as nothing more than the Minister's scratching post as he made his crosspatch way through stacks of legal documentation on the latest diplomatic defection, Austria.

After three hours of work, only to find the whole thing to be a misunderstanding and a translation error, Severus had finally disentangled himself from Lucius' clutches, but the resulting clusterfuck had made him several hours late for his usual visit with Ronald Weasley. The ancient clock ticking in the nurses' station chimed nine times, and Severus swore under his breath. He was very late, and changes in routine and schedule were not only disorientating to a patient like Weasley, but unkind as well.

He saw Medi-witch Tickle on her rounds. She waved him over. "Ron's been a bit down today, Your Excellency," she said, her face grave. "He'll appreciate a game, I'm sure."

Severus merely nodded, and knocked on the door. The voice that answered sounded as cheerful as usual, and he entered the room of his former student.

"Hello, Professor," Ron said, his open, somewhat puzzled smile firmly in place.

"I apologise, Mr. Weasley, for the late hour," Severus began. "I was unable to come sooner."

"That's okay. I just figured you were giving a detention, sir. I hope it wasn't a Gryffindor." He laughed shortly. "We can't afford to lose too many more points."

Severus felt a pang of loss. Hogwarts had been his home, and had fallen on his watch. It hurt right to the bone to answer, "No, Mr. Weasley, I can state with absolute certainty that no Gryffindor points were taken."

His sunny smile returned. "Brilliant! We'll get that House cup again, you'll see!" His smile faded. "I meant no offence to your House, sir. I was just joking, of course."

Severus held up a hand. "None taken." As the young man relaxed, Severus cast about, trying to find a way to restore some semblance of normality to the visit. "I've brought my chess pieces, if you'd like to play a game."

Ron nodded. "Sure, Professor. I'll let you have another chance to let me beat you," he replied, without his usual enthusiasm.

Instead of playing with his usual fierce concentration, Ron was distracted, troubled; what was left of his mind clearly elsewhere. When Severus took Ron's queen in a move that was more sheer luck than skill, Ron could only look on in dismay as Severus removed the piece from the board.

"How on earth did I allow that?" he asked himself, a line of concern creasing his smooth brow.

Severus waved a dismissive hand. "An unlucky move, Mr. Weasley. But I'm sure you will redeem yourself. I seem to recall your penchant for using your knights to your best advantage."

Ron looked pensively at the captured queen. He picked it up and cradled it in his palm. "My queen. I've lost my queen." The light of lucidity left his eyes, and Ron stared ahead. "And the Queen lost her Prince."

At the mention of his mother's maiden name, Severus eyed the younger man keenly, but Ron was staring forlornly at the vanquished chess piece. Uneasy, he tapped the back of Ron's hand with an impatient finger. Sometimes that jogged him out of his fugue state. "I believe it is your move, Mr. Weasley."

Ron looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry she lost you." Tears came to his eyes. "It hurt so much to see her like that." He laid the queen onto the table gently, almost reverently. "I couldn't comfort her. Nothing I did or said helped." His mild face contorted in anger. "I wanted to kill Snape for what he'd done to her, but I couldn't, could I?"

Severus froze. "What did Snape do to her?" he asked, his voice as calm as if naming his next move.

"She made me swear never to tell!" Ron said, becoming agitated. "I thought when I bailed on you two, that you'd done it then. But she told me the truth. It was Snape's, the bastard."

"Ron," Severus said, his voice urgent, a terrible thought forming in his mind, "I know you promised her you would never tell, but I really need you to tell me what happened. That way, you and I can help her together."

Concern and devotion shone in Ron's expression, and he laid a comforting arm on Severus' shoulder. "She came to see me a few days ago, Harry. I thought she was a ghost like you, but the more I think on it, I'm pretty sure she was real."

The thought grew into realisation, but still, Severus had to hear the name. "Who, Ron?"

"Hermione, of course," Ron replied, his tone reproachful. Severus felt his skin crawl with fear. Ron sighed, his face full of regret. "Do you remember the night we got caught by the Snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor?" Hesitantly Severus nodded. He had never known the three of them were taken to Malfoy Manor at any time during the war.

