Chapter Six

A/N: Everything you recognize is JKR's. I make no money. Warning for off-screen torture in this chapter. Thank you to Shellsnapeluver for being an excellent beta and for lending me the cursed whip from Love is a Fire. This one's for you, Shell.

After the evening of her detention, life at Hogwarts went on as usual until the whole incident began to seem like a strange dream. Classes continued--she particularly enjoyed the introduction of rune triangulation in Arithmancy, and even Defense Against the Dark Arts was going smoothly. She and Snape continued to snipe at one another in class, and she was becoming quite adept at nonverbal spells. Of course, she was avoiding Ron studiously and was more grateful than ever that she had... er, assisted... his joining of the Gryffindor Quidditch team as he and Harry were often at practice.

Professor Slughorn's gatherings were also a refuge for her, and though she often thought she would die if she had to consume another ounce of crystallized pineapple, she was grateful for the time to spend with Harry and Ginny without having to duck Ron's touch. In fact, the only thought she had been giving to her situation lately was to hope that Lavender would hurry up and make her move so that the rest of her life could return to normal. She missed the easy camaraderie between herself and Harry and Ron.

One Friday night, after Astronomy, as Hermione was walking back from the kitchens where the three of them had been taking in an evening snack, she felt her ring begin to warm and finally, to burn. She clenched her left hand into a fist and began to look around for somewhere she could disappear to.

"I don't know," Harry was saying, "He's good, of course, but I didn't want to ask him until I checked with you... you know, being Ginny's boyfriend and all..."

Ron was scowling and had thrust his hands into the pockets of his robes. "I guess it doesn't matter," he replied darkly. "I mean, the point is to defeat Slytherin... so, if you must... Though I still wish you'd let me quit the team."

Suddenly, she saw the answer up ahead. "You two go on. I'm just going to make a quick trip to the loo," she said, anxious to get the ring off her finger. She wondered if a magical burn could leave a scar.

"See you back at the Tower," Harry said, and turning back to Ron, "I know, but, mate, we've got to show Malfoy, even if..." His voice trailed off as the door swung shut behind her. She hurried into a stall, yanking the ring off and holding it up to the light.

Headmaster's office. Alone. Hurry.

A chill swept through her. Never once in the last four weeks had Snape used the ring to contact her. And come to think of it, she hadn't noticed him in the Great Hall for meals since... since Monday? Panic began to jangle her nerves. Where had he been? She shoved the ring back onto her finger and took off trotting for the Headmaster's office, doubling back down the Charms corridor so that she wouldn't meet Harry and Ron on the way.

As she pulled up in front of the gargoyle, Hermione realized that she didn't know the password.

"Fizzing Whizbees?" she asked hopefully. The gargoyle continued to look at her sternly, unmoving.

"Damn it," she hissed, pulling her wand from her pocket. She touched it to her ring and thought Password? with all her might. Seconds later, the invisible circlet warmed, and she looked inside it. The corners of her lips turned up in spite of her fear.

"Ice Mice," she told the gargoyle, and he leaped aside.

She took the stairs two at a time and burst through Dumbledore's office door without knocking. She found him standing over Professor Snape, who was draped, unconscious, over an overstuffed chair. His robes were soaked with blood, though she could not see the source of it. Dumbledore was holding Snape's ring in one hand and his wand in the other. Hermione realized that he must have used the ring to summon her as Snape was clearly gravely injured, but she still felt a curious relief when he replaced the ring on Snape's finger.

"Professor Dumbledore--what--?"

"Thank you for coming so quickly, Hermione," Dumbledore said, crossing behind her to close the door. "As you can see, Professor Snape has been injured."

"Did he--was it--Voldemort?"

"Yes. Professor Snape was summoned early Tuesday morning. He only just now returned to the castle. I'm grateful that he was able to make it here."

"Why isn't he in the hospital wing? Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey?"

"I think not," Dumbledore said. "Madam Pomfrey is an excellent healer, but she is inexperienced in dealing with such Dark magic--and the Cruciatus Curse is rather unmistakable in its effects. She would be sure to be alarmed and to ask a great number of questions. No, I usually attend to Professor Snape myself."

Hermione felt her entire body numb as Dumbledore spoke the words 'Cruciatus Curse.' "Then what is it, sir? Do you need help?"

"I'm afraid I need rather a lot of help. I've been called away on some of... Harry's business," he said, looking at her significantly. "It cannot wait. I will have to ask you to care for Professor Snape."

