Choosing Sides, Black or White

Guard... Check... Mate

By Bambu

~o0o~

Chapter Two: Choosing Sides, Black or White

A pregnant pause filled the room with a bubble of silence, save for the breathing of two people. It bulged into nooks and crannies and pressed against the living man and woman who at once were well-acquainted and, yet, knew very little about one another. Hermione stopped speaking for so long that Snape raised his head to look at her, to look at her glamourized, unblemished face. So innocent, so sweet... so completely at odds with the heartbreak she'd so recently suffered and which soaked into each pain-etched word she'd spoken. Hermione struggled to take a deep breath, the binding cords slipping tighter around her breasts, and Snape instantly banished them. He doubted that she noticed, so still did she lie.

He was in shock, possibly denial of the shift of reality that had just altered the foundations of his existence. He cast his eyes around the cavernous, vaulted chamber. The stone had been hewn from the granite outcropping upon which Hogwarts castle had been built. The room was massive, and impervious to the gamut of human experience that had passed through its structure. The expression on Snape's pale face was anything but stone-like. His grimace was tormented and angry, and his eyes glittered with a furious, wounded expression that would have been difficult to describe, but would have left an indelible impression had it been witnessed.

As both a Death Eater and an Order of the Phoenix member, Snape had been privy to any number of the Dark Order's attacks over the years, and, in the manner of a coroner in the face of death, he had become inured against the ravages that depravity waged on one's psyche. On rare occasions, a death would touch him personally, but, by and large, they left him unaffected. Hermione's dry encapsulation of the events that altered her life permanently had left him anything but indifferent. Each word she'd spoken had cut Snape as if tiny shards of glass were piercing his heart. It had been more painful than Cruciatus. Fortunately he was intelligent enough not to stone the messenger. In any event, he would never have stoned this messenger. Not now... not ever again.

The bubble of silence expanded until the pressure to speak was unbearable. When Hermione finally shattered the artificial peace, Snape thought he'd never heard her voice before, because it seemed to encompass the entire spectrum of life's experiences, and was as brittle as spring ice on the giant squid's lake. A spark of compassion in his chest ached for her loss and reminded him of his humanity.

"The wards on the house were broken during the night. I suppose I should be honored that I was interesting enough that Voldemort came himself. My Dad was no match for him, nor was my Mum a match for Lucius Malfoy. I heard Mum scream and I don't think I've ever moved so fast. I grabbed my wand and scrambled to reach their room. It didn't matter. I saw the green light shine from under the door. Do you know what Mad-Eye Moody said to me, afterwards? He told me that I should have run."

Hermione turned her head to meet Snape's black eyes. "How could I? I could still hear Mum screaming. I couldn't just leave her if there was something I could do. But I was no match for them. I might have been lucky with Malfoy..." her voice became cold and hard when she spoke Lucius' name. "But not with them both. Voldemort made me watch while he killed Mum, and Lucius didn't cast the Avada on me, he said that if I'd been a real witch he'd have given me mercy. But a jumped-up Mudblood didn't deserve it." She lapsed into silence.

Snape's breath became ragged as he gulped in air. There was more. He knew there was more. The silk of his voice was gone; instead, he was just utterly weary and sounded it. "What did he do to you?"

"He cast a Diffindo and Petrificus Totalus, and left me to choke on my own blood. Oh, he was thoughtful enough to roll me over so that I could see the bodies of my parents. I lay on the floor of their bedroom... soaking in a puddle of blood... watching my Mum and Dad stiffen... waiting for my turn to die." She was silent for a long moment. "The bastard kissed me on the forehead before he left and said, 'Sweet dreams, Mudblood.' I still hear that voice in my dreams... They've been anything but sweet."

Again, silence: pressurized, isolating, devastating.

Snape waited for several minutes, wanting her to finish the tale. He marveled at the comprehensiveness of the glamour she wore, her face had remained chillingly expressionless during the course of her tale. Regardless of how traumatic the experience had been for Hermione, Snape had more immediate concerns, such as why he'd never been told. What purpose had it served to keep him swathed in a blanket of ignorance? When it was obvious that she wasn't going to speak further, he waited for her ragged breathing to even out, and asked, "How did you survive?"

"Mad-Eye Moody found me. The wards had been broken on the house and it alerted him. He summoned Professor Dumbledore, and Madam Pomfrey healed me. The Headmaster modified Madam Pomfrey's memory and removed the wards on my house. He called the Muggle authorities, as an anonymous tip." Another minute passed in silence, he could see her dark eyes shining, staring at him, her emotions completely masked by the smoothness of her façade. "I... I was very angry with you, Professor. The Headmaster said that I couldn't tell anyone, not Harry and Ron, and most especially I wasn't to speak to you. He said that it was safer for you if you didn't know, it would be one less thing for you to conceal. He said that you didn't need another burden placed on your shoulders, and I didn't... don't want that either." She closed her eyes.

Snape hung his head between his hands. He was angry with Moody and livid with Dumbledore. He'd thought that they knew better. The bitter truth was that they did know better and still hadn't informed him. What else was being kept from him? The chill of death dripped down his spine sending shuddering ripples of fear throughout his limbs. Why wasn't he dead yet?