Satisfied, Ron continued. "You remember how Bellatrix Lestrange tortured Hermione?" Ron closed his eyes, and suddenly looked toward the ceiling. Severus realised the boy was fighting tears. "I can still hear her screaming." He put his hands over his ears to block out the sound, and a tear rolled down his freckled cheek. "She was begging and begging and screaming, and that bitch was laughing and giving Hermione Crucio after Crucio..."

Severus felt his gut churn sickeningly. He hadn't known. Hermione, tortured by Bellatrix. Gods, why did it have to be Hermione? Guilt and anger warred with his fear, along with a razor-sharp urge to kill Bella, but he mastered his emotions with his indomitable will. Hermione would not, or could not accept his comfort now. The boy before him was suffering; Severus could at least offer some ease to him. He reached out to place a hand on Ron's shoulder, and was not surprised that his hand trembled. "It is alright, Ron."

With a sob, Ron shook his head. "I still hear it in my dreams. Sometimes I think it's still happening..." he drifted off, idly playing with a pawn. For a moment, the younger man was silent. Then he wiped his eyes. "When Dobby rescued us and took us back to the cottage, you stayed outside and dug Dobby's grave, remember?"

"Of course." Severus leaned forward, wondering when this had happened. It must have been before the trio had gone on their mysterious and pointless raid on Gringott's. "Did something happen while I was burying Dobby?"

Ron nodded. "Hermione was lying in bed. I was holding her hand, and she was crying. She was in so much pain, you know, from the Crucio." The boy was shivering. "Suddenly she just started screaming, and..." Ron closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself, as if protecting his vulnerable underbelly. "Oh gods, Harry, she was bleeding! Blood everywhere. I thought she was hemorrhaging, dying right before my very eyes."

Severus felt his own blood run cold. Oh gods...

"I called for Fleur, and she took one look and told me to get Bill. Hermione was screaming and doubled over and Fleur was trying to hold her still and Bill made me leave and even outside the door I could hear her until Bill cast a Silencing Spell."

Ron stopped, and closed his eyes, rocking back and forth like a child. "A little while later they came out of Hermione's room. They looked awful. Fleur had been crying. Bill was holding her. I thought Hermione was dead!" He choked, sobbing.

Severus quickly cast an Aguamenti into a glass sitting on Ron's nightstand. "Drink this," he said, and Ron obeyed him instantly. After a moment, he calmed enough to continue.

"Well, I was going spare, wasn't I? You were outside, and I ran to Fleur and begged her to tell me what was going on. 'Hermione's dead, isn't she?' I said, trying to be brave or some daft shite, and she shook her head."

Severus knew. Oh gods, he knew what Weasley was going to say. Please, not this. Anything, anything but this...

Ron gulped. "I ran into her room. I could hear Fleur shouting for me not to, but that was Hermione, you know? If it had been either one of us, you know she would have gone through You-Know-Who himself to get to us."

Severus nodded numbly. She would have.

"I ran into her room," continued Ron, "And she was lying there crying, holding her stomach. She just kept saying, 'I lost him, oh gods, I've lost the the only part of you I'll ever have...'"

Ron shook his head, his eyes losing that far-away look. "But she wasn't talking to me. She was so upset she didn't even know I was in the room. I sat by her bed, and said, 'you'll be alright.' or some such rubbish, and she said, 'You don't understand, Ron.'"

Severus felt his stomach clench almost to the point of cramping. Don't say it, Weasley, please don't say it...

"I knew what she meant then," Ron said, tears running down his pale cheeks. He looked at Severus imploringly. "Harry, Hermione had been pregnant. Bellatrix Lestrange made her lose the baby."

I am stone, Severus told himself, sitting beside the weeping boy. I have sat by and watched innocents die. This is the penance I must bear for wanting her to bear my - I am stone...

Ron continued, sobbing. "All I could feel was anger. I thought you and she had done it before I came back in December. I was ready to walk out of that room and find you and beat the crap out of you, and I told Hermione I would!" His expression turned to revulsion. "But I realised that it couldn't have been. She would have been showing, and she wasn't. And that's when she told me. Harry, it was Snape's baby!"