"Care for him? But if Madam Pomfrey can't--"

"I have the utmost confidence in you," Dumbledore said, ignoring her protests. "I've laid out what you will need here: some healing spells, though I'm sure you're already familiar with them; essences of Dittany and Murtlap, to soothe and heal wounds, though be careful not to administer too much of either, as they can sometimes react to each other in nasty ways; and Dreamless Sleep. I've already given him a dose, as you can see. You'll need to be on the look out for chills and fever. Chills spell shock--keep him warm with his limbs elevated. Fever usually indicates infection. You'll want to stop the Murtlap and up the Dittany if you see a fever. And cold compresses are never amiss."

"But, sir--"

"Hermione, I would not ask this of you if the need were not great," he said firmly. "The Cruciatus Curse usually manifests itself in nightmares and muscle spasms. Keep a careful watch over him and massage out any cramping that occurs."

"But, sir, the wounds? What are they from?"

"Whipping," Dumbledore said quietly. "Of a particularly nasty variety. Voldemort possesses a whip that continues to torture for hours after the beating has ceased. He will feel every strike again, this time as if they were made by flame. That is the reason for the Draught of Dreamless Sleep. I have found no cure for that pain except time. He will scream, so be sure to soundproof his chambers."

"His chambers?"

"He needs bed rest. And keeping him in his own rooms will keep the two of you off Harry's map. I will help you take him through the Floo, and then I must depart."

Hermione was nearly paralyzed with fear, but she dared not disobey the Headmaster, nor leave Snape in agony, so she hoisted his left arm up over her shoulder as Dumbledore took on the right. She nearly stumbled under his weight, but braced herself and bore it, inching toward the fireplace.

She looked to Dumbledore to activate the Floo, but he shook his head and said, "You are the only one who can do it." Ah, yes. Her other home. Was this why he had called her? Because he couldn't get into Snape's chambers without her? Hermione pushed that odd thought from her mind. Whatever the reason, Snape was in terrible need of care.

After they'd settled him into his own bed, Dumbledore turned and addressed her. "You'll need to clean and close the wounds quickly before the spasms begin. I hope to return by morning. If he wakes, Hermione, he may be blind. Try not to panic. It has always passed."

"Professor Dumbledore--what about Harry and Ron? They're sure to come looking for me!"

"I'll see to it, Miss Granger," he said shortly. "Now--Professor Snape needs you." And with that, he stepped into the fireplace.

In a moment, he had vanished, and Hermione was, once again, alone with Snape in his bedroom. Do not think, she told herself. Just act. She used her wand to place a Silencing Charm over his suite and to strip his clothes from his body, gasping as she saw the extent of his wounds. Nearly every square inch of him was covered in swollen, reddened welts, most of them still oozing blood. He looks like a Muggle road map, she thought and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, unable to look at the flayed abomination that should have been her professor's--her husband's--skin.

Hermione steeled herself and conjured a basin filled with water and the softest cloths she could manage. She cast a general Cleansing Charm over his body and then gently set about the work of cleaning each individual wound. Snape whimpered slightly as she blotted his tender flesh, and the sound, faint as it was, tore at her ears. Snape was not supposed to be in pain--he was supposed to dole it out. She glanced over Dumbledore's notes, which he had left on the bedside table, and, confident that she knew the Charm well, she used her wand to begin binding his skin together.

It was painstaking work, and she knew she was running out of time. The wounds had to be healed before the convulsions began--not just because he would be in motion, and she couldn't trust herself to heal a moving target, but because of the risk that he would worsen any open gashes. She tried to work quickly, thumbing open the jar of Murtlap in her left hand as she healed with her right. She would save the Dittany until it was absolutely necessary. Without someone to help her, she was terrified of causing a reaction. With whispering touches, she spread Murtlap over the seams of his newly healed skin. He made a slight hissing sound between his teeth, but Hermione couldn't tell if it was from pain or relief. As gently as she could, she grasped him by the shoulder and hip and rolled him over.

At that, he did cry out, and she stammered a hasty apology. She found that talking to him calmed her, so she kept up a steady stream of chatter as she worked over his back, where the wounds were longer and deeper.

