From HellChapter 4By Pigwidgeon37Hermione listens to the fascinating dialogue between Conscience and Ratio. Snape is deeply puzzled. I lie awake, I have become like a lonely bird on a housetop. (Psalm 102:7)
Even though Hermione was not a sun person—meaning that she didn’t spend every free minute exposing her face and body to highly deleterious UV rays as did most of the other girls as soon as you could lie on the ground without freezing to death—the dreary weather was beginning to have a most negative effect on her. She was sitting in the library but couldn’t find it in her heart to work with her habitual enthusiasm. Listlessly, she stared out of the window into the grey haze of not-yet-dissolved morning mist and already-pouring-down rain. The weather had been like this for over a week now, except for one or two days in between when the sky had somewhat cleared up towards the evening, and it had at least been possible to get a glimpse of the waning moon. Small consolations—but by now she had to cling to straws. Although she wouldn’t have found time enough for a walk, she would have liked to see the blue sky when she lifted her eyes from the book she was brooding over. No trace of blue, though, only various shades of grey. The castle could just as well be floating in mid-air; the panorama wouldn’t have been any different. Her elbows were resting on the desktop, left and right of the huge tome she had been ploughing her way through, and now, in a gesture almost of defeat, Hermione lowered her head until it was embedded in her palms. Honestly, she didn’t know how long she would be able to carry on like this. The weather was only the last drop, the one de trop, which was soon going to cause the jug of her discontent to overflow. And she didn’t really like to imagine what would happen once the long-accumulated grudge and weariness and exhaustion and obediently-swallowed frustration… Hidden by her hands, her face was disfigured by a sneer. The list of negative emotions was getting really long. Deep down, Hermione knew exactly that it was up to her and her alone to put an end to this situation. If she really wanted to do something about it, she just had to walk straight into Dumbledore’s office and tell him that she couldn’t go on any longer. The Headmaster surely would understand. Then she could descend to the dungeons, inform Snape that she had had enough of celibacy and ask him to take the spell off her. And afterwards… Hermione raised her head and stared out of the window again, losing herself in the swirling mass of grey. Afterwards she would ask for a special permission to visit Hogsmeade, have her hair cut—she imagined it would look quite nice to have it only down to her earlobes instead of tumbling over her back like the tail of a horse that had made contact wit a high-voltage wire—and get some nice cosmetic treatment, maybe a massage… she could buy new clothes, shoes and underwear… And then, oh glorious return to the castle where, all of a sudden, the boys would notice her. Ask her out for a date perhaps… ‘Go on,’ her conscience told her, ‘Go on and indulge all those futile fantasies, you superficial, egotistic little bitch. Neglect your studies, dally around with boys! What are you waiting for? Go on, do it! But don’t come to me afterwards when your grades have dropped and you just pass your N.E.W.T.s instead of achieving the highest score of the century. And I don’t want to hear any complaints when you’re out in the real world and can’t contribute to the fight as much as you would like, just because there’s important things you missed to learn. Be sure that I won’t listen to your wailing, in case you happen upon the enemy and aren’t able to defend yourself. Not that you’re likely to wail then, because you’ll probably be dead…’ With most people, conscience equalled ratio and their daydreams came from a somewhat lower, id-ridden level. With Hermione, it was different. It was her rational part that told conscience to get hanged. ‘You’re shamelessly exaggerating. A young woman of eighteen is supposed to do other things than study day and night. It’s healthy and necessary. Nobody can develop their own personality unless they make their experiences. If she keeps going at this rate she’ll end up as a weirdo, a frustrated recluse. And you bet that sooner or later the great breakdown will come along. Don’t even try to imagine the hell that is going to break loose then!’ ‘Now who’s exaggerating?’ Conscience countered. ‘Moreover, with all your enlightened babbling, you’d better not forget that what you say might be true for normal times. But we’re not living in normal times. There’s a war at the horizon, a war that will probably be harder and dirtier than the previous one, which I, for one, would refrain from calling a piece of cake. Personal development is all well and fine. But what about looking over that rather restricted horizon? There’s a lot of potential in this brain, certainly more than in most brains. It’s her goddamned duty to make the best of it. If people go around cultivating their own precious ego, how do you think society will be able to defend itself against those threatening it?’ Hermione wished that Conscience and Ratio would soon finish their dispute, whatever the outcome. She felt torn between them. And feeling torn made her miserable and nervous. ‘This, my dear Conscience,’ Ratio said pointedly, ‘just shows how much you have been conditioned and manipulated for the last eighteen years. Don’t you understand that, in order to give your best, you first of all have to know who the fuck you are? Unless you know yourself you don’t know what you’re capable of. She’s studying like mad and making a fine job of it, granted. But suppose she were better at something else?’ ‘And just what would that be? If asking for an example is permitted?’ Conscience asked, wishing it had eyebrows so that it could raise them. ‘Don’t try and provoke me, it doesn’t work anyway. Well then, suppose she had it in her to be the most deadly seductive woman the average British wizard has ever met—’ Conscience snorted. ‘If you would kindly let me finish before you form your opinion. As I was saying, if she were the born temptress, she could accomplish a lot of things, provided she’s willing to use her innate talent. She might get a bit more information than Snape, for example. She might become the next Mata Hari. Right now, she’s a mousy-grey, boring bookworm. Maybe a highly talented bookworm. But what if she were even better at fucking Death Eaters into oblivion and thus making them pour out their innermost and best-kept secrets to her?’ Conscience sulked. ‘You see? That’s what I meant. By confining her to what others think is best for her, you maybe deprive her of the opportunity of doing much better.’ Silence. Conscience had obviously given up. Hermione hesitatingly returned from the Land of Inner Dialoge to the here and now. Had Ratio really won? That would be a first. But in that case, she might actually try and… Slowly, as if afraid of bumping headlong into reality, she stood up and shut the book. Nothing happened. When she shoved her chair back under the desk, without making a single noise, everything remained quiet. It seemed to good to be true, but evidently Conscience had lost. One step toward the door, one more—it was even possible to walk. The handle of the massive library door went down, the door opened for her, closed again, the latch clicked back into place—silence. Hermione broke into a run. ‘Off to put on the flimsy red dress and high-heeled boots?’ It had been too good to be true. Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. ‘You know,’ Conscience said, leaning back comfortably, ‘there is a flaw in your argumentation.’ Ratio was looking rather sheepish. ‘The problem is that deep, deep down, this girl is mortally afraid. Of literally everything. Though mostly of herself. She can’t do anything without rules, guidelines and the rest of it. She just can’t. I’m not blaming her, of course not, because it’s simply the way she is. Nevertheless, she can’t just change. Dress her in an academic’s robe or in a whore’s outfit—what is underneath will always remain the same. Now try to follow my reasoning: her teachers here at Hogwarts may be a little medieval, but on the whole they really want the best for her. They set rules, yes, maybe they even exploit her, but they would never consciously harm this girl. Lucky for her, if I may say so. If you, my dear, push her away from those slightly-medieval-but-well-disposed people, what are her chances? It’s not easy to find such persons as McGonagall and Dumbledore out there in the big bad world. Only she would search for them, search desperately for new mentors who might tell her what to do. What if she happens to meet the wrong mentors? She’d follow them; maybe not blindly, not even willingly. But she’s so afraid of herself that she’d rather follow anybody than to take her life into her own hands. That, my friend, is the big danger.’ Hermione tumbled against the corridor wall, leaned against it with her back for a moment and then let herself slowly glide down until she was sitting on her haunches. How could she have believed for one single moment that she would be able to free herself from oppression? For Conscience was right, so right that it hurt. With all her brilliance and knowledge she wasn’t able to make her own choices, that was the bitter truth. So what right did she have to go to Dumbledore and tell him she couldn’t go on anymore? The desire to just curl up and sleep, right where she was crouching now, was overwhelming. It wasn’t going to make things any better, though. So she got up, a little shakily because her legs had gone numb and were now tingling as if a thousand ants were running up and down her skin. Mechanically, she straightened her shoulders—it was, as her mother had always impressed upon her, a small effort compared to its healthy effect on both mind and body. At least, the holidays were not far anymore. They would bring about a change of surrounding and company, and she had always loved Christmas. It meant spending some time with her parents; maybe she could ring up one or two childhood friends… Footsteps were approaching; as far as she could judge, they were coming from the direction of the library. Someone was walking rapidly, but making rather small steps. While Hermione was still trying to guess the person’s identity, she already saw Professor McGonagall hurry round the corner. “Ah, Miss Granger. I thought you were in the library, but Madam Pince told me you had left shortly ago.” Was there a hint of disapproval in her voice? From the way the Head of Gryffindor was frowning at her, Hermione concluded that something had to be wrong. “I… I had forgotten that I haven’t yet finished my homework for… uh, Herbology,” she stammered, in a desperate attempt to justify her absence from the library. “It just came back to my mind when I was studying in the library and so I thought I’d better go and finish it immediately.” “You do not have to justify yourself for leaving the library, Miss Granger. However, I am glad to have found you. Please come with me, the Headmaster needs to see you.” “The Head—” Like a movie played at triple speed, images of the previous week days raced past Hermione’s inner eye. Had she done anything wrong? Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t think of anything. Not that one could really do anything wrong while sitting and studying, but then, one could never be absolutely sure… “Yes, the Headmaster. Don’t give me that frightened look, Miss Granger, it is something personal, not a disciplinary matter.” With a sigh of relief, Hermione started walking at the teacher’s side. Maybe Dumbledore had noticed how she felt and was now going to tell her she had to stop burdening herself like this? That she should try to live instead of being lived? So she would only have to accept, reluctantly of course… McGonagall stared in surprise at the girl walking at her side, faster and faster, almost as if she couldn’t await their arrival at the Headmaster’s office. <><><>°<><><> There were things that simply didn’t happen. Like Snape fondly ruffling Neville’s hair and telling him that he was a good boy. Things like that. As far as Ron was concerned, Hermione Granger crying in public was one of those things. If they really came to pass, hell was close to freezing over. Apparently the first icicles were already forming, for there she was sitting, in the Gryffindor Common Room, sobbing desperately. Not only was it highly unusual for her to be in the Common Room—at least since the beginning of their sixth year, when she had been given her own quarters—but to let herself be stared at by all the other Gryffindors was nothing short of a miracle. Not one Ron would ever have wished to witness. Harry, who had been coming back to the Gryffindor quarters together with him, bumped into Ron who was standing just inside the portrait hole, staring fixedly at their friend. “Move on, Ron! I’m soaking wet and want to get out of my Quidditch robes.” Ron turned round, his jaw still dropping, and just pointed inside the room. Harry peered over his shoulder and saw the trembling black bundle, crowned by a mess of wild brown hair. “Is… is that Hermione?” he whispered. Ron simply nodded. Some of their housemates were lingering about, obviously at a loss for what to say or do. Lavender and Parvati were even giggling. Stupid chicks, Ron thought. Petty, hare-brained females. “What are you staring at?” he asked aloud, stepping forward and thus allowing Harry to finally enter the Common Room. “It’s dinner time, so you’d better be off instead of gaping like idiots, if that’s all you’re capable of!” The others were looking a bit embarrassed, but also quite relieved, and hastily left the premises. The two boys carelessly dropped their broomsticks and advanced towards Hermione’s chair. “Mione?” Harry asked tentatively, touching her shoulder. “They’re gone now, there’s only me and Ron. Just in case you’re interested,” he added, a little insecure. She was huddled into the chair, legs folded underneath her, doubled over, so that she was forming a tight ball. Upon hearing Harry’s words, she just shook her head. “Oh, come on, Mione,” Ron said, “You didn’t go to your own room but came here instead. That means you wanted company. We’re here now, all the others have left, so raise that head and look at us. What happened? Or are you just fed up with everything?” “Got a handkerchief?” came the muffled reply. “Sure,” said Harry, “Here you go!” And he stuffed the cloth between her upper arm and head. Still curled up, Hermione blew her nose and dabbed at her face—without much of an effect, Harry thought when she finally uncoiled herself and looked at them. She was a mess, no point in denying that. Face blotchy, eyes swollen almost shut, nose an inflated red something, hair plastered to her forehead. A real mess. “Thank you,” she said thickly, offering the handkerchief to Harry. His look had apparently betrayed his disgust at the sodden piece of fabric, for she gave him a small smile and said, “I suppose I’d better keep it for the moment.” Ron, always the practical type, produced his wand and performed a drying spell on himself and Harry. They would probably be staying here for hours, and he didn’t want to develop a head cold. “OK,” he said sitting down on the carpet before Hermione. Harry followed suit. “What’s the problem? We haven’t done any exams lately, so it can’t be grades. Difficulties with one of your extra credit projects?” Hermione’s mouth became a thin white line, and she shook her head. Her eyes were again filling with tears. “No,” she replied, “It’s… my parents.” Harry swallowed. “They… they aren’t… dead, are they?” he asked, his eyes wide with horror. Ron grabbed her hand. “No, they