He would be having a little discussion – his mental tone was scathing -- with Albus-bloody-Dumbledore as soon as Hermione was tucked into her dorm. House points had suddenly become immaterial and insignificant. In fact, he was having an absurdly difficult time containing his desire to protect the young witch. It was as if, knowing that he could no longer hope to protect himself, he wanted to protect someone else... to prove that the sacrifices he'd made for years... decades had been worthwhile.

Her voice interrupted his grim thoughts and the chilling weight of the truth behind her statements erased any further thought of her as a child.

"I didn't understand why you weren't there... why you didn't know. You'd saved us so many times in the past that I expected you to be there. And then I realized why. I wasn't Harry. My parents were Muggles, and I was just a Mudblood."

Snape's head snapped up. "Do not denigrate yourself, Miss Granger. You are a witch, no matter your parentage."

She snorted in patent, bitter disbelief, "If you believe that, Professor, then why did you ever become a Death Eater?"

He sucked in his breath at her impudence. "How dare you! You haven't..."

Her eyes blazed behind that perfect mask. "The right to know? The right to ask? Why don't I have the right to know? I believed in you... You! Not Professor Dumbledore... not after fifth year. But you let me down... you weren't there to save them... or me."

Snape's anger at Dumbledore was overwhelmed by guilt curdling in his stomach and the icy spike of fear shriveling his intestines. Was there really a point in confronting Dumbledore? The old wizard had been blinded by his own prejudices before when it had come to giving Snape a fair hearing. Why would now be any different? Snape knew that his freedom was precarious. The truth had rested with only one man whom Snape had trusted... and was now confronted with the unforgiving truth that his trust had been misplaced.

Dumbledore was the only wizard alive who knew why he'd become a Death Eater. Legally he was protected by the earlier ruling of the Wizengamot, which had been dependent upon Dumbledore's testimony, but there was no one else who knew the story from his perspective. It had never mattered before, even during those long years waiting for the Dark Lord's return, because he'd had a secure home and Dumbledore had protected him... almost like the father he'd wished had been his.

However, in the span of a short few minutes, Snape's chances of survival had lessened considerably. His odds were now even slimmer than those of a vampire basking in the sun. The Granger murders were something he should have known... needed to know. He ignored the sense of betrayal he felt. This was the second time Albus Dumbledore had let him down. Once as a student and now as an adult. His incisive conscience insisted on pointing out that he now had something in common with the powerful, old wizard. In this case, he had been the one to let his student – someone under his care -- down, not Dumbledore.

He let his head drop back against the column, cracks and missing chunks of stone making it an uncomfortable resting place, but he needed to think, and he couldn't look at Hermione's prone body and ersatz face without being assaulted by the images he could easily conjure of her experience. Snape knew what some of the Death Eaters did during attacks on Muggles. He knew how vindictive Voldemort could be, and if the Dark Lord had taken a personal interest in the death of the Grangers, then Snape could easily fill in the details that Hermione had carefully left unspoken.

Drawing a deep, lung-expanding breath, the warring scents of dust, mildew and witch embedding themselves into the memory that was being created between Hermione and him. Firmly bringing intellect to bear, and pushing more frivolous thoughts to the side, Snape examined the information she'd told him, the dilemma she suddenly represented. Aside from the issue of his longevity, if he was correct in his assessment, then Hermione had already begun to be isolated from those who would miss her.

The situation reminded Snape painfully of his own segregation during his school years. The glaring difference between Hermione and him was that he'd never had a close-knit group of friends whose loyalty had to be overcome. Snape had been an introverted, highly intelligent and poor Slytherin... not to mention ungainly and unattractive. He'd attempted to compensate for his lack of prestige with knowledge and power, but his adversarial status with the school's – and Dumbledore's -- favorites had kept him essentially friendless. After Potter had saved his life in fifth year, and Snape had been muzzled as a result of Dumbledore's directives, he'd had no one to turn to. His lips twisted into a bitter sneer. He'd been ripe for the plucking.

The similarity of circumstances between his past and Hermione's present were sounding alarm bells in his head. It was obvious to the spy within him that Dumbledore was setting her apart, separating her from her friends through coercions of silence. And it was just as obvious to Snape that Dumbledore had decided her fate... just as Dumbledore had decided his. However, in this scenario, Snape could detect a different ending. Hermione wouldn't be put to further use as he had been. Instead, she had been categorized as a liability, and was being cast on the winds of fate, abandoned by those who should fight for her life.

Fury blazed within Snape, burning to steam the icy fear that had gripped him. His teeth clenched in his jaw and he made a decision... a leap of faith which might seem utterly illogical, but was one that his heart recognized as the right choice for him. It would be the first of many steps that would alter his path from the one pre-determined by the aged wizard who had manipulated, in one form or another, the course of Snape's life since he'd been fifteen. Snape's breath quickened with the realization that he was going to share the truth with this witch. He wanted someone to know. He wanted Hermione to know. Her earlier faith in him had been an unintentional source of hope when he had so little of that quality remaining. He wanted... needed to restore her opinion... it had catalytically become vital to him.