Ron dropped his head and wept. "I asked when did it happen, and she said in February." He shook his head miserably. "I asked her if somehow Snape had forced her...you know, raped her." He looked at Severus imploringly. "But she kept saying, 'No! He didn't force me. I wanted him.' Do you know how hard it is to listen to the woman you love talk about another man like that?"

Merlin forgive me, boy, Severus thought. I do know. I do.

"Harry, while we were on the run, Hermione and Snape got together, and she got pregnant! It nearly killed her when she lost that baby. I remember her crying like her heart would break. She said the last time she'd seen him, they had an awful row, and he'd left her. He'd said some harsh things, I guess, but you know Hermione," Ron said, his tone both imploring and proud. "She doesn't turn her back on people she loves. I mean, look how she forgave me for scarpering on you two." He shook his head. "She was in love with him, and he broke her heart."

Severus sat as still as possible. Within, he felt himself splitting, as if his soul were fragmenting, splintering apart, never to feel whole again. He had spurned her with all the anger and bitterness in his blackened soul and left her crying in a squalid little motel in Shepherd's Bush – and all the while with his seed nestled safe and warm in his little lioness' womb. And he left her to fend for herself with the one thing he'd wanted all along...his child growing in her ripe and fertile body.

If she had given birth and acknowledged him as the father, he would have been able to save her from Azkaban; the concubine of one of the Dark Lord's chosen would not be left to languish in that hell. She would have been his, and he would have held his child, and together they could have had something decent in their lives. But Bellatrix Lestrange had killed it. That she had not been aware of its existence was inconsequential; had she known Hermione was pregnant, she would have carved the fetus out of Hermione's womb just to spite Severus.

But he was just as guilty as Bellatrix, wasn't he? His rejection and dismissal had hurt Hermione far worse than Bella's Crucio. He had been a fool once again, only this time it wasn't the sore ego of a seventeen year-old boy that was bruised, it was the heart of a loving and deserving witch.

Ron sniffed, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Harry, I was so bloody angry. I was ready to find Snape and kill him then and there, but Hermione, well, you know how she is. Even as upset as she was, she kept her head. She begged me to stay with her. And she got hysterical when I mentioned telling you. 'I can't burden Harry with this!' she said. 'Not now. Not ever.' And then she made me go and get Fleur, Harry. She..." Ron shuddered. "Harry, she made me make an Unbreakable Vow. I didn't want to, but Fleur agreed with Hermione, and you know me." He suddenly blushed, and sheepishly added, "I never could say no to Fleur. She agreed to be the Vow caster."

He closed his eyes and recited, "'I, Ronald Bilius Weasley, do vow that I will never reveal to Harry James Potter that Hermione Jean Granger was impregnated by and miscarried a child conceived with Severus Snape. As long as we three are all alive, I will never reveal this secret...'" Ron's voice caught. With a gasp of panic, he stared at Severus in horror. "Oh gods, Harry, I've just broken an Unbreakable Vow! I swore to never tell you as long as you lived..."

He grew so still Severus could not hear him breathe. "Wait. I can't have told you. I'd be dead! You can't be Harry, or I'd be dead..." He jumped from his chair so quickly it fell backwards with a deafening clang. "You're not Harry!" He cried out hoarsely, looking at Severus as if trying to see him through the fog of madness rolling in behind his eyes.

Severus stood to go. "I think it's time you rested, Mr. Weasley," he said, reaching to take the younger man's hand. Ron jerked away from him as if his touch burned.

"Get away from me! You're not Harry! You're..."

The madness left him, and in Weasley's face, Severus could see his pale face reflected in Ron's wide, staring eyes. He backed away and choked out, "You! You heartless bastard, you tricked me! You sneaking, thieving bastard!"

Suddenly Ron lunged for Severus, who quickly stepped out of the way. "Mr. Weasley!" he cried out. "Calm down!"

Medi-witch Tickle and a male orderly, alerted by the noise, burst in, but Ron was beyond talking down. He snarled as he reached for Severus' throat, spitting in hate. "You tricked me! You bastard! You ruined her! You broke Hermione's heart! You made her love you and you broke her heart!"

