Act One: La Belle Sorcière Sans Merci

That’s All[1]

When Hermione looks up to see a very much alive and rejuvenated Albus Dumbledore, surrounded by four men and one woman (all of whom ought to be dead) she knows it’s another dream, and that it doesn’t belong to her.

Thinking of how the last one played out, she’s less than thrilled.

She glares at the red-head with her sparkling eyes and animated gestures. Hermione’s jealous, and she doesn’t like that.

Then Lily takes James’ hand.

Apparently an instinctive reaction. A completely casual gesture. But Hermione notices a calculating gleam in Lily’s eyes. James’ proud, possessive air when he returns Lily’s squeeze is all natural, however.

Hermione turns. She doesn’t know why. In this dream, there’s no sound. She decides to be grateful for small mercies.

It’s Snape, of course.

I must be sharing his dreams, Hermione thinks. How odd.

Again she feels compelled to follow him.

And again they are at Hogwarts. A silent, empty Hogwarts; in the corridor outside the Room of Requirement. An Order meeting during the holidays, she supposes.

Snape paces, shoulders tense, head bowed, fists white-knuckled. He looks a man possessed by madness.

Hermione knows this madness has a name.

Suddenly he looks up, and Hermione must endure how this private man loses control over his expression. She sees his struggle, sees his defeat. Desire and pain strip him of all defences, leave him naked and exposed, the tower of his soul tumbled down, [2] ground to rubble under a dainty heel.

He stares to her left. Lily stands with her hand curled around the door handle, leaning against the heavy wood. As if she needs the support.

Or to keep a silencing spell in place, Hermione considers cynically.

Hermione winces at Snape’s painful attempts to speak. He swallows dryly. Fear and pure panic cloud his gaze.

At last he manages to say something, and although she still can’t hear a word, Hermione’s imagination readily supplies the dialogue for the scene playing out before her.

‘I thought it was the best day of my life when I met you. Now I think it may have been the worSt My feelings for you haven’t changed a whit in all these years. You know that! But you don’t care. I’ve done everything you ever wanted.’ A sneer contorts his face as he raises a hand, one finger at a time, counting off –

‘I’ve given you my body. To your scheme I’ve submitted my free will, my honour and my freedom.

‘I’ve given you my heart!’

He clutches his left fist to his chest.

Lily frowns and rubs her forehead as if she’s getting a migraine. Hermione can see that she’s struggling for control now, too. Her lips twitch a little, her nostrils flare slightly, and she blinks as if she wants to roll her eyes.

When she opens her mouth, Hermione doesn’t need to hear anything to know that Lily is speaking in that overly slow, infuriatingly calm manner that makes you want to hit a person just because.

‘Sev. I’m sorry. But you are never here. And when you’re here, you’re, well, boring. And always so bleak.’ A sigh. ‘Look, if you’re not blind like the mole you’ve become, you must have realised that I’ve had uh… feelings for James for a while. — Oh, please. Don’t look at me like that! You’re acting as if I’m the only woman in the world!’ She shakes her head. ‘Sometimes I get the feeling you want to be unhappy.’

He bows his head, lank strands of oily hair hiding his face. But Hermione feels his answer nevertheless.

‘Yes, I must truly wish to live in misery, to give my heart to someone who’d keep such a loose hold on it. Someone who would crush me with a glance as if I were nothing but a puerile imbecile. I must look right pathetic to you.’

Lily’s expression softens. She steps toward him, laying a gentle hand upon his arm. ‘No, you don’t. Will you never stop this foolishness? I feel no disdain for you. I never have, and never will. I do love you — I’ll never hate you. I just don’t love you in an intimate way. Not anymore. That’s all.’

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[1] All textual allusions to ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’ by Alain Chartier are absolutely intentional.

[2] Textual allusion to Diana Gabaldon, “Cross Stitch”, Chapter 36.