Unlikely Connections

Chapter Sixteen - A Sudden Absence of Partners

Hermione wandered towards Gryffindor Tower, her mind hazy with disbelief. Something had just happened. She knew the facts of the case, but for all that her body knew what she had just done, it seemed that her head didn't know at all.

His voice still echoed in her head ... heavy, thick with something unknown, as he had said, "Perhaps you better go." It hadn't been the hastening her away that sent her on the dizzy spirals; it was the moments of pressing silence that had preceded the words ... the seconds that might have minutes that could have been hours that she had spent with her head on the soft but muscular abdomen, moving up and down with hi breathing, uninterrupted but for the barely detectable twining movements of his fingers along the delicate curls. What does it mean?

When she reached the portrait hole that was the gateway to Gryffindor Tower, she barely heard the Fat Lady's comments. She stood for several minutes, allowing her to jabber as she politely waited for the end of the story. The Fat Lady must have been speaking for several minutes, but all Hermione's ears registered was her last sentence, "And oh, dear, yes do I know that face quite well ... that's the face of young love ..."

Hermione snapped to attention. "What did you say?"

The Fat Lady grinned widely and said, "I said, my dear, that you look quite down this evening. But it would have done you good to see Mr. Potter just a few nights ago. He had quite the look of young love on his face."

The tension that had leapt into her shoulders and lower back relaxed as she grinned, absently absorbing the idea of Harry's being in love, and muttered, "Confirmatio Unitas."

"Have a good night, ducky," the Fad Lady bid Hermione as she swung open to admit her.

As Hermione strode into the common room, she instantly felt that something was amiss. It took her a few moments before she realized what it was. It was far too quiet. The spirit and liveliness that usually infused the Gryffindor Common Room was unmistakably absent. The common room was always filled, of an evening, with a vibrating energy emanating the four seventh-year boys who remained. Since Dean and his family had been destroyed over the summer by a contingency of marauding Death Eaters, Seamus and Neville had clung to Harry and Ron all the more closely, reveling in their vibrancy and life. But tonight, the life of Gryffindor House was still, with the result that the squasy armchairs were all but empty, and only two people occupied the space. Harry was sitting in the cushioned seat of the windowsill, staring desolately out at the rain. Ron, oddly enough, was fully engaged in homework at one of the tables nearby. He was bent over a piece of parchment, writing furiously, as if he were trying to injure either the quill or the paper.

Hermione walked quickly past him, unable to allow herself to look at him just now, and rested a hand delicately on Harry's shoulder. He jumped just a bit and turned to face her, squinting his eyes a few thimes as if he had just wakened from sleep. She smiled weakly down at him and said, "Do you get the feeling that parchment is our faces?"

After a moment, he sighed softly and spoke. "He's furious at me, M'inee. And I don't even know the whole story ...."

"But Harry ...," she began.

A delicate color began to rise in his face. "I wish I could say I understand why you haven't told him, but I don't. You told me, at least partly. Why not Ron? We've never been unequal in our going on seven years here, Hermione. Never. Why me and not him? My best friend is over there hating me for having information that I don't really have, and I have you to thank for that."

She could see the anger blaze behind Harry's eyes, but even as she looked back at him it began to fade. Ever since Sirius's death, Harry had slowly but steadily retreated further and further into his own mind. He'd never quite been the outgoing celebrity that everyone thought him, but since the loss of his godfather, he seemed to spend more time within the confines of his psyche than Hermione thought healthy for him ... and it pained her to have to watch it happen. Her heart wrenched as that oh-so-familiar velvet curtain drew across Harry's eyes, shutting all but his frustrated anger out of his mind.

She couldn't, in good conscience, allow Harry's friendship to suffer because of her pride and embarrassment. She squared her shoulders, firmly resolved that she would just have to swallow her stubborn pride and get this over with. Just as Harry was beginning to return to his solitary contemplation of the rain at the window, Hermione reached for his hand and only somewhat gently tugged him toward the table where Ron was writing.