"I'm so sorry, Professor Snape. I'm promise that I'm not trying to hurt you. Professor Dumbledore had to leave; I know he usually does this for you. I'm sure that would make you a lot more comfortable than having me here!" She paused and laughed shrilly, "Though it's nothing I haven't seen before. Your body that is, not these wounds. I've never seen anything like these wounds. Professor Dumbledore said that you were whipped. I can hardly believe that anyone--anyone--could be so cruel as to do this to another person. You don't deserve this, Professor. I can only hope that I'm bringing you some relief from the pain."

She babbled on, letting her voice act like a salve, driving out her thoughts. She was so afraid that she knew she would not be able to go on if she considered the situation too closely. What if she was causing him even more pain? What if he died before Dumbledore returned? What if, and this struck her so deeply that she could not even think the thought straight on, but could only edge around it in her mind, what if this had happened because Voldemort had somehow found out about her?

She had barely closed the last of the rents in his skin when his hands began to twitch convulsively. Quickly, she returned him to his back and lay her cheek against his forehead to check his temperature as her mother had done when she was a small child. Warm and clammy, thank Merlin. A fever would burn hot and dry. So he could have more Dreamless Sleep and more Murtlap. She measured out a dose of the Sleeping Potion and eased it between his lips, letting it dribble down his throat. He coughed slightly, but swallowed when she massaged his neck.

"It's all right," she whispered. "I'm here, and I won't leave you."

His right hand was still twitching, so she took it in her own and rubbed it with her thumb, loosening the ball of muscles. Gently, she worked his fingers open, squeezing each one and warming it in her palm. Though she could see now that two of the digits were broken, some of the hard lines in his face slackened. The massage was working. She would set the bones later.

He began to draw his legs up, and Hermione could see the muscles bunching into tight knots in his calves. There was a keening, pleading sound escaping from his lips, and she used all her remaining will to block it out as she grasped his left foot and pulled his leg straight against his protests. She leaned the heel of her hand against his toes, forcing his foot flat. She knew it must hurt, but it was the only way to combat the clenching of his muscles--she had to keep them elongated. Slowly, she eased his right leg into the same position, bracing his feet against her ribs as she rubbed her hands up and down his legs to keep the muscles warm and supple. As her hands ran back and forth over the ridges of scar tissue that she had just created, she thought of that night... their wedding night... and the scars that she had felt on his back. How long had he been enduring this agony? She was ashamed that she had never thought about what life as a Death Eater must truly be like. Oh, she had known that he was protecting her and the other students, but from what she had never considered. How often did he collapse in Dumbledore's office? How often had she made snide remarks when he was absent from meals when really he was down here, screaming in pain, tortured by an invisible master whose hold on him never slackened?

Sitting down on the side of the bed, Hermione began on his hands again, which had knotted into fists, slowly working up his arms into his shoulders. His head rocked fitfully on the pillow, and she knew he must be suffering one of the world's worst headaches. She paused in her ministrations long enough to freshen the water in the basin beside the bed and soak one of the soft towels in it. She rolled it and lay it across his forehead, smoothing his hair away from his face. Oh, God, his nose was broken, too. That she set quickly, refusing to hear the snick of his bones realigning. She figured that, unlike his fingers, there was little likelihood of his breaking it again during the seizing.

Finally, she could no longer keep up with the pace of the spasms. Snape's knees were drawing up while she was still dealing with the muscles of his neck, his arms clenching and folding while his abdominals drew him into a tight and twitching ball. He was grunting with effort and pain. She had no idea what to do. Suddenly, he screamed, and his whole body seemed to go rigid, bracing itself against a blow that she could not see.

No, she thought. No. Not the aftershocks already. I am no match for this.

Tears were leaking from his eyes, though he did not sob. Her hands worked futilely over his legs; already she could see that his hands were once again scrabbling over the bedclothes, reduced to useless claws. In frustration, she kicked off her shoes and stretched out beside him, bracing his feet with hers, using her length to keep him extended. His body felt cold to her touch. Cold--shock! she thought and turned, grabbing her wand and casting Warming Charms over the bed, his body, even herself. She couldn't elevate his limbs while he was like this, but she could try to keep him from freezing.

His cries were deafening with his mouth in such close proximity to her ear, but she dared not muffle them. She needed to know what he was feeling so that she could try to help. Easing her arms around him, she began massaging the muscles of his back. She felt every lash of the whip as he wrenched into her body. At times his fingers dug into her skin; other times he kicked and flailed, striking her with alarming strength for a man so compromised.

