Chapters 51-60

Legilimens!

Idiot girl. What had she been thinking? Had she been thinking at all?

Snape stood at the foot of her bed in the hospital wing and stared down at her still figure.

So fragile. Too thin. She didn’t eat enough. Those dark smudges underneath her eyes—they were not due to the attack. He couldn’t remember when he’d seen her without them. Did she ever get a good night’s sleep? And the lines on her face. There shouldn’t be any. Hermione was only twenty years old. There shouldn’t be any lines. But there were. Faint, at the bridge of her nose, on her forehead.

And oh God, her injuries. Her broken jaw was healed, of course. But even with salves and magic it would take days until the contusions and bruises receded. Right now her mouth was barely visible, swollen and discoloured. The healed wrist was still wrapped in thick bandages, to give bones, muscles and tendons a chance to recuperate.

He sat down.

‘Miss Granger,’ he said. ‘You have been asleep for two days. It is time for you to wake up.’

Snape didn’t expect her to listen to him. She hadn’t reacted to Harry’s voice or Ron’s. Not to Minerva’s nor Molly’s or Lois’. He had failed her. He had failed her as her master. He had failed her on account of the life-debts he owed her. And DAMN IT ALL TO HELL, he had failed her as the one whose arms had embraced her last.

‘Miss Granger,’ he repeated. ‘You are safe. Please, wake up. We need to know what happened. Please.—Hermione.’

Snape didn’t expect her to react. If he had believed in prayer, he would have prayed, begging not to turn Hermione into his bitterest failure. But as he was the man he was, he did nothing of the sort.

She woke all the same.

With a high, keening noise of pain and fear, she tried to clutch at him, but failed, weakened by her injuries.

‘Miss Granger? Can you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying? You are safe. You don’t need to be afraid. You are at Hogwarts. Nothing can happen to you here.’

But he knew, just as she knew, that not even Hogwarts was safe. It hadn’t been before. There were no safe places left in the world, even with Voldemort dead and gone.

Brown eyes glittered huge and panicked in her pale face. But she nodded slightly.

Gryffindor all the way.

‘We need to know what happened.’

It was cruel to ask this of her. But he had no choice. Either he got the information out of her, or an Auror, or worse, an Unspeakable would do the job.

‘Your jaw was broken. That is the reason why you cannot speak. Don’t try. It will take a few days until the swelling goes down.

‘I am very sorry to ask this of you now, but it is necessary. The Aurors need to know what happened, even if you cannot speak. You have two options. Either I can extract your memories and put them into a pensieve, or I can perform Legilimency’

For a moment she lay utterly still.

She should be allowed to sleep. To heal. It was not right to question her now. Whatever traces were left, were probably covered up already. But the Ministry was impatient.

Hermione widened her eyes at him. He frowned. What did she want to convey to him?

She lifted her right hand. Her hand trembled, but she managed to move it. She touched her fingertips just below her eyes.

Legilimency.

Foolish, foolish girl.

‘Are you sure, Hermione?

‘Legilimens!’

oooOooo

Fury surged through him at the attack. Five grown men turning on one young woman!

What kind of world was this?

Each blow struck him along with her, her pain and panic became a part of him.

He should have been there to protect her.

Then he was lying on the ground with her and looking up into the dim light of the street-lamp. And saw the sixth man, wand pointed, the Dark Mark burning black on white skin.

oooOooo

Snape had seen enough. As gently as he could, he began to draw back—and found himself pulled deeper into Hermione’s mind instead.

She was the brightest witch of her generation; mentally she was a power to be reckoned with. Hermione was too weak to reach for him physically. So she clung to him with the most desperate strength of her mind.

If he did not want to hurt her by forcibly withdrawing from her mind, he had no choice.

He allowed himself to be pulled into her mental embrace. Her mind-touch was delicate—like her body—but strong as steel underneath, quite unlike her physical form; with a hint of a scent (lemon verbena?). Snape concentrated on the idea of safety and security, hoping that she would eventually relax sufficiently to let him go.

oooOooo

Breathe in.

He tasted the fragrance of his shower soap and his after-shave lotion. Why did the scent of vetyver mixed with herbs make her heart beat faster?

Breathe out.

He remembered holding her, just as she recalled being held. She associated the first feelings of warmth, safety and contentment in months with him? Had this been a conversation, he would have laughed. But an untrained mind like hers could not lie to him.

Breathe in.

It was disconcerting to see himself with her eyes, and to observe himself as he slept. Snape was—just like Hermione—well aware of the imperfections of his appearance (hair lank from years of exposure to cauldron-fumes, skin sallow from bad eating and sleeping habits, face lined, teeth crooked). But for some reason his looks did not only not bother the young witch, she found them appealing. He gave a mental frown. How could anyone in their right mind be obsessed with the form of his hands, the darkness of his eyes? Love his beak of a nose?

Breathe out.

…love?