Slicing the air with his wand, he cast two, highly modified charms on the room, a perquisite of two decades engagement in espionage. Layered upon Hermione's existing spells, they were virtually undetectable. When he'd first spoken, Hermione's eyes opened and watched his hand movements closely. He nodded at her perennial need to acquire knowledge, even in her despondency. It was a trait he recognized, and shared.

Despite the layers of protections, he still spoke quietly, his eyes meeting... holding her gaze. Snape wanted her to believe. "I know that Potter's told you about the events during my fifth year, when Black tried to kill me and destroy his friend, Lupin, in the process."

Hermione stiffened and her eyes grew round in surprise. Snape stifled the urge to laugh. He certainly wasn't known for his small talk, and having never attempted to converse with her before, she must be startled by his willingness to answer her question, and intensely curious as to what had motivated his sudden 'confessional.' He would have been suspicious if their positions had been reversed. His instinctive sense of self-preservation Leviosa'd a thought to the forefront of his mind -- if it didn't go well he could always Obliviate her.

"James Potter may have saved my life, but he sided with his friend when I reported them to the Headmaster. Lupin was in the forest for two days and nights before he returned to school, and he had no memory of what had happened in the tunnel below the Shrieking Shack. I had few friends as it was and none loyal enough to stand with me in the face of persistent persecution by the Marauders. My father owned a shop in Knockturn Alley and was notorious for supplying Dark wizards with less-than-legal substances and artifacts. I was reclusive and painfully shy, and my education before coming to Hogwarts had consisted of magic bordering on the Dark Arts... more than bordering, Miss Granger. My father had taught me thoroughly -- twisted bastard that he was. Potter and Black made my life a living hell for five years, humiliating me at every opportunity."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, and Snape forestalled her almost automatic rebuttal. "Spare me your defense of them, Miss Granger. I gave as good as I got, and there was no love lost between Black, Potter, Lupin and I. However, before our fifth year, the rivalry had never denigrated to attempted murder."

Acutely uncomfortable with revealing so much about himself, but somehow compelled to continue, Snape rose to his feet to pace for several moments. He felt the heat of Hermione's eyes watching him. With each turn, his robes fluttered behind him, arcing outward, as graceful as an ebony tail. When his unease settled, he resumed a position on the stone floor, this time nearer to Hermione.

He kept his voice low, almost a caress and distinctly at odds with the harshness of his story. "To curtail this nauseating retelling of my life, the Headmaster did not believe my story, and I was the one to receive detention for the prank. Potter was a prefect pro tem when Lupin was 'otherwise engaged' each month, and I was only a lowly Slytherin who was out on the grounds after curfew." He snorted, derisively. "Even though I had discovered one of the Headmaster's secrets – that he was protecting a werewolf -- it didn't matter. The golden boy of Gryffindor escaped unscathed and I was as friendless as ever. My final years at school were almost entirely bereft of companionship, but I'd found something that made up for it. I'd found a love of potions after the old master had been replaced during my sixth year. I spent every spare moment in the dungeons, studying with Professor Brewer. He was patient and meticulous, and I believe he gave me detention once for turning in an assignment that was three feet longer than required." Snape quirked a half-smile in Hermione's direction and was startled to receive a gentle smile in return.

"After school, I had no real prospects. My father's reputation had sullied my own, and I was unable to find suitable employment in an apothecary, which is what I'd thought to do after I'd graduated. Public paranoia was on the rise, and it was difficult to find work even with a stellar family reputation. The only viable option left for me was to work for my father. It was a miserable existence. I met Lucius Malfoy one day... and, no, you may not have the details of where or why... and he seemed oddly taken with me.... I was later to learn that he was recruiting for the Dark Lord whose power was reaching its zenith."

Snape's tone became bitter. "I was flattered that a wizard of Malfoy's lineage and breeding would consort with someone like me, and I attributed him with more nobility and liberality than he deserved. Something I later learned to my further disillusionment." Now that he'd begun to open up, Snape didn't think he could stop. It was akin to picking an old scab, thickened and cracked as the wound beneath its hard carapace healed to tender, pink, new flesh. He shifted positions -- seeking comfort where none was to be found, the filthy stone unyielding – as he proceeded to reveal the new flesh of his soul.

Hermione's eyes followed his every movement -- she still hadn't budged from her prone position on the cold floor -- and Snape snapped at her. "I am not going to hex you again, Miss Granger." He didn't give her a chance to speak and his tone softened. "Do sit up. I do not... I do not share confidences easily."

As Hermione propped herself against the nearest column, her luminous eyes danced in the torchlight. "I am fully aware of the honor, Professor."

He gave her an intense, searching look, uncharacteristically scrubbed his face with his hands, feeling the abrasive stubble that told him it was growing very late, and continued his narrative. He'd always heard that confession was good for the soul, but until this moment, he'd not really felt that it was true. He'd unburdened his conscience to Dumbledore every time he'd reported in, but he'd never felt... cleansed... by the experience. But now, sharing his history with this young witch who'd experienced similar isolation from her peers due to her differences... not that they were the same as his, but enough similarities existed for him to draw the parallels and be comforted by the fact that she could... and perhaps would understand.

