Breaking the Chains

Possession

The air surrounding Hermione Granger's seventh and final year at Hogwarts was constantly thick with apprehension.

The danger Voldemort represented had resulted in increasing security over the past two years, but now the losses were beginning to add up, and only what was essential was being done.

There were no more Hogsmeade weekends. There was no one out of the castle after nightfall. Even during daylight hours, time spent outside was strictly limited to those few classes which deemed it absolutely necessary, to teach the techniques of defence. Those who expressed an interest in a career as an Auror got undoubtedly the most tuition and support.

There was a death warrant out on Harry Potter. But there were a lot of death warrants out, these days.

September had barely passed and students and staff alike were getting restless, weighed with the burden of all that lay before them. Even those not directly involved with the impending war felt it boring down on them, into their consciousness. It was starting to show outward signs all around. Tempers were short and the happy chatter that used to fill the great hall at meal times, and the common rooms in the evenings, were instead replaced by uncomfortable silences and occasional angry outbursts. Even Dumbledore's characteristic sparkle seemed to have dimmed, although that could have been a result of increased interference in the school curriculum by the Ministry.

Hermione was a prefect, but not head girl. She had her hopes, but when two Ravenclaws had been selected, she had accepted it with the good grace she had been brought up to show. But it had been a big disappointment. She contented herself with the knowledge that her OWL results had been better than theirs, even if they were Ravenclaws.

But she was glad for the privileges it afforded - her own room without interfering room-mates, the scope for roaming it had all afforded her, and the access to the restricted section of the library at any time of the day or the night.

But there were significantly less adventures these days. After a few close shaves, even Ron wasn't feeling adventurous these days. Harry, of course, was taking every available opportunity to slip on his invisibility cloak and wander into all the trouble he could find, because it seemed that nothing, not even this, could repress his insatiable desire to stick himself into dangerous things. He was, after all, the Boy Who Lived.

There was tension, though, growing between the three friends. Harry was talking in his sleep, those rare occasions he slept. Ron would bring it up once in a while, but the tired look of exasperation haunting Harry's features was normally enough to make him Ron bite his tongue quickly. Hermione, after listening the first time, would change the topic. It frightened her, honestly, though she wasn't about to show outward signs of that.

And maybe that was the reason Harry would often wander through the halls late at night. It would clear his mind from the disturbing visions that danced through him while he slept, taunting him, testing him, to see how far they could drive him.

It wasn't Voldemort that he was seeing; it wasn't Voldemort he feared. It was himself. And the images in his dreams. Every time he searched his soul for answers, the onslaught of images and suggestions just got stronger, and more difficult to resist.

To make matters worse he was too stubborn, too afraid of censure, to seek help. He would deal with it alone.

* * *

Severus Snape was getting tired.

Tired of the double agent act. Tired of dealing with bratty children who couldn't make a decent potion for their lives. Tired of watching bright minds having to be overlooked because of the sheer stupidity of classmates, and the prejudice of the death eaters. Tired of the seemingly endless bouts of Cruciatus almost daily as punishment for deserting Voldemort for so long.

Voldemort had accepted Snape back with reluctance; only because he could get no-one closer to Dumbledore than Snape was already.

He was tired of reporting back to Dumbledore every single time he came back from these meetings, when all he really wanted to do was retire to his quarters and wash off every single remnant of those disgusting revels he could.

Wash away the scent of blood which, now, it felt like permanently surrounded him. The scent of sweat and tears and the overhanging cloud of guilt. The fluids of the Muggle women he was violating, listening to their screams and sobs as they writhed underneath him, pleading for their lives and their bodies. Virgins, most of them, barely adults. Good Catholic girls seemed to be a favourite, as Voldemort handpicked them all for one quality or another which they possessed. He wanted to see their spirits beaten, crushed beyond all repair.

And this was definitely quite the successful method.

It never took place behind closed doors. Some twenty of Voldemort's inner circle, his most loyal Death Eaters, would watch and cheer him on.

Voldemort seemed instinctively to know how Snape despised this casual, obscene intimacy, hated it even more than murder, and so selected it as a punishment.

