Treachery

As the knowledge of the Horcrux set in, she felt her stomach drop and her mind started to fog. She felt the urge to vomit but tried to hold it back. She had shown enough weakness for one day. But at least now she had answers. Her connection to the Dark Lord could finally be explained. There was a definite reason behind her ability to discern his emotions and motives and the fact that her Dark Mark was mottled and bruised rather than fading away. It explained why she couldn't bear to be parted from the emerald and why she was struck with a profound sense of loss when she did. She was connected to it and through it, to Voldemort.

Snape elucidated the entire sordid mess to her with uncharacteristic patience. As she became aware of the true catalyst behind her hatred for Harry Potter, it felt as if the clouds were finally parting, and the truth was shining through. She had been living in nothing short of a rage-induced haze that was borne of emotions that did not even belong to her. As crippling as the haze had been for her, the clarity she experienced now was even more so. What would have possessed her to blindly accept that her hatred for Harry Potter had so suddenly burst forth? How had it ever made sense to her that killing the boy that was destined to save the entire wizarding world would bring her family back to her or in any way recompense for their loss? In fact, had she succeeded in her venture to kill the boy, Voldemort would still be alive and well and ruling the world in whatever manner he wished. He would have no doubt eventually discovered the connection between them, and then he would have gained complete control over her, over all of them. How could she have been so foolish? How could she have never, not for one second, noticed that something was amiss? Embarrassment at her stupidity, terror of what might have happened had things turned out differently, and frustration that she had never once recognized that she had lost herself coalesced to create an overwhelming pressure behind her eyes. She waited until Snape had announced that he was going to lock the emerald away and that she should not go looking for it. She waited until he told her that he would send word for McGonagall immediately to see about its destruction. She waited until she thought his back was turned before she allowed the barrage of tears to spill over. He was horrified at the outpour of emotion from this usually stoic girl and reached out to touch her, but decided against it. Instead, he turned and stepped silently from the room, leaving her to grieve in peace.

She was glad when the man was gone because it gave her a moment to talk herself out of asking him to explain how Voldemort's wish to kill Harry Potter had transferred to her. He had never known what her motives truly were and if he had, he would never have trusted her in the first place. He had been living his life for the past sixteen years with the sole goal of protecting Lily Potter's son. She couldn't risk telling him now. She knew that the revelation would hurt him as much as if it had been she who had betrayed Lily Potter in the first place. She had been extremely fortunate that he had been too fatigued to resist when she began to repel him from her mind. She was ashamed to admit, even to herself, that his fatigue was only the secondary cause of his retreat. The trust he had placed in her caused him to believe that she was pushing him away because she herself was fatigued and too emotionally drained to face any more of her own memories. Thinking that he had seen everything of import, he had shown her mercy and relented. The shame had increased tenfold when he locked eyes with her and tried to explain that she was the victim here. He had said it so earnestly; he had pleaded with her, imploring her to believe the best of herself. But she knew better. And had he known better, he would not have shown her such kindness. Of that, Attica was certain.

She had joined forces with the man who had killed her parents in cold blood. She had abandoned Neville, the truest friend she had ever known. She had deserted the Longbottoms, who were guilty of nothing more than trying to protect her and offering her security in her time of need. She had neglected the memory of the grandparents who had worked so hard to raise her to be a person that was the polar opposite of the person she knew she had become. She felt the disgrace that came naturally with those recollections, but without the Horcrux and its terrible voice whispering to her, justifying those terrible actions as necessary to her ultimate goal, she felt completely disgusted with herself. The emotions rushed forth in an intense fury, presumably because they had been buried for so long. But there was another regret, clawing through her disgrace to reach the surface. Once there, it erupted into another bout of tears. Snape, who had just reentered the room, rushed to her side, taking her small hand in his large one. His whispered reassurances only made her cry harder, because while she had tried everything in her power to negate all of the risks he had taken and everything he had sacrificed for his cause, he sat beside her, consoling her in her darkest hour.

