Hermione's Mistake

She knelt at the rail separating the altar from the rest of the church, her knuckles white and her hands shaking as she fervently muttered prayers.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned." She spoke quickly, her lips pale and her eyelids tightly closed, "I have sinned against You and against heaven in thought and word and deed and in what I have left undone."

At this, she gave a muffled squeak and her lips began to move faster, intoning all the prayers she ever heard. A heavy hand settled on her shoulder, and she jumped.

"I am sorry," the minister said behind her, "I did not mean to scare you. Are you alright?"

"Yes...yes I am fa...rev... sir," she said, her eyes feverish, halting over what to call this kind, bland-faced man.

"Just call me John," he said. John. A nice bland name for a nice bland man. A name well suited to a clergyman, she thought as he disappeared into the vestry. When she was sure he had gone, she ripped the crucifix from around her neck and held it in her quivering hands. As the sharp edges began to dig into the soft white flesh of her hands, she felt a sense of relief. Her punishment had arrived, the sins would now depart.

She began to cry, which delighted her even more, imagining that instead of clear salty trails on her cheeks, thick oozing blood stained that lily-white silk, drooling from gaping wounds caused by the sins of humanity. The blood of Christ.

As soon as she thought this, she prayed harder, now desperately begging for forgiveness without the flowery language that she had been brought up to think was the only way of approaching God. Comparing herself to Jesus, thinking she alone could carry the sins of the world. She squeezed her crucifix tighter, frustrated that it did not break the skin. Break the sin. Break her world in two, just as she hoped he had.

He told her that she made love like a fist. She didn't know what that meant, so she tried harder, her delicate little face screwing up with the effort of trying to relax and open up. When the drug wore off of course, he was different. Up like a shot, straight to the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before vomiting up everything. She could hear his anguished cries and sobs as his stomach retched and he searched for more inside himself to get rid of.

As she remembered this, the tears came more freely, and she pressed herself tighter to the rail, straining for the altar. The revulsion in his eyes ran down his face with the tears that she thought he didn't have. It told her that sometimes you shouldn't go to any lengths for what you want. 'I'd walk a million miles for one of your smiles', isn't that it? She wanted more than a smile, so instead of walking a million miles, she went to his apartments for 'extra tutoring' and slipped a specially prepared little something into his wine to take away his inhibitions. She took away more than that. She took away his dignity, his right of choice, his conscience. The conscience had come back though.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," she whispered feverishly, "but not with me."

He was crying with pain and confusion and loathing. She sat on his bed, paralysed with fear. She daren't touch him, daren't speak, daren't move. All of a sudden she felt so naked, and then it hit her. Rape. She had, effectively, raped a teacher. Little Hermione, petite and pretty, teachers' darling and an adorable little doll. A rapist. Her naïveté had cost her more than she could ever imagine now.

Latin. That was it. The language of the church, yes?

"Agnus dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus dominus deus sabaoth, pleni sunt coeli et terra gloria tua, donna mea requiem. Credo in unum deum, patrem, filius spiritus sanctusque. Lux aeterna luceat mea, domine."

She didn't know what half of it meant, but she could guess. Just like she didn't realise the consequences of her actions, but she could only guess. Maybe guessing wasn't the best plan, but let us guess the consequences now:

Scene 1

Hermione returns to Hogwarts, the drizzle misting her hair like a thousand tiny diamonds. Walking through the grounds, she goes over what to say to Severus, to apologise to him, to swear never to speak of it. She has just figured out what to say, when she bumps into Severus. Literally. Hanging from a tree in a secluded corner of the grounds, his face still streaked with tears yet so beautiful now that it was free of pain. His nose now seemed to fit his face, as he was now so comfortable in his skin and not withdrawn; his hair flopped becomingly over his pale features. But his open, staring, accusing eyes burned a hole through her soul. She did this to him.

Scene 2

She returns to Hogwarts and makes her way to Severus's apartments. He opens the door and she pushes her way in before he can shut it again. She makes him hear her out, she cries, he cries, they promise never to talk about it again, she leaves feeling guilty yet relieved, as does he. Things become even more uncomfortable between them in class, but she graduates with top grades in her NEWTS, even in Potions. Everything is fine.

Scene 3

Instead of going back to Hogwarts, she makes her way to the train station in Hogsmeade. Accio trunk, buy a ticket, train to Dover, ferry to Calais, begin a new life in Lyon as Mademoiselle Elodie, une prof de runes anciens dans Beauxbatons. She meets Jerôme, gets married and has two beautiful little girls, Julie et Angélique, and slowly forgets about the mysterious, unpleasant, uncharismatic and utterly compelling Potions master, the now dim memory of Severus Snape.

~*~

Severus let his face slide down the cold stone wall, his eyes tightly closed. He couldn't bear to look at himself. He could not figure out what had happened. He knew that he would never have sex with any pupil of his, never mind Granger, but it had happened, no doubt about that. He vaguely remembered saying something about a fist. Oh Merlin, had he hit her? He was now a violent, drunken bully as well as a pervert and a paedophile.

"A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest"

Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

He refused to listen to the arguments that fluttered through his ravaged brain like flashes of lightning. Hermione was of age. He knew in his heart of hearts that he would never have sex with a pupil. He could make no recollection of making a move on her. He had only drunk one glass of wine. One glass. Just the one. He knew that he would be teaching, so he only had one. A small one.

He began to retch again, but his throat was raw and there was nothing in his stomach any more. He cried and moaned in agony and anguish, trying to tear his filthy soul out with the sheer pain of living. He looked to his bed, and turned away, resting his head against the wall. The roughness comforted him. He recognised the pain, registered it, and drew from its blankness. To change his uncontrollable mental pain into a controllable physical one allowed him to feel in control. It was then that he knew what to do.

He floated above the dew-soaked grass, watching it sparkle in the false grey dawn. The wind cut pleasantly through his shirt, causing goose bumps to run up and down his body. As he slowly fell asleep, the rolling blue thought brought a blaze of colour to the greying world.

"It wasn't your fault."

Hermione was right. His hair did flop becomingly over his face, but as she floated next to him, wide eyes imploring him, he turned away.