"I began to attend parties at Malfoy Manor. I sold most of my potions kit in order to afford appropriate clothing, as no one would hire me and I hoped that with Lucius' patronage, I could find a placement. I had no idea that he meant for me to join the Death Eaters until I received an owl from Dumbledore. He asked me to meet him secretly. Lucius' movements, even then, were watched by the Aurors, and the Order of the Phoenix had been keeping tabs on his guest lists. My name had come up and, for a short time, I was courted by both sides. It was a heady experience for someone who had been a social pariah for his entire life, and I relished the feeling of being wanted." He slanted a raven-dark glance at the young witch with the perfect countenance, his hair screening his perusal of her. Only Hermione's eyes gave away her real feelings, they were alight with interest. Snape hadn't seen that look for months, and only now noticed the difference. He berated himself for not having paid closer attention. He'd been so certain that the added layer of attention being paid to her by Potter and Weasley had been direct results of over-active hormones. He couldn't afford to make such assumptions.

"I did not make it easy for Dumbledore. I felt that he had betrayed me as a student, and I was not certain that I wanted to throw my lot in with anyone who had befriended Black and Potter. They still hated me as much as ever, and Lucius was more generous than I could have wished. It was in his generosity that he over-played his hand. A Slytherin is never generous without a purpose. I grew more reserved with Lucius' friends, realizing finally that they were all in some form or another either aligned directly with the Dark Lord or were being manipulated by the Death Eaters. I did not want to become a puppet."

A bitter sneer twisted his features for a moment. He had become exactly what he'd wished to avoid by making the choices that he had. Snape almost didn't hear her voice whisper, "I understand, Professor. Dangling at the end of someone else's strings is very... painful."

Once more their eyes locked and a wordless conversation passed between them.

"Remus Lupin was the catalytic agent causing my eventual choice. He had found out that Dumbledore was attempting to sway me in my decision, and Lupin told the Headmaster the truth about the night in the Shrieking Shack. He'd had it from Black and Potter but had never spoken. In any event, Dumbledore approached me once again, asking my forgiveness... I... it unmanned me completely. He offered me a job, teaching. I never wanted the Dark Arts position. It was a joke that Potter and Black made when they heard I had accepted Dumbledore's offer. Old Professor Brewer was retiring, and I took his place. I was young, untried, and loved the subtle craft of potions."

"But that doesn't explain..."

A trace of impatience had crept into her words, and Snape cut her off. "Be grateful this is the encapsulated version, Miss Granger. Lucius Malfoy was furious that I had chosen to take the job at Hogwarts, and, in those days, he did not rein in his temper as well as he does now," a sardonic eyebrow was raised at that comment, "and he attacked me in the castle. We had a very loud and very lengthy duel in the entrance hall. I was sure that I would be sacked, but Dumbledore had another idea. I was so grateful for the support and his affection that I accepted."

There was no question in her comment, "You became a spy."

"Yes."

He was silent. She was silent. As before, the only sound to be heard was their inhalations and exhalations as lungs efficiently exchanged oxygen and carbon dioxide.

Snape looked at Hermione, the unlikely Pensieve for his excruciating descent into Dante's Inferno. Her knees were bent and her arms wrapped around them, her hair was an untidy mess and her hands were filthy from the layers of dirt where she'd lain on the floor. Her face bore no evidence of the emotional evening, and was the color and texture of the polished Erumpent ivory he acquired for his private potions research. It was unsettling to see such an unperturbed countenance, but when he looked into her dark eyes he knew – without understanding why he was so certain – that he could finish what he wanted to say.

"... in the process, I lost part of my soul and any chance for making true friends in this life. I have been isolated and alone for the better part of the last eighteen years. Dumbledore is as much my master as is the Dark Lord. There is no one to share the burden with, no one to listen when I am bleeding... or broken... or even lonely."

He heard the unevenness of her breathing and knew that she'd been affected by his story. Suddenly it was too much. His confession had been too dear, too costly. He vaulted to his feet to pace in front of the gilt-framed mirror. There was no distortion or alteration in his reflection as he passed in front of the glass.

After several minutes, punctuated by the sharp staccato of his boot-heels clicking on stone, Hermione spoke. "I don't understand... No... I understand, but why tell me?"

Why?

That was indeed the question. Silence again pressed upon him. One minute... two. "Because you were honest with me, because you have almost always given me the benefit of the doubt, and, after what you have told me tonight, I can see that you are being deliberately segregated from your friends, your support group. I do not want you to be used as a pawn." He whispered, low, velvety, "I do not want you to suffer my fate. If you do, and you survive, you will never be untainted... never clean."

"Oh!"

Snape continued to pace as she assimilated his words.

"Thank you for telling me, Professor. I won't tell anyone and I'll be careful. I won't lose Harry and Ron, they already know about my Mum and Dad. They're the only ones who know, and we keep each other's secrets. That's why they've been so protective since the hols, but they don't know that I was hurt as well. Professor Dumbledore was right that Harry would be livid, it would distract him, and I won't be the cause of his losing focus. I snuck out of the common room tonight. The boys have been wonderful, but sometimes it's too much to sit in the common room or the library and pretend that I wasn't the cause of my parents' deaths. There's not a sign on me, nothing to show that I fought to save them – as useless as it was. But, I... I just had to see what Malfoy did to me. I can feel it but I can't see it."