And he was tired of favouring Slytherins, those destined for the Dark Mark upon graduation. A few seventh years had left already, having the Mark burned into their flesh, fully believing that this was the proper thing to do.

It seemed like it was nothing more than a Death Eater Training Camp, and Snape had to keep tabs on all this, and make reports.

He was getting to the point where he wasn't sure how much more he could take.

* * *

Voldemort. The most powerful dark wizard in centuries upon centuries. He was completely aware that Severus Snape wasn't as loyal as he'd like to make himself out to be. Not loyal to him, and maybe not loyal to that school of his that he seemed to treasure so dearly.

Probably not even loyal to himself. So why let him live?

Because he was fun to play with. Everyone loves their toys, and Lord Voldemort is of course no exception. Hell, he practically made the rule. It was marvellous knowing the misery he could drag that man through.

Never did he show signs of near breaking point, and while Voldemort normally would admire that in his followers, he was absolutely enthralled that this man provided this particular outlet for these games.

He was going to have to push him harder.

Severus would be killed, of course, when his time came. Just . . . Not Yet.

As for the boy who lived? That wretched, wretched child was being taken care of. The web he had woven, the tangled threads. He'd drive *himself* insane, and no one would be the wiser.

This was all too beautiful for words.

* * *

The note found its way under the door without Hermione noticing. Who knows how long it had been sitting there, as she pulled her robes over her skirt and white blouse to make her evening rounds. Glancing down at the floor, she saw the tiny scroll of parchment lying just beyond her door. She picked it up and recognized the small untidy hand right away. Short, simple, and to the point.

"Hermione-

I need to talk to you. Meet me in the astronomy tower at one tonight. It's urgent.

Harry."

Sighing resignedly, she stuffed the note into her pocket and glanced at the clock beside her bed. Ten to one, she noted as she slipped out the door. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, and they hadn't spoken too much recently. But he was, after all, one of her best friends, regardless of present atmosphere.

* * *

By the time she'd made her way up to the Astronomy tower, she was right on time. Looking around, she saw no signs of anyone at all, so she slid down against the cold, stone wall of the corridor to sit cross legged. Letting her mind wander, she became unaware of her surroundings momentarily, lost in thoughts of preparations for the NEWTs, and her Arithmancy homework. Anything other than what this conversation might entail.

She was nervous. Would she admit it? No, of course not.

She was absentmindedly chewing her nails, eyes closed when she was startled by an invisible hand on her shoulder. She jumped, then laughed, shaking her head.

"Circe, Harry you frightened the life out of me. Where are you?" She looked around and spotted him removing the cloak beside her.

"Sorry, all the practise at wondering around has made me really quiet. I haven't had a close shave in ages."

"Where do you go wandering to?"

"Anywhere, everywhere. I've been into all the other three house dorms . . . they're all so different it's hardly believable. But then anything goes at Hogwarts."

"I guess. Why the one a.m. meeting then? Put me out of my misery."

Just haven't seen much of you lately. Guess we need to catch up."

She nodded. "Yes, but at this hour?"

"Well you seem to work all the other hours that God sent."

She laughed a bit, conceding it was mainly the truth. Then she ventured, "So how was your summer?"

"Nothing unusual."

Her fingers had crept over to his invisibility cloak and he was toying with it almost nervously, before he continued,

"I can only thank Merlin that Dumbledore is the only wizard Voldemort's even remotely afraid of. That's the only way I'm even safe here. Still I just end up thinking, what's going to happen this year? What next, when I have to leave? Will Dumbledore ever let me leave?"

They sat for a few moments in a silence, each one looking at some far off point. She was studying the stars, he the little intricacies in stone. He was the one who finally broke the quiet, clearing his throat softly.

"You know, Hermione, I don't want to go on without you knowing this. When I'm away from you I miss you. More than I miss anyone else. "

She looked at him, while his face was pointed at the floor, not daring look directly at her. He continued, "I don't think there's time for lies or pretence left to us, if I'm honest."

He finally dared look up at her, and was relieved to find that she didn't look angry. She had a smile on her face, but it quickly darkened into the expression she had on her face when she was concentrating really hard on something, and was just so... worried, was probably the best way to describe it.