Ron didn't look up right away. His quill, though suspended over the parchment as if waiting, was still; he was intentionally making them wait for his approval. When she could stand the tension no longer, Hermione burst out, "Ron ...." Harry was struggling half-heartedly to remove his wrist from her grasp.

"Hermione," Ron replied steadily after several seconds of silence, "what did I tell you? The tr--"

"Truth," Hermione finished, "all of it. That's what I'm here for. You both deserve the whole truth."

Ron slowly laid down his quill on the parchment in front of him and looked up into her face. Hermione seated herself at the table across from him and gently motioned for Harry to sit as well. Once she was sure she had the courage to speak, the story tumbled from her mouth. And this time it was the whole story ... no details barred.

"And once he had ..." she cleared her throat here, "released me, he told me that he thought that ..." she struggled to remember the exact words. She hadn't looked at Ron at all throughout the entire story, which was now going on an hour's worth of telling and she was only half finished, and she didn't dare raise her eyes now. "Oh, that my ...er... desire was only a side product of my fear of him."

Ron shifted in his chair in front of her, his hands moving to his face, but Hermione continued her rapt examination of the table in front of her as she continued. "And so I ... well ... er ... that is that I thought that maybe the reason that I was so turned around about him was ... and ... the kiss and all was because I'd never ... well, never done that before. So I asked Harry ..."

"Harry?" Ron bellowed. "You kissed Harry too?!?!"

Hermione was so startled by his outburst breaking her train of thought that she snapped up to meet his eyes and instantly regretted it. Despite what she had expected, Ron's face was not purple with anger. Instead, his face was covered with deep crimson splotches, throwing his befreckled complexion out of balance. His eyes were large and puffy, and there was a well of restrained tears pooling above his lower lashes, threatening to fall.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice barely holding. "Why Harry?"

Hermione glanced to the subject of the discussion, only to see that he was little more composed than Ron. Harry's face was reddening in embarrassment. His green eyes blazing with humiliated frustration.

"Well, I was ... telling Harry about the situation because ... now don't get angry, but I thought he was less likely to bellow at me, and I, well I figured that I was so turned around about Snape, so maybe I could sort things out better if I had, well, you know, another kiss to sort of ... judge the situation by. And Harry was there and it ... it just occurred to me..."

A tear trickled down Ron's cheek; he slashed at it furiously but said nothing and, eventually, Hermione went on with the story. Only her pride kept her from burying her head in her lap during the pieces about the 'war of wills' that had gone on during class the few days prior; but oddly enough, it was the uncomfortable relaying to the boys of the events of that evening that unsettled her the most. She barely found words to discuss the rhyme or reason for the quiet moments and soft hands.

Hermione looked up at Ron once again when she was done, noting that his face was no less red, his eyes now brimming over. After what seemed like ages, Ron finally spoke up. "And you didn't think I'd understand? I mean, you're always the one telling me that I do things that make me either barmy or stupid ... you didn't think I'd understand?"

"I don't think you're stupid," she whispered weakly.

Ron scoffed. "No, just daft enough to be oblivious to the fact that something was going on and that you weren't telling me. I'm not just a tag along you know. Faithful lap dog of the famous Harry Potter. I'm not a simpleton, Hermione. I see what's going on in front of my own face." Ron pushed away from the table and moved across the common room towards the stairs. Harry rose with him, opening his mouth to speak, to call Ron back.

"No, Harry, it's no use," Ron answered before turning to Hermione. His eyes were shining with angry tears as he looked upon her pleading face. "Snape ... you ... and he had his hands on you ... and ... and then you ... with Harry ... and you just used him to ... I trusted you. I've always trusted you to make the best decisions for all of us, and damn me for thinking I wasn't bloody smart enough around you. You can't even tell your best friends the truth. Well, not both at the same time, at any rate. And you dragged Harry into it too, and used him to boot. Well played. Fine performance, Hermione."