"It is an understandable desire."

"... and after graduation, I'm going to room with Ron and Harry and I won't be able to show my real face until after Harry defeats Voldemort."

Snape flinched at her use of the name of the Dark Lord and her innocent belief that things would go according to their plan. "I hate to disabuse you of the idea that you will be able to stay with Potter and Weasley. Do you not know that you are being separated from your friends after you graduate?"

"What? No! I'm going to live with Harry at Grimmauld Place. We've already made the plans." Her pronouncement was adamant... and wholly inaccurate.

"No, Miss Granger, you are not. The Headmaster has made alternate arrangements for you." Until that moment, Snape had not realized that Hermione had been marked for sacrifice... isolation, certainly, but not sacrificial bait, like a bleating lamb staked in front of Aragog's lair. However, with her obvious ignorance of Dumbledore's already enacted plans to physically separate her from Potter and his other anchor, the Weasley family, the ink was on the parchment. Dumbledore had already decided that she was expendable.

Snape said nothing further, his heart so painfully constricted that it physically hurt. He waited. She was bright enough to hear the penny drop.

She did.

"Oh, Circe! You're right, he's... Oh, my gods! He's manipulating me. He's already decided, hasn't he? He's decided that I'm an acceptable loss." As the last illusion of her childhood was stripped away, Hermione buried her unmarred face in her hands and sobbed.

Snape watched her cry, wanting to offer comfort, not having the first idea how, and furious at having been the messenger of this particular bit of information.

Her bitter voice broke his self-recriminations. "That's why he didn't let Madam Pomfrey heal me properly. I wondered why. She said it would take weeks of therapy for it to heal. But he said there wasn't time, that it would deal a blow to Voldemort if I appeared to be unscathed when I returned to school." In a spectacular display of her intuition, Snape followed her logic, until she came to the inevitable conclusion. "That bloody bastard! That's why it took him a week to decide that I could go home for the break. That's why there were only wards on the house and no Aurors like at Christmas. He'd already set things in motion since I'd argued with him about seeing my parents and wasn't willing to let him make my decisions for me. Hadn't he?"

Hermione rose to her feet, a little unsteady but turned to face Snape. He felt a bubble of pride in the quickness of her mind and the stark courage it took her to voice her suspicions and recognize them for the truth. He wished, fiercely, that he'd been as savvy when he'd been her age. It appeared that her adventures with Potter and Weasley had been of some value. "So it would seem."

"Do you know what his alternate arrangements for me are? Or am I to be cast out of the gates on my bum come graduation?" She answered her own question, her hands clenched at her sides, her voice twisted with anger and bitterness. "No. He wouldn't do that, would he? It would reflect badly on him and Harry would never forgive him. No, it has to appear that I'm going to be protected, so that when I'm killed, Harry will be assured of the Headmaster's best efforts to keep me safe. Harry will be shackled even more tightly then..." Her hand flew to her mouth, and her quick intake of breath indicated that she'd just had an epiphany. "Ron! What about Ron?"

"I would imagine that Mr. Weasley is quite safe. His family is tied to the Order and if I am not mistaken, Dumbledore intends to give Miss Weasley every opportunity to 'land' Mr. Potter's affections." Snape marveled at the intricacy of the Headmaster's manipulations and the young witch's quick grasp of the situation and her certain fate.

"That makes sense. The Weasleys are pureblooded, and fairly well connected. Bill's at Gringott's, and Percy and Mr. Weasley are at the Ministry. They're too well-known for them to be discarded... like... like me. And Ginny wouldn't even realize that she's being manipulated. She's loved Harry a long time and would do anything to 'land him,' as you put it. If I'm dead, there will be ample opportunity for her to comfort Harry, won't there?"

Snape said nothing, but dipped his head in acquiescence.

"If I'm dead, Harry will have more reason to fight on Dumbledore's side, won't he?"

Again Snape bowed his head, proud of her ability to speak so easily of her own death. Hermione Granger was a witch to be counted, and he was angered anew that Dumbledore would so easily dispose of her. It served to remind him that Dumbledore had also taken steps to leave him to Voldemort's mercies. He began to pace in a counter-measure to her quick steps.

Snape could see that the old wizard had obviously calculated that Hermione's death would more firmly tie Potter to the Weasley family and the fate Dumbledore believed in. There was nothing really to say. There were no words of comfort to be offered to one who'd just had their suspicions confirmed about how worthless their life was to those she had trusted. Instead Snape, as their paths met, offered Hermione her wand. She accepted it from him, her slender fingertips grazing his palm as she wrapped her hand around the familiar length of magically imbued wood.

"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry that I doubted you." She swallowed a few times, striving for calm. "It seems that we have more in common than I ever suspected. If you would be so kind as to let me have a few minutes of privacy, I will be going."

Snape noticed that her eyes glittered with unshed tears. He didn't blame her really, he felt as dry as the dust in the chamber and ready to be swept casually into the wind. "I will see you to your common room, Miss Granger."

"No, sir. I would like a few moments here. Please."