He was exposing himself to her in the rawest way possible. He too knew what it was to make a mistake. He too knew regret. Attica was surpassed by his gentle sympathy, although this was not the first time he had shown it to her.

~~~

Her second year of Hogwarts had been a whirlwind of whispers from other students and pitying looks from her professors. She had never procured the attention of her classmates before, at least not until a tragedy had befallen her. Everyone tiptoed around her as if she were made of glass. The friends she had made during her first year were wary of talking to her for fear that she would burst into tears. She was almost insulted by this. She had more self-control than they gave her credit for.

The only person in the entire castle who didn't feel the need to protect her or spare her feelings was Professor Snape. He still sneered at her and tried to trip her up when he asked her questions in class, just as he always had, and his expectations were as rigid as ever. After one particularly difficult class, she waited for the classroom to empty before following the other students into the hall. By the time she reached the stairway leading to the main floor, she was completely alone. Glancing around to make sure there were no stragglers, she sat down on the bottom step and began to cry. Sometimes she would miss her grandparents so fervently that she couldn't help but indulge in the emotional release. She always made sure that she never cried in front of another person, so she had to be sneaky about it. She couldn't cry in her room because the other girls would know. The bathroom wasn't always a good option because someone was bound to interrupt. So she settled for the shadows of deserted corridors.

Attica was no stranger to grief. She had always yearned for her mother's touch and her father's guidance, but she had never known her parents as most other children did. Her grandparents had stepped in and flawlessly filled those roles in her life, but regardless, she knew it would never be the same as being raised by her own parents. The presence of her grandparents had softened the hollow pang she always felt when she thought of her mother and father. But now they were gone too, and she had no one. Of course, Neville and Augusta had been so kind to her, but their family was just another placeholder for the two she had already lost.

"Miss Flamel." Attica jumped at the sound of the Potions Master's gruff voice. It echoed in the empty corridor. "I should not need to remind you of the location of the Great Hall. You should not be lingering in the dungeons." He stepped out of the shadows and looked down at her with his obsidian eyes. He crossed his arms over his imposing chest and raised a single eyebrow, waiting.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said tiredly. "I'll go now." She scrambled to her feet and turned away from him as quickly as possible, but the light of the torches on the grimy walls betrayed her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"Not so fast, Miss Flamel. Why are you crying?" he demanded.

She wiped her eyes furiously with her sleeve. "I'm not," she declared bravely as she took a step on the staircase.

The professor sighed as if he were bored. "You shouldn't be crying over my class. Your potion was more acceptable than the other students, as per usual. I wouldn't think that you need verbal verification of that. So, what is wrong?"

The girl didn't answer. Instead, she turned to face her professor and trained her eyes on his boots.

"Miss Flamel. I asked you a question," he urged, his voice as cold as the air in the underground corridor.

"I miss them," she barely whispered, still not willing to meet his eyes. She felt a subtle blush painting her cheeks as she revealed her vulnerability to one of the only people whose opinion of her she actually valued.

"Nicolas and Perenelle." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir," she whispered before deciding to finally look up at him.

"Brewing reminds me of them."

The girl locked eyes with the formidable Potions Master, and he was taken aback by the grief he saw there. "I see."

"I usually try not to let it bother me, especially not in class, but my grandfather and I once brewed the healing potion we brewed today. I helped my grandmother gather the ingredients from her garden." Fresh tears fell down her pale cheeks.

"Growing potions ingredients is the wish of every respectable Potions Master. It is too difficult to acquire quality ingredients elsewhere," he said in his usual clipped tone, changing the subject.

Obviously he was used to children's incessant whimpering, but in those cases, it was generally the product of his own whip-like admonishments and insults. This time, the girl's tears were not his doing, and he was disconcerted by that. Even more disconcerting was the fact that he had no idea how to alleviate the pain of losing her entire family. She was crying not because of his invective, but because her entire world had crumbled around her. He was bound to protect Potter, that arrogant and untalented but nevertheless beloved child. But if he was honest with himself, he felt more kinship with the skillful, gentle, Potions-loving child before him. But who would protect her?

"You rather enjoy brewing potions, don't you?" he said softly, and the girl's curls began to bob enthusiastically.

"Very much, sir."

"In someone your age, that is rare indeed. If you wish, you can use the Potions lab outside of class time. There are no classes from five to nine on Thursdays. You will need to bring your own cauldron and various supplies, of course." Attica looked at him with wide, navy blue eyes so filled with hope that the implacable professor seemed unsettled, as if the pure joy he had created for her was a novelty to him.

Now that Attica thought about it so many years later, she realized that it probably was. And treachery is the manner in which she had decided to repay this act of kindness.