"Shhhh," she soothed senselessly into his ear. "It's over now. You're in your own bed. These are just the aftershocks. No one is hurting you now." It felt like a lie. Someone was clearly hurting him very badly, and despite the beating she was taking by proxy, she longed to stand between him and that ghostly whip, to bear at least a little of the pain for him.

He struggled for hours. There were brief periods when the burning whip would cease, and she could return to loosening the muscles of his neck or thighs, when suddenly the whole thing would begin again with renewed strength, and she would find herself once again acting as a human straightjacket. At one point she saw new rivulets of blood trickling onto the pillowcase, and her heart nearly stopped in her chest until she realized that it was her own. He had caught her brow with his chin hard enough to split it. Not daring to try a healing spell on herself, especially when she couldn't see the wound, she wiped the blood from her face and pressed one of the cloths over it. It would have to do.

She checked the time. Four a.m. Where in bloody hell was Dumbledore? Hermione was so exhausted that her own muscles were twitching. Her skin felt taut and papery with fatigue, and her eyebrow was burning where it had been cut. Snape's cries had slackened for the moment. She looked into his face and saw that his eyes were open.

"Professor," she whispered. "Are you awake?"

He did not answer, but clutched her tightly and squeezed his eyes shut once more. Light! she thought, remembering his headache. Quickly, she extinguished the lamps, which left her to lie in the darkness, listening to his breathing until her eyes adjusted.

Snape seemed to have, at last, relaxed. He shifted, she presumed, to take the pressure off his savaged back and moaned slightly. His breathing was laboured but regular. Hermione began to sob then, finally released from duty by the fact that he seemed to have fallen into a more natural slumber.

She cried until she felt like a hollowed stump and then tumbled gracelessly after him into sleep.

***

When he woke, he had no sense of where he was or what time it might be. It was dark, but that was no guarantee of anything at all, for he had woken many times into darkness only to find that he was suffering the temporary blindness that follows the Cruciatus.

Cruciatus, yes. Slowly, it came back. He had left on Tuesday morning, summoned by the infernal burning of the Dark Mark. He'd had no sense for three whole days that anything was amiss. Voldemort often called his Death Eaters to him simply to inconvenience them. He liked the notion that they were forced to drop everything to cater to his whims. He'd passed the time brewing the potions that Voldemort desired and amusing him with memories of bullying young Potter. But on Friday, Voldemort had turned sneaky and sullen, and Snape began to suspect that he had run afoul of the disgusting wizard in some way.

"I've been thinking of removing you from Hogwarts," he'd said, his red, reptilian eyes watching Snape carefully for a response.

"Really?" Snape said in a bored tone. "If you no longer feel you need a spy at Hogwarts, I can't say as I'd shed a tear. This year's new students are particularly hopeless."

"It's not that I don't feel the need for a spy at Hogwarts, Severus," Voldemort hissed, "but that I am beginning to wonder if you are doing any spying."

"You are unsatisfied with the job I am doing, my Lord?"

"Why is there no more news? What do they plan for Potter? Why do I hear nothing but the location of the werewolf, the doings of that old fool, Moody?"

"Because they are foolish, my Lord. They make no plans; they only try to guess at yours with their feeble, childish minds. They think only for the safety of their numbers--where to hide those like Lupin and Moody--and spare no thoughts for war. They don't possess your talent for power and domination."

Voldemort looked vaguely mollified, but suddenly, he had lunged for Snape and seized his face in his cadaverous hands. Red eyes boring into black, he had hissed, "Legilimens!"

The walls had been half up already. Snape never appeared before the serpentine bastard without some rudimentary Occlumency in place. But Voldemort had taken him by surprise, and as he shielded his mind against intrusion, he knew that some secret chamber had already been breached.

"Who is the girl?" Voldemort said.

Snape knew there was no point in dissembling. If Voldemort was interested, he'd seen more than just a face in a classroom.

"Potter's friend," he said neutrally.

"What was she doing in your rooms?"

"I was under the impression that you wanted me to spy," Snape said smoothly. "I was spying."

"Crucio!" Voldemort hissed. "I will not tolerate impertinence. Explain yourself."

When Snape could speak again, he stammered, "She is Potter's friend, my Lord, and she believes me to be trustworthy. I have allowed her to see me acting as a member of the Order. She will have news, the news you crave, perhaps more than those who are afraid to speak it in my presence. I have been worming my way into her good graces."

"Worming your way, you say? For how long, Severus?"

"The beginning of the school year, my Lord."

"Then why is this the first I'm hearing of it?"