He didn't understand and stepped closer to her, letting the differences in their heights intimidate her into consenting to his escort from the chamber. Snape's patience was at its lowest ebb. He'd discovered that his bastion of security had crumbled under the weight of destiny, leaving him exposed, and he'd bared his soul to an eighteen-year-old witch from whom he had struggled to remain unaffected. He'd been powerfully drawn to her over the years. Never as unattractive as he'd been as a child, she had nevertheless been ostracized by her peers and been the recipient of prejudice, hatred and jealousy for her entire school career. Her friends were few – three or four – and she strongly reminded him of himself.

"Come along, it is late." He badly needed some distance and some privacy to assimilate all that he'd learned and to find some understanding as to why Dumbledore had evidently decided to give him up. He no longer thought to beard the old wizard in his den; instead, the spy's thoughts were entirely centered upon the slender thread of his own longevity and the imminently terminal future Hermione had to look forward to.

"Please, Professor. I promise I won't ever come back, but I've never really seen what Malfoy did to me... you interrupted me before I had a chance to really look, and I have to know. The last time I saw any part of my body without the glamour, I was sliced open and spilling my blood onto the carpet of my parents' bedroom. Please let me see what it looks like. I can only feel it." Her voice dropped to a whisper, a supplication. "Please."

He relented even as he mentally castigated himself for his susceptibility, and he took her elbow, the first time he'd ever touched her physically, to lead her to the Mirror of Disenchantment.

Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts, Death Eater and spy stood behind the young witch who was at once his soon-to-graduate student as well as a witch holding an undefined place in his life, and raked his eyes across her disenchanted features in the gilt-framed mirror.

Hermione's jaw was clenched, the muscles rippling beneath her skin, smooth on one side, puckered on the other. Her lower lip trembled as she angled her head to stare fixedly at her mirrored image. She pulled her wild hair atop her head as her eyes traced the ropy, angry red scar that began at the hairline behind her right ear and slashed across her tendon, her jaw, her throat, and down her chest to disappear into the collar of the cardigan she wore. Oddly, the thick, ridged scar tissue contrasted with the pale pink of the buttons on the fuchsia sweater.

Snape could finally see how much damage had been wrought as a result of Voldemort's murder of her parents and Malfoy's assault. There were bruised smudges under her reddened eyes, and tears threatened to spill onto her recently hollowed cheeks. Unwilling to admit it, her tears distressed him, leaching their way through the cracks in the shielding around his heart. Most people considered him reserved, even sullen. But he'd found it safest to remain aloof from personal interactions, and those few to whom he was most susceptible, he kept at an even greater distance. He'd been keeping his nascent feelings for Hermione Granger as Silencio'd as possible. The dark-haired wizard took a step back from her, as if physical separation could repair the breach that the night's revelations had caused.

Unaware of his withdrawal, Hermione's lips thinned, stilling the quivering of her chin. She didn't look at him. Indeed, she seemed entirely unaware of his presence. Instead, Hermione stepped closer to the mirror, her attention entirely on the barely healed scar bisecting her torso.

The slight physical distance hadn't worked. As Snape followed the path of her scar in the mirror, his eyes were opaque and his rising fury at Dumbledore rivaled his hatred for Lucius Malfoy which had matured abruptly into a visceral, living entity. He began to think of ways to seek retribution for the casual cruelty the Malfoy patriarch had wrought on Hermione, when her whisper assailed his ears.

"...never... no one will ever want me now... bushy-haired... beaver-toothed... Even if I survive, who would want this?"

The agony in her words matched the pain in his heart and the derisive, taunting voices of his youth. He knew, better than any, just how it felt to be unwanted... reviled... ridiculed. Stepping up behind her, within touching distance of the mirror, the raven-haired wizard unbuttoned the top buttons on his frock coat, his fingers moving with practiced ease to the flash of linen underneath, revealing the porcelain skin of his neck.

His movements drew her eyes to his, and then to the whiteness of his hands as they bared his skin.

"Look," he husked, directing her attention to the shiny, stretched length of scar tissue that lay nestled in the hollow of his throat. Hermione's eyes flew wide and she watched in the mirror as he traced the scar on his skin. The hawk-faced Potions master knew that the mirror dispelled any attempt at concealment, and it would be obvious to Hermione that he wasn't casting an illusion to ease her distress.

"Oh, Professor... I'm so sorry that you've been hurt. But you don't understand, it's not the same. Your scar is so small, and so white. Not that I don't appreciate the kindness, but look at this..." Hermione trailed one finger along the thick ridge of her scar tissue... two... three... five inches in length... right to the edge of her sweater. Her voice was tight, "This isn't where it ends either." She unbuttoned the first two buttons on her cardigan, revealing a wider cut, where the skin had been folded over itself in order to close the gaping wound. "Who would want to look at this? To feel this?"

The folded vee of her slightly unbuttoned sweater revealed the rise of her breasts, and Snape's gaze lingered on the smooth expanse of skin and then the ridge of folded tissue which marred its beauty. His lips pursed in thought, and he ignored the tightening in his lower abdomen. He could easily extrapolate that the slicing hex Malfoy had used on her had come perilously close to, if it hadn't cut directly across, the nipple of her left breast. He wondered if she would be able to nurse her children, then grimaced at his unrealistic whimsy. She hadn't been intended to live.