Tickle threw a Binding Spell toward Ron, but the younger man managed to dodge it. Rage and madness gave him wings, and he darted around Severus, looking for a fresh hold on his opponent. "Why'd you come here? To have a laugh at the crazy man? To gloat? To remind me of what you did? To hurt her some more? You broke her heart! You destroy every fucking thing you touch, Snape!"

"Petrificus Totalus!" This time the spell hit home, and the orderly caught Ron as he fell, petrified, to the floor. As the hospital staff levitated the younger man to his bed, Severus could barely meet the reproachful, hate-filled gaze that glowered at him from the frozen face.

The Medi-witch managed to release the Petrificus long enough to force Ron to take a Calming Draught, and gradually, he grew slack enough to cancel the spell entirely.

"Thank you, Miss Tickle," Severus said, panting slightly from his exertions. "I believe everything is under control." He finally convinced the woman to give him a few more minutes with the boy to say goodbye. After assuring Severus help would be on the other side of the door, she left them alone again.

Severus made himself look the boy in the eye. "Mr. Weasley, you must listen to me," he said. "I need you to remember something." When he was sure he had Ron's attention, Severus said quietly, "I had no idea Hermione was pregnant. It is true that we parted with harsh words, but I cared for her, deeply. If I had known she was pregnant, I would have moved heaven and earth to protect her. And not just because she was carrying my child. But because," Severus sighed, and felt bitter gall rise in his gorge. He was so sick of this life, sick of this game, sick of himself. "Because she meant the world to me, and I drove her away." Ron looked away as if he couldn't bear to hear anymore. "You must believe me, Mr. Weasley," Severus said, and he could hear the pleading tone of his voice, and it should have shamed him. Stone, you are stone...

The boy made a sound, like a stifled sob. "I'm sorry," he whispered at length. "I shouldn't say things, even if you're not here. The wrong person might find out. Snape's just as dead as the rest of them."

Even deader, Weasley, Severus thought, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. Stone can't weep. I can be stone.

He put a hesitant hand on the boy's shoulder. "Perhaps you should rest," he said, softly, and Ron nodded and turned his back on Severus.

As he sat by the bed, Severus had an almost irresistible urge to stroke the boy's hair, to give him a little comfort. He could see his shoulders hitching, and wished he could cry with him. "You haven't done anything wrong," Severus said, hoping he was piercing the veil of madness. "You are innocent and always will be."

Ron nodded but did not reply. Severus' throat hurt; the scar ached like a bitch, and he welcomed the pain. It was some sort of warped penance for the agony that inflicted Ronald Weasley. They were two men who suffered in directly opposing proportion to what they deserved.

Severus left St. Mungo's, returned to his home, showered, shaved, and Floo'd back to his austere office. Sleep wasn't going to happen, and perhaps throwing himself into work was a better plan than throwing himself into a bottle of whisky, which was the far more desirable inclination. His mind was reeling with the knowledge that Hermione had carried his child. That she had lost it made him feel less than a man. He had seen enough death in the past two years to last three lifetimes, but the realisation that his own child had died because of Bellatrix fucking Lestrange made him almost apoplectic. He was going to have to get himself under control and soon.

He wondered if Hermione still thought of her lost child. Weasley had said she was inconsolable, but that was in the quick moments after the severe trauma she had undergone. In the cold light of day, had she been bereft, or relieved?

Severus scowled at his reflection. Of course she had been bereft. A witch like Hermione Granger felt life, all life, was precious. Her own child. Their child. Severus closed his eyes. A black-haired, black eyed little boy, full of scowls and glowers, like his father, sunshine and passion like his mother. A freckled-cheeked girl with a riot of curls, powerful and compassionate, adoringly looking up at him with her mother's amber eyes...

With an impatient growl, Severus threw on his cloak and walked to the fireplace. Stone. Of course I am. Just keep calling yourself that, and maybe you'll eventually believe it.

Consider yourself warned, Stone.

Ron heard the door close softly behind him, and he slowly turned to see Medi-witch Tickle standing in the room, a breakfast tray hovering by her arm. "Good morning, Ron. Did you sleep well?"

Ron smiled. He thought she might actually be real. The food tasted real enough. He hated to be impolite in any case. She reminded him of someone he once knew, or someone he had dreamed of once. "Fine, thanks."