aren’t dead. But there has been an attack.” “An attack?” Ron repeated, giving her a puzzled look. “You mean a Death Eater attack? And they survived?” She nodded. “That’s what Dumbledore told me. They are in shock, but perfectly alive. The house has been badly damaged, but obviously it was only meant as a warning. Right now, the Law Enforcement are there, trying to repair what they can.” Harry got up to his knees, and impulsively flung his arms round her neck. “I’m so sorry, Mione,” he whispered, “It must have been such a shock for you…” For a while they just sat in silence, staring into the fireplace. When Ron looked up at Hermione again, more tears were flowing down her face. “Now, now,” he crooned, patting her hand, “Nothing happened, it’s all perfectly OK, and—” “It’s not!” she yelled, yanking her hand out from under his. “Nothing is OK, don’t you understand? I’m to stay here over the holidays, Dumbledore told me, and I was so looking forward to going home!” “Going home or just going away?” Ron asked. Hermione gave him a nonplussed look. At times, he was more perspicacious than she usually gave him credit for. “Well, going away, more or less,” she said hesitatingly. “Then where’s the big problem? You’re coming to the Burrow. I’ll just get out of my Quidditch robes and then I’ll write to mum immediately. She’ll be delighted to have you.” Harry nodded in agreement. “Of course, that’s the solution. I’m staying with Sirius, otherwise I’d have invited you. But seeing as we’re spending the holidays in Brazil—” “No, no!” Hermione interrupted him. “The Burrow will be perfectly fine. If you really think your mother won’t mind…” “Now don’t be silly,” Ron said, getting up and grabbing his and Harry’s broomsticks. “She’ll love it, you better be sure.” <><><>°<><><> “Thank you, Narcissa, that was truly excellent,” Severus Snape said to his blonde hostess. “It’s been quite a long time since I last had such a remarkable dinner. Both in terms of food and company, of course.” Narcissa gave him a radiant smile. “It is always a pleasure to have you here, Severus. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have some letters to write.” “Of course, my dear,” Lucius said, rising and pulling her chair out for her. “We will be in the library, should you desire to join us later.” When Narcissa had graciously swept out of the dining room, the two men went into the library. “Brandy?” Lucius asked. “Yes, please. So, tell me, Lucius, have you founded an Anti-Dentist League, or was the attack on the Grangers meant to provide some fun for the boys?” Malfoy strode towards him and handed him a generously filled glass. “Anti-Dentist?” he drawled, sitting down, “ Quite an original idea, I must say. Your health!” Snape raised his glass in silence. “But it wasn’t the motive behind our little… outing.” Snape raised his eyebrows. “Why am I not surprised? Am I right in guessing, then, that it was some kind of occupational therapy à la Malfoy?” Somehow, Snape didn’t like Malfoy’s grin at all. The assault on the Granger couple had deeply disturbed him—not because he cared about them; on the contrary, he didn’t give a damn about their well-being. It just was so… weird, totally inexplicable. Both because of the targets and the method. When there was a Death Eater raid at a Muggle place, there usually didn’t remain enough for the police to identify. But this time, they had only destroyed the house; its occupants had suffered nothing more than a nasty shock. It just didn’t figure. And it certainly didn’t seem to have been Voldemort’s idea—when he had that kind of ideas, the outcome had to be quite different for him to be pleased. Supposing that Lucius really had felt the necessity of giving the troupe something to do, merely to keep them in form, Snape doubted they would have been content with disintegrating some pieces of Muggle furniture. The whole affair was completely out-of-pattern. Used as he was to understand the not-too-subtle workings of Voldemort’s and Malfoy’s minds, he felt all the more unsettled by this obvious outlier. Careful to keep his expression inscrutable, Malfoy lovingly nursed his glass. It was as plain as daylight that the evident lack of inner logic of the whole business was troubling the man sitting opposite him. Just like he had foreseen. Severus Snape might pride himself upon his subtlety and ability to read other people’s minds; but once those minds didn’t quite function as he expected them to, he was at his wit’s end. “I would rather call it an experiment,” Lucius said. “Some kind of new strategy I proposed to Lord Voldemort.” To cover his anger at that reply, Snape took a sip of his brandy. If Lucius expected him to ask for information, he could just as well wait until doomsday. Malfoy had to bite back an evil grin. How simple it was to nettle Snape! He just had to mention that he and Voldemort shared a secret Snape wasn’t privy to, and already the thorn went an inch deeper into the Potions Master’s flesh. “Any plans for the holidays?” he asked lightly. Snape downed what was left in his glass in one go and stood up brusquely to help himself to more brandy. He was damn well going to find out what this was about. Right now, though, he would have to play along. Another bit of brandy certainly wasn’t a bad idea. |