Snape searched for a way to reassure her, musing at the unconventional methods he'd used thus far. He realized that he'd already exposed his most preciously guarded secrets to this young woman who was in such precarious circumstances. What was one more confidence? "Miss Granger, I have more scars than I think you realize. Each of them has been earned fighting a war, just as yours has been. Your scar was honestly received. It should be honored and not vilified."

He was shocked to see her smile in the reflection.

"Professor, you're very naïve. It's different for women. We're not supposed to have dueling scars, it's 'too bloody masculine,'" she quoted.

The Potions master almost laughed as she called him naïve, and wondered who had been so cruel as to tell her that she was masculine, and, even more, he wanted to know who and how they'd seen this scar. She seemed to realize what he was thinking and answered his unasked query.

"I'm not talking about this scar, but the one from Dolohov's curse. You know, from the Department of Mysteries. It's long enough, but it's not half as bad." She moved her fingers to the hem of her cardigan and unhooked the bottom three buttons, prying the knitted panels apart, revealing her slender waist and the dip of her stomach to his increasingly interested eyes. Her satin skin was marred by the tail end of a thin, white, zigzagged curse scar. He could see that it continued up her chest, between the valley of her breasts, hidden from his sight. Her finger drew along the fine line, "If this scar caused... someone... to flinch, I can't imagine the reaction to this..." She pointed at Malfoy's handiwork.

He hadn't known the severity of her injuries from the Department of Mysteries, but Snape remembered that she'd had to take a series of potions to heal the damage of Dolohov's creativity for several months. However, she still had much to learn.

"I do not think you quite appreciate what I am referring to, Miss Granger. There is not a witch alive who would not be repelled by the scars I bear." His voice carried a curious sort of wistfulness that stronger witches than Hermione wouldn't have been able to withstand.

Hermione turned to face him, brushing back the unfettered curls that had fallen into her face. His eyes automatically followed the spill of her hair as it rebounded from the offense of her impatience. She didn't speak until his eyes returned to hers, and then Hermione whispered, "Show me."

With shaking fingers, Snape released the remaining jet buttons on his frock coat and deftly eased the mother of pearl buttons from the loops of his linen shirt. He was conscious of having crossed the line of propriety some time before, but consoled himself that, from the very moment that he'd discovered the depth of Dumbledore's machinations, he'd changed the entire course of his life, whatever future was left to him. The Potions master was thirty-eight-years old and hadn't had an honest, intimate relationship in his life. Scattered lovers, to be sure, but what was evolving between Hermione and him, while fraught with an awareness of one another, was far more intimate than the baring of skin for sexual release.

"Here." He shed his coat and shirt, dropping them to his feet, the white linen a dusting of pristine snow blanketing the mountain of black cloth rising from the stone floor. His chest was naked to her sight. Scars crisscrossed and snaked around his torso leaving his pale skin marked, puckered and disfigured. Some of his scars were old and faded while others were newer, raw in appearance. All had been excruciating.

Hermione's eyes flew to meet his and her fingers covered her mouth, "Oh, Professor. I never knew..." She whipped around to look at the mirror, her eyes rapidly shunting from scar-to-scar on the reflection of his body, ascertaining that all of the blemishes were real.

He swallowed hard. Poppy Pomfrey was the only person who'd seen so much of his skin in a number of years, and even the Matron flinched when she had to heal him.

Hermione's voice was low and thick with emotion, "How much you have suffered for us... for me." She took a deep, fortifying breath and her fingers loosened the final three buttons of her cardigan. She dropped the knitted garment to the floor. One of its arms fell across Snape's shirt, a pink slash across a white vista. The graphic parallel between the cloth and their bodies went unnoticed as her eyes sought his in the mirror. They were blazing with undefined and unspoken emotion.

Snape's breath left his lungs. He hadn't expected her to be as forthcoming – obviously a sign of her Sorting -- and his eyes softened, dropping to trace the scar, even where the smooth contour of her brassiere was distended by the badly healed tissue that crossed her areola. He followed the raised, red skin down, below the swell of breast to her torso where the cut-line crossed her ribcage to disappear at her hip into the waistband of her denims. Just above the cup of her bra, the shiny slim trace of Dolohov's curse scar crossed the thick red ridge of Malfoy's Diffindo, leaving an 'x' on her skin, directly over her heart. "Miss Granger..." he choked out.

She turned to face him, her back, smooth and unblemished and clearly reflected in the mirror where her hair didn't interfere with his line of sight.

Her low voice stirred something in him, viscerally, emotionally. "So many scars. So much to bear. Such a burden to carry. I can't... how anyone could look at you and not see your sacrifice... not be moved by it."

Snape dropped his eyes to Hermione's unblemished chest, to her outstretched hand reaching for him. The glamour Dumbledore had cast was powerful. There was no discernable evidence of her injury, of the enduring souvenir she would have from Malfoy's attentions. Her words filtered through his brain, which was being overcome with the emotional purging of their conversation and her nearness. He responded, "In the same way that those who do not possess any true understanding have lessened you by their callous indifference to your suffering, to your bravery."