"Hungry?"

"Maybe later. After my bath."

The woman nodded and cast a warming charm over the food. "Right then, let's get that bath drawn for you..."

A soft charm sounded, and a small watch that Medi-witch Tickle wore pinned to her robe suddenly glowed bright red. She frowned, then looked at Ron. "I'm afraid that bath's going to have to wait, Ron. I need to run an errand. But I'll be back."

She reached for the tray, but he said easily, "That's okay. I'll just eat while you're away and have my bath later."

She hesitated, uncertain whether to leave him on his own, when the door to Ron's room opened, and Healer Blyte looked in, his face stamped with impatience.

"Miss Tickle, a situation requires your assistance..." There was a noise in the hallway; probably a new patient, Ron thought, or someone having a meltdown.

He smiled at the Medi-witch. "I'll be fine, really."

She glanced at the door, then lowered the tray onto the desk. "Alright, but chew slowly and take small bites, okay?"

Ron smiled his sweet, charming smile. "I promise, Miss Tickle."

She hastily left the room, and Ron rose quickly to put his ear against the door.

"...come when I call you, next time, Mariam! Number twelve is upset that her toast isn't properly burnt and she used wandless magic to set fire to it! I thought she was medicated to the point that she wouldn't be able to access her spontaneous magic..."

"...she's not had her meds yet and she's not been able...Orderly, calm the patients in rooms eleven and thirteen! Make sure they aren't in any danger..."

The voices faded down the hall and joined the mélange of sounds that Ron heard on an unceasing basis. The buzz in his head confused him for a moment, and he couldn't remember why it was so important to have the woman leave his breakfast. He wasn't hungry.

He raised the lid from the tray. Crispy bacon, gammon and sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms. There were eggs, which were served scrambled on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Eggs and soldiers were served Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays.

It was Friday. At least the voices had told him the truth, that the eggs would be right. Ron wished the voices were always so accurate, so truthful. They had told him so many lies, had tormented him with so many horrible accusations. He was so thankful that they hadn't tried to fool him, even in self-preservation.

He looked at the brown-speckled eggs, sitting primly in their little cups, waiting for their tops to be removed so he could dip his soldiers in the runny yolk.

He picked up the knife. It was a sharp knife, made of steel, not wood, like the other utensils. We have to use a special knife with soldiers, Medi-witch Tickle had told him, with a little smile that shamed him, because it was so full of pity. A special knife, because we like our eggs a special way. It has to be sharp to cut through the eggshell, she had said, as she hacked the top off the egg. We can do this with a wand, but since our magic is a little uncertain, well, we'll use this knife and pretend it's our wand.

Ron had always wished she wouldn't talk to him that way. It reminded him of someone talking to a baby, or someone sub-normal. It reminded him that he was damaged and would never get any better. It reminded him that he had broken his Vow, and put Hermione in possible danger.

He picked up his special knife and carried it to bed with him. He pulled the covers up tight until only his face showed. The voices and the sounds were no more loud or soft than usual, but Ron knew they would be gone soon. He had broken an Unbreakable Vow. He had failed.

Hermione's baby had died. Harry had died. His entire family had died. He was a loose end.

He was never going to be well again.

But he wished he'd had the chance to tell Hermione goodbye. Was she real? He thought she might be. It doesn't hurt, you know. It's like falling asleep. It's like falling-

He pretended the knife was his wand.

It was another hour before the crisis in room twelve was resolved, and thirty more minutes before Medi-witch Tickle finished the paperwork recording the incident. It was another ten before she remembered that Ron Weasley had asked for a bath.

When she went into his room, he was lying in his bed, the food untouched. She approached his bed. He was sleeping deeply. "Ron? Aren't you going to eat your break..."

It was the coppery scent of blood that alerted her. She snatched the blankets away and screamed for an orderly. She screamed until Healer Blyte forced a Calming Draught down her throat, and her cries faded into hysterical weeping.

Looking into Ron's sweetly peaceful face, it was hard to imagine that he had opened his wrists so efficiently. He had bled out quickly, and on his face was a look Hermione would recognise when she rushed to the hospital later that morning. She'd seen the same look on his father's face only a few months before.

He looked happy.