"I thought--I wanted to find out what I could from her and bring it to you as a gift."

"To spy is your job--what you find in doing it is not a gift, but a duty."

"Yes, my Lord."

"I will have to punish you, Severus. I cannot have you ruining my plans with your foolish toadying."

"Yes, my Lord."

"But you may keep on with the girl, so long as it does not interfere with your other duties. I expect a full--and immediate--report on anything that she might know that is of interest."

Snape's last, "Yes, my Lord," was drowned in a scream as Voldemort applied the Cruciatus Curse once more.

He'd barely been conscious by the time Voldemort had removed the clothes from his twitching body and begun with that cursed whip.

After that, there was nothing. But the fact that he was in a bed and could move slightly without screaming told him that he must have made it back to Hogwarts. He could hear soft breathing coming from somewhere to the right of him. He must have been in quite a condition if Dumbledore had stayed the night.

Suddenly, he was consumed by fire, a terrible, biting burn snaking up his back from his buttocks. He gasped and rolled away from the pain, kicking at whatever its source might be. It's the whip, he thought, Save your strength, but it bit again, this time on his right shoulder, and he could not help striking the air, desperate to escape his molten attacker. His fist struck something soft and yielding, something that yelped, and he was seized with triumph--there was something there! He would beat it--he would kill it!

He could feel the soft thing moving away, but still the burning did not stop. Now, it lashed at his legs, the soles of his feet; now, his neck and chest. He tore at his skin, at his scalp, trying to root out the fire; he pounded the bed with his fists. Pain! Where was it coming from? Why couldn't he stop it? The room dissolved, overtaken by flame and agony. He flailed helplessly as he succumbed to delirium.

After hours?... minutes?... he could not tell which, he felt ice chips being pushed gently into his mouth and moist fingers running over his lips. Water. Yes. Water. He sucked at it greedily and found himself choking, his throat working convulsively.

"Shhh," a female voice was saying. "Slowly. I want you to get some of this down before it starts again. You're dehydrated."

"Lily?" he croaked, but the world was gone again, blotted out by the sound of his own hoarse cries. The fire had returned full force, though he thought he could feel gentle hands kneading his skin, driving out a tiny fraction of the pain.

***

The next time he woke, someone was there. He couldn't see well, but he could just make out a dark shape leaning over him.

"Albus?" But that could not be right. He smelled parchment and honey beneath sweat and fear. It was oddly familiar.

"No... it's me. It's... Hermione."

"Miss Granger," he whispered, and the dark shape that was Hermione seized his hand in both of hers and sank to her knees beside the bed.

"Professor Snape, thank God!" she said, drawing his hand up to her face. "Thank God, you're all right." The pain was swift and brilliant--he would have to tell her that two of his fingers were broken--but there was a different pain at work, something that cut and stung more deeply than the whip: her tears. He could feel them trickling over his hand, and her breath came in short gasps, cooling the moisture on his skin. "I was so afraid; I thought you'd never wake up. What can I do? What do you need?"

He could not speak. It seemed his heart had become dislodged from his chest and was choking him. She seemed so sincere, so genuine in her concern. Had she really feared that he would die? Wouldn't she have welcomed his death as it would release her?

"Tell me, please, sir; I've been guessing for too long, and I'm so afraid I've caused you pain. What should I do?"

Somehow he found his voice, rusty and cracking from the screaming, and said, "My fingers, Miss Granger."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, releasing his hand and making him wish that he had never said anything at all. "I'm so sorry! When the aftershocks started I completely forgot." She rose and took hold of his hand again, this time with a different kind of pressure. "Sir, I hate to hurt you any more, but I'm going to have to set your fingers before I mend the bones."

He nodded, whispering, "Please be careful. That's my wand hand."

"I know, and you need your dexterity for potion making. I promise that I will do this as quickly and cleanly as I can." With that, she gave a sharp tug, and he winced as the bones settled themselves together properly.

"Well done," he said as she murmured an incantation to set the breaks to knitting.

"What can I give you for pain? Would you like more Dreamless Sleep?"

"Yes. But first, why are you here? Where is Dumbledore?"

"He was called away," she said. "He said something about Harry's business."

Of course, he thought bitterly. Then, "How long have you been here?"

"Almost two days."

"He left you here for two days?" Good God, what she must have seen.

"He didn't say how long to stay--and there was no way that I would leave you like this. Though I don't know what good I've done."