Her fingers lightly touched his chest, her dark eyes casting a glance through her lashes to see if he would prevent the intimacy. He was undone by the gentleness of her caress. Her fingers traced first one scar, the one at his throat, then another over his left pectoral... then another, until she'd traced all of the scars on his battered chest and abdomen. Her whisper brushed his ears.

"I don't have the words to tell you... I... I can't express what I'm feeling."

"Revulsion... pity... loathing..." His voice hurled the words at her, echoes from others who'd spurned him through the years.

"No! Never!" Laying her hand against his pectorals, between the flat discs of his nipples, her index finger rubbing the sparse black hair, she angled her face to look up at him. "Honor... respect. I'm humbled by your dedication and your sacrifice."

Snape raised his hands to her shoulders, his breath catching at the silken texture of her skin, and he spun her to look into the mirror once again. "No more than I feel for your honorably won scars.... You received these fighting for what you believed in... for those you love. There is no dishonor or revulsion in that."

"But I'm not... no one will ever see that... they'll just see... this..." With a deft twist of her fingers between her breasts, she released the catch of her bra and the wire-cupped material sprang open, to reveal Hermione's naked breasts to her Professor's gaze. Instead of touching her skin, Hermione was tracing the line of scar on the mirror, across her nipple, which was puckered and misshapen by the thick scar tissue. "What wizard... what man... would want to touch me now... ever?"

In what he'd later decide was insanity, Snape stepped behind Hermione, his naked chest meeting the satin of her back, and he wrapped an arm around her, encircling her torso. One long finger found the beginning of her scar, up in her hairline, and then began to gently feel the puckered, uneven tissue, the faint heat that remained two months after the initial healing process had taken place. He trailed his finger across the tendon in her neck, and down her throat, between her collarbones, and up the gentle swell of her breast. His finger dipped to one side and the other, the ridge wasn't smooth, but he traced it, even as he watched her un-glamourized expression in the mirror. She was mesmerized, her eyes fastened on his movements.

His finger stopped at the peak of her breast, and then one finger was joined by a second, and then a third, until her entire breast was cupped in his hand. The puckered scar tissue almost tickled his sensitive palm, and his voice was deep and gravelly in her ear. "I would... Hermione."

Their eyes met in the mirror and with a sudden shift in awareness and unable to hide their true feelings in this mirror, much more than simple trust, understanding and perhaps desire was revealed to each other. Vulnerability, loneliness, fear, the betrayal of those they'd trusted, and the inevitable understanding that neither had a future to look forward to was painfully clear to each. The Manticore had been released and they had been thrown wandless into its forest.

Hermione spun in his arms, her hands snaking around his body to pull him to her. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She was shaking, and so was the hand that Snape raised to stroke her hair. He tucked her head under his chin, and together, they stood in one another's arms for a very long time.

Finally, she broke the quietude of their unusual embrace. "What are we going to do?"

Snape had been thinking feverishly while he'd held her. He'd made a decision. It was a leap of faith and not something he'd had much luck with before now, but he was not going to let her thread be cut in the tapestry of Dumbledore's weaving. "Will you trust me?"

She didn't hesitate for a second. "Yes."

His heart expanded with her answer, the leap hadn't yet been into a bottomless chasm. Snape's long-fingered hand smoothed over her back and he mused aloud. "There is a week left of the term. I will make some private arrangements. Will you let me be your Secret Keeper?"

"Do you mean it?" Her head tilted and her eyes met his, unwavering, undaunted by what seemed to have sprouted and grown between them. She was still young to trust so easily, but a tiny voice in his mind reminded him that he had proven himself trustworthy to her.

"Yes. I will set some things in motion to keep you safe."

"I have my... my inheritance. It's all been deposited into my Gringott's vault. I'll give you access. Use whatever you need."

He sucked in his breath at the degree of trust she was showing. For some odd reason, the fact that she was giving him access to her bank vault was more significant than the fact that she trusted him with her life. Perhaps it was because she'd trusted him with her life before. He bent his head to press his lips to her forehead. "Thank you, Hermione. I will not use much and it will ensure your safety..."

"And yours. You must stay safe, too, Professor..." she blushed, and Snape cocked an eyebrow. "S...Severus."

His heart was beating like a Snitch in flight, and his throat was tight. What had he done? He'd taken that first, irrevocable step away from the path Dumbledore had charted for him. But something about this encounter resonated deep within his soul, and the expression in her eyes was verification that he'd made the right decision... perhaps the last one he'd ever make. "If you wish."

"I do."

They remained locked in each other's arms for another long embrace, and then, reluctantly, they parted. Hermione's hand cupped his cheek, "Thank you."

He leaned into her hand, "And you."

After a long moment, Snape straightened up. His life... their lives... had just become exponentially more complicated and he only had one week within which to prepare for her security while maintaining his façade of indifference. He'd been a spy for eighteen years. He could do it. But could she? Then he realized that in this one instance, Dumbledore had aided his pawns. The glamour the old Machiavellian had cast on Hermione would work in their favor. She could be a nervous, twitching wreck and no one could tell.

~o0o~