Hermione stared in disbelief as he mounted the stairs to the boys' dormitories three at a time. She turned to Harry, stunned and glassy eyed, and spoke quietly. "How could he ..." she began.

A cold hardness glazed Harry's features, his eyes merciless, and Hermione found herself hard-pressed not to back away in horror. "How could he what, Hermione? There wasn't a thing he said that wasn't true. You lied to him. You made me lie to him, and then you turned right round and lied to me. And all for what? For Snape??" Harry spat the name as if the very word poisoned him.

"But ... but," she stammered. "But I thought you ... were okay with it. I thought ... I mean, you didn't say--"

He snapped off her sentence. "You thought that because I chose to be the silent, suffering Boy Wonder that everyone thinks of me that it meant that I thought it was all right that the girl ... that's my best friends is throwing in her lot with someone who could hurt her? Kill her? You thought that because I didn't bellow like you expected Ron to do - because I know that's what you thought he'd do - that I didn't tell you how incredibly stupid I think this is, that I didn't care? Is that what you thought?"

Hermione felt tears welling up in her eyes. Harry was hollering so loud she was certain that Snape himself might be able to hear it. The one person she had thought would understand. He had never been cruel like this before. Harry was never so harshly pitiless. "But Harry, he isn't ... I mean, sure he's callous and yes, he's sort of unpleasant, but ... but when it's just him, he's ... he's ..."

Still a Death Eater Hermione!" Harry's rage was breaking over him in waves that crashed into her. He seemed to be airing out all his anger that he had started bottling up their fifth year when Sirius died. Removing herself strangely from the situation for a moment, Hermione thought idly that it was odd that she had never even considered that she would be the receiver of that anger.

"He's not a Death Eater anymore!" she raged back, swiping at her weepy eyes.

Harry laughed. It was a cruel, harsh sound, one that didn't fit his bright, friendly eyes and charming, heart-shaped face. "Oh, come on Hermione, wake up! You helped out with the Order; you know where he goes night after night! That man dances with death on a daily basis and he could bring about yours just as easily as his own! Did this never occur to you?" Her mouth stayed silent, but her face was plastered with guilt so he charged on. "Just because it hadn't, did you think it wouldn't cross my mind? How do you think I could allow myself to live someday if you were dead and he was responsible? What's more, how do you think I could allow him to live?"

"He wouldn't," she muttered. She focused on Snape as she could barely get her mind around the idea of Harry suffering her death. "He would never ..."

"Never make sacrifices in the line of duty? You think so?" Harry answered quickly. "Think again, Hermione. The man is who he is. Just because he's not burning house and slashing up babies anymore doesn't mean he couldn't or wouldn't give you up to save his own stinking skin. Go on, then. Throw yourself at a Death Eater. Throw away your self-respect, your safety. It's all right. Go on, put yourself right up there with Pansy Parkinson. While you're at it, chum up the future Dark Lord Draco Malfoy. Just don't come to me as your security blanket when Snape tramples you beneath his boots." Harry stalked across the common room and up the stairs to his dormitory.

She vaguely registered hearing Harry's and Ron's voices upstairs as she slumped onto a worn old couch. They weren't shouting. They weren't fighting or hollering. "Oh, good," she said to the crackling fire in front of her. "Everybody's all friends in hating me."

She flopped backwards on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, counting the tiled stones and sniffling miserably as the last embers of the fire died away.

****

Hermione had awoken at about 1 am and crawled glumly towards her room. Upon entering, she muttered the wards for her door and flopped onto the bed without so much as removing her shoes. She could fight it no longer.

Hermione's chest heaved as she began to sob brokenly. She couldn't remember a more hideous time in her life and, for the first time, she hadn't the faintest doubt in her head that she had created the entire situation entirely on her own. The only thing she was sure of was that Harry was wrong about Snape. At least partly. He wouldn't hurt her. He couldn't. After the night of the revel, after shutting her out of the visions that he had suffered at the Revel, she knew. He would not bring her harm.