"You've done plenty. I'm still here," he said simply.

"Will you be all right? Can you see?"

"I will be fine, Miss Granger. When was the last bout of... aftershocks, you called them?"

"An hour ago. I think you've been asleep since then."

"That may have been the last. I can see light and dark right now. It will be better after I've rested."

He heard her moving and felt a spoon rest against his lips. "It's the Dreamless Sleep, Professor."

He hesitated and thought again of the fact that her life now neatly paralleled his own. She, too, led a separate, secret life, a life filled with horrors like those she must have witnessed over the last two days. Before long she would serve as a spy, a bearer of messages from the other side. How badly he wished to trust her. "Will you stay?" he asked.

"Of course."

He sipped it down and let oblivion take him.

***

"Professor?" A tentative hand was prodding his shoulder. Miss Granger. "Professor?"

"Yes?" he said, feeling as if he were swimming up from the bottom of a very deep lake. He heard her sigh with relief.

"Professor Dumbledore is back. He's called through the Floo. I'm going to go and get him. I'm sorry to have woken you, but I didn't want you to wake up and find yourself alone."

"Thank you," he said shortly. He had not yet opened his eyes. He heard her cross the room before he slipped under the water again.

***

"He looks well, Hermione. You did a fine job." Snape could hear Dumbledore's voice as if from somewhere far away.

"I don't know, sir. I'm afraid I didn't do enough for his pain."

"Nonsense. I know you did all you could. Now, if you'll gather your things, I'm sure Harry and Ron are very anxious to see you."

"What did you tell them, sir?"

"Time was on our side, for once. I didn't have to tell them very much. As you may remember, there was a Quidditch match yesterday. Harry and Ron were rather preoccupied. Gryffindor won, you see. And I scheduled Harry's lesson with me for this morning, so he has had much to consider. I feel certain he'll have many tales to regale you with upon your return to the Tower."

"You got back this morning?" was all she said.

"Rather late last night."

"I see."

Snape opened his eyes so as to better glare at Dumbledore. He'd been back since last night, and he'd left the poor girl here, caring for a madman, functioning on nothing but nerves? Dumbledore's betrayal of Miss Granger's trust served only to remind him of how the old wizard had wrangled them into this position in the first place, and how careless it was to believe in anyone at all.

His eyes focused slowly, taking in Albus and the shriveled, blackened hand that always caught him by surprise.

"Professor Snape," Hermione said quietly, noticing him.

Sweet Merlin, what had happened to her? He searched his memory frantically. Had he taken her with him for some reason? Had she been tortured? Who had been looking after her all this time? His mind came up blank. He could think of no reason for the blood caked over her right eye, or the vicious bruises that littered her arms and face. Her hair was a fright, but that wasn't new. What was new was the funny way she was standing, cradling her left arm and seeming to favor her right foot. What in God's name was going on?

"Miss Granger, what on earth has happened to you?" he whispered.

She blushed and shifted slightly, looking both embarrassed and determined. "Nothing. I'm fine. Professor Dumbledore will sort me out before I return home, I'm sure. How are you, sir?"

What was she hiding? Why wouldn't she tell him? She could hardly have any secrets left after ... that night. Then the answer began to creep into his mind. He had done it. Somehow, he had done this to her. She had been foolish to trust him, foolish to care for him. He'd managed to destroy anyone who ever had. Even unconscious, he would tear her apart.

"Were your injuries a result of--?" he began stiffly.

"It was my own fault," she said. "You were delirious; I know you didn't mean me any harm. I was trying to keep you from hurting yourself and I--well, I got in the way."

"You got in the way? Of all the asinine--Miss Granger, I thought you had better sense--"

"I'm sorry," she said, and that hurt worse somehow than the knowledge that he had betrayed her against his will. He had hurt her, and still she apologized to him. When would she learn? When would she guard herself against the pain that people would cause her again and again?

"Get your things," he said sharply.

"Sir?"

"Out."

"Severus," Dumbledore began.

"No. You've left me in the care of someone who can't even take care of herself. I want her out of my sight."

She looked at him nakedly then, and he nearly took it back.

"I'm sorry," she said again, and he rolled away from them to face the opposite wall, unable to look at that open face any longer.

"You will speak of this to no one!" he shouted, hearing them retreat.

"No," she agreed. "Get well, Professor Snape." She said it like a prayer.

"OUT!"

His head sank back onto the pillow. She would never trust him now.