"Harry. . . we're best friends. Well, the three of us. But. . . you and I just... I don't think we can ever be. So no pretences. I don't want to hurt you, but I don't return your feelings."

His face fell. It wasn't that he was expecting any differently, really, but it still had that sting to it.

"That's okay. I guess it's the memories of learning to kiss together that still haunt me. Mind if I steal one last kiss." he said, rising to his knees in front of her, lips brushing against hers, ever so lightly.

He deepened the kiss, which didn't alarm Hermione much, but when he tried to slide his tongue past her lips, she pushed him away, objecting.

"Hey! Enough!" She protested with a laugh.

For a moment he looked at her uncertainly, the churning of emotions registering clearly on his face. The next moment something about him had changed. Something fundamental.

He made no reply, but in a flash, he had tackled her to the ground, his lips covering hers once more, this time more roughly, biting down on her lower lip as he positioned his body over top of her smaller frame.

"What the hell are you doing Harry! Get off me! Leave me alone! Please?" her voice trailed away as he captured her lips in yet another kiss.

"Shhh" he murmured in her ear, hands moving to get a better hold of her. She was squirming and protesting, but if he noticed, he didn't show any signs of it.

His weight was crushing her now. She knew with an instinctive certainty that he was going to carry this through.

And then the full. . . well. . .wrongness of this situation occurred to her, as whatever happened was completely beyond her control. She cursed herself for not bringing her wand with her. But she hadn't thought she'd need it. This was Harry she was dealing with, not some slimy Slytherin.

Oh gods.

This was -Harry-. Suddenly she found herself wishing she were with the likes of Malfoy or one of his goons. They were stupid, yes, but she doubted even they would attempt something like this. But then again, she wouldn't have found herself in the astronomy tower at one a.m. with any of them, either. So much for trusting your friends.

He was repositioning himself on top of her. He was undoing his robes. . . and he wasn't wearing anything underneath. Had he . . . had he planned this? It was unthinkable.

But at this moment, she really didn't want to think anymore. She really didn't want to be inside herself anymore. Her body couldn't escape, but her mind intended to. Her eyes snapped shut, and suddenly it seemed like she just wasn't inside herself anymore. She could still feel the physical pains, but it all seemed far away, like a disjointed dream.

This was not happening. . . This-Was-Not-Happening. This-Was-NOT-HAPPENING. It was the chant that established itself in her mind, the barrier her imagination had put up between her and this ultimate betrayal.

This could not be happening. This was. . . this. . . this was. . .

Mercifully, there was suddenly nothing but the cold descending darkness of oblivion, falling down all around her.

* * *

She didn't know what time it was when she awoke. Of course Harry was nowhere to be found. Her clothes, though, had found themselves properly back on her body, but there was that aching soreness between her thighs. That feeling of dried blood, and. . . something else, something else sticky, she didn't recognize. Her eyes closed briefly and she sighed to herself when she realised it was the remains of. . . him. . . still left littering her insides.

Hermione pulled herself into a seated position, feeling it to be less vulnerable the lying one in which she had awoken. But she could move no further, her whole body seemingly frozen in shock and horror. Even with her blouse mended - by magic, she assumed - she could still the feel the coating of blood and semen on the inside of her thighs, a constant reminder of what...he...had done.

Thoughts of Harry sent a sudden jolt through her body. To this point she'd only dealt with the physical sensations; the bruises on her back where his weight had crushed her into the stone; the mauled flesh of her breasts and lips; the horrific ache between her legs, the stinging of torn flesh. However all of this was suddenly overwhelmed by the feelings of humiliation, violation and most acutely, the betrayal that coursed through her body at thoughts of ...him. She found that she couldn't even say his name in her mind without being thrown into the centre of an emotional whirlwind that eclipsed all other thoughts.

Simply overwhelmed, Hermione hugged her knees to her chest and dropped her head allowing her hair to form a protective shield around her as the sobs she had so far contained forced their way out of her

* * *

Harry awoke sitting in an armchair in one of the mini-libraries that could be found tucked into the corners and alcoves of the less well used areas of Hogwarts.

He felt relaxed. This in itself was unusual as his scar was aching dully, and snatches of