At the presence of his face behind her eyelids, she began sobbing afresh. Hermione was confused, hurt and bewildered. She wasn't sure what was going on between her and the snappish Professor. She was reasonably certain that he though her a bossy and immature child ... but her mind kept replaying the moments of fragile silence that evening that had been broken only by his breath. She could still feel the lingering heat of his finbgers on her neck.

He both terrified and excited her. But she couldn't pinpoint why. And even further from her grasp was an answer to the question that had plagued her since this whole escapade had begun: How was she ever to remove this ghost of longing for him?

****

Severus Snape woke abruptly in the wee hours just before dawn. The horizon outside his window was pinkening as he threw a handful of cold water on his face. Dreams had haunted him last night. He shuddered recalling them as he cleaned his hair in the bathtub. His fingers knotted in the ebony strands as his mind replayed the bits of images ... disconnected pictures of Dumbledore, Minerva, Weasley and his family, a man and woman both with ginger hair and cinnamon eyes ... all of them had been filing through his bedroom in a long procession. Stopping ... staring ... staring at the figure on the bed ...

He could not identify the body laying eerily still there ... the train of people milling through like an assembly line obscured the features. But he stood there in the corner, watching them go by, unnoticed by the crowd as if he weren't even there. But then ...

Then Potter had appeared. Unlike the others who had simply stopped in front of the bed, pausing only for a few seconds, Potter fell to his knees and clasped the sheets in both hands, He was howling with sorrow, bleating like a wounded animal, tears splashing the bedclothes. He bent his head to lay his forehead next to the figure. Only then had Severus seen the body sprawled there, deathly still.

Her lips were tinged faintly blue around the edges, untouched by the heat of the roaring fire. The wealth of honey-colored curls, splashed with ginger hues in the low firelight, pooled beside her face, now alabaster with a loss of life-affirming color. After laying a hand on her cold cheek, Potter had begun wailing, grabbing her limp hands and bringing them to his chest.

Severus's body chilled despite the warm water of his early morning bath as his mind echoed with the recrimination that Potter's voice had sung only hours before, inside his head. "I told you ... I warned you to be careful ... hwo can I let him go for sacrificing you?! I told you he would bring about your end!"

Severus couldn't stop the hammering of the images within his brain as he buttoned up his school robes. He was sweating lightly now, his heart thrumming with guilt. But whose?

His conscience pounded at the sides of his heart, his mind whirring. His throat ached with suppressed sobbing, but Severus Snape had not cried in years. The anguish of it was beating at him like tiny fists all over his body, but he could not explain the origin of it. How had he come by this horrible agony? His heart twisted as if he were torn between the two people he loved most ... but there were no such people in the life of Severus Snape. There hadn't been any such people since ...

Raking his thoughts in two, the dream marched in front of his eyes onc e more. Potter had flown to his feet, thrusting out his hand immediately to the corner of the bedchambers where Severus had heretofore gone unnoticed.

"You did this! How could you? I loved her and told her never to trust you! Her blood is on your hands!"

At his words, the crowd sprung to life and was upon Severus, fists flying. But more than the blows, Severus had suffered the cries, "Innocent blood is on your hands!"

He had quaked so violently at this attack that it had shaken him awake and his bed curtains had tumbled down around him as he woke. He had sat up slowly and peered down at his trembling hands. Wiping fearful tears from his eyes, he let go on his grip on the sheets before rising to bathe. He could not escape the haunting suspicion that the tears that had washed his hands were not his own. His hands came up again, seemingly of their own accord, to wipe away another torrent of salty drops. He made to bring his hands down again, but stopped short as his fingers crossed his sightline. The tears had caused the dye from the sheets to bleed onto the long, thin digits, staining them a deep, crimson red.

*** A/N - Confirmatio Unitas - Rough Latin translation - "Unity Strengthens thoroughly."