A Star in the Storm

Chapter 9 - A Star in the Storm

Slowly, the girl's sobs subsided and she began taking deep, shaky breaths to calm herself. "I'm sorry I disturbed you, Professor," she said quietly, still turned away from him. "This always happens when I'm tired. It always comes back."

He withdrew his hand from her shoulder, but remained where he was. "It is not an easy thing," he replied, his voice equally low, "to know that one's mind can turn against one. And that the monsters therein are merely waiting for the defences to be lowered."

She rolled over and stared at him, her own dark eyes nearly black in the dim light. "You have them, too," she said, her voice wondering. "You don't think I'm weak because of this, or irritating."

His gaze left her, wandering to the fire. "I have spent," he began slowly, "over twenty years in His service. And in my memory is every dying scream, every agonised face. There was a point when they did not bother me, Miss Granger, but now each and every one lies in wait, appearing when I can no longer fight them."

"And the Greater Good no longer matters when they do, does it?"

"No. Only the pain, the fear, and the guilt of that moment."

Hermione gathered up her blankets, shifting to a seated position on the couch. "You must be freezing there on the floor. Please, sit on the couch. If you don't want to share the blankets, you ought to at least borrow one."

"A non-sequitur, Miss Granger?" An eyebrow quirked.

She smiled a little sheepishly. "I know. It is a valid point, though."

"You do," he acknowledged with a regal nod. "And I will borrow one of those blankets, Miss Granger. My gratitude." He unfolded his legs and settled himself with a thick comforter.

"That's something I never expected to hear," she sighed and leaned her head back against the couch. "Of course, this whole holiday has been unexpected. Not bad, you understand," she hastened to qualify, "just unexpected. I just wish I could get rid of these damned dreams. And their memories."

"You could simply have someone obliviate you," Severus pointed out neutrally.

"Like you have?" she shot back. "No. There is still too much for me— for us— to face. The lessons I have learned in the past few years have their purpose. I can't afford be the thoughtless little bookworm I was. Not if I want to survive. Not if I want others to survive."

She brought herself back to the present and was startled to see Snape regarding her with something akin to respect in his eyes. "That is an extraordinary statement from one so young, Miss Granger. I honour it."

A breath— almost, but not quite, a snort— escaped her. "I wish I could do the same when I wake up screaming in the night, hearing all of those god-awful sounds in my ears."

"Here, here," he sighed.

"Professor?" she queried suddenly after a long moment of silence.

"Hmm?"

"You can tell me to bugger off, if you like, but… Do you have a dream that keeps coming back? I mean, one particular memory that haunts you?" She tried to sound diffident, but he could hear the urgency underlying her words.

"God, yes," he answered, his hand coming up briefly to cover his eyes, then dropping heavily into his lap. "It was a kindergarten, a Muggle kindergarten. I don't even… Children so young they didn't even know themselves yet. There was a little girl there, no more than three or four years old. I dislike children, Miss Granger, as well you know, but I think that I will always see her eyes staring at me, wide and curious, just before Goyle hexed her into oblivion. He seemed to think it was some great joke. The only regrettable thing," he spat the words out like poison, "was that the bitch wouldn't grow up into something that might be 'fun' at meetings. Gods, I wanted to kill that bastard then and there. But the girl was already dead. She had purple eyes, you know. A rare colour."

He snorted in self-derision. "Listen to me babble on, like some bloody fountain. And to you of all people."

"Don't belittle it," Hermione snapped, her voice whip-sharp. "Don't dishonour that child's memory by belittling your own."

"Or what, Miss Granger?" The mocking tone was back, though Hermione wasn't sure if it was directed at her or at himself. "What changes? She is dead. I doubt it matters to her one jot what I say or think. Matters very little to anybody."

"Damnation," she swore in a low voice, earning a look of surprise from her professor. "I swear, Professor," she continued. "I swear, I don't know whether I think I ought to give you a hug or a swift kick in the arse. For an intelligent man, you can be pretty damn thick-headed."

"I? Thick-headed?" It was rare that anyone had him off-balance such that he resorted to echoing what he heard.

"Yes, you." She paused, uncertain how to proceed. "Oh, I don't know what I want to say. But do you know what I dream about, Professor?"

"I am aquiver with anticipation," he replied dryly.

She glared at him. "Mine are about killing that bastard, Pettigrew."

"I would have thought you would be glad he is dead." Snape had heard of the incident, though he had not been present. Pettigrew had somehow managed to grab the girl in Hogsmeade, using her as a hostage. Though her wand hand had been immobilised, she had apparently shown no little ingenuity in freeing herself and, in the process, had been forced to kill the 'bastard,' as she called him.

"I am. Believe me, I am," Hermione said fervently. She then seemed to pull back into herself, curling up and wrapping her arms around her knees. "God. You'd think that after everything he did, everything he tried to do, I'd feel some sort of triumph. Or… I don't know. Relief? Gratitude? Something." She tensed, almost as if trying to pull everything into her torso to make something smaller. "But all I can feel is the horror of that moment, the feel of my wand as it shoved through flesh. I don't even want to touch it anymore."

Almost dreamily, she added, "Did you know that a man's eye will make a popping sound when you poke it? He screamed, too. The kind when they say, 'he screamed like a woman.' I can hear it in my head." Suddenly, she shook herself, bringing her mind back from wherever it had gone, then shuddered. "Not something I want to hear for the next several decades."

"You did what was necessary, Miss Granger," Snape said bluntly. "Under those circumstances, I imagine you will be able to cope."

Hermione shrugged. "I hope so. Good Lord, I hope so." She turned her head, resting on her knees as she looked at Snape. "Thank you, Professor," she murmured. He snorted. "I mean it," she insisted and unfolded herself so she could lay a hand on his own. He jerked slightly, unused to this kind of human contact and wondering what she would do if she knew that the Dark Mark was embedded just above the wrist her fingers brushed. "You've listened," she continued, "and you've shared with me tonight. You've passed no judgement, made no pronouncements. You respected me. I appreciate that, sir. You have no idea how much."

Touched in spite of himself, Snape retreated behind his ordinary persona. "Just don't expect it to last, Miss Granger," he stated baldly. "You have pestered me for seven years without earning my respect; one more night doesn't change that."

For once, she didn't seem to take his words at face value. Chuckling, she further surprised him by giving his hand a squeeze. "I promise to do better next time, Professor," she pledged, amusement threading through her words. I'll get it from you eventually."

Snape rose from the couch, breaking the contact. "You may certainly try, Miss Granger," he said, his voice low. "And now, if that is all, I shall bid you good night."

"Of course," Hermione replied. "Good night, sir.

"Sleep well." The quiet, but sincere, wish followed him out into the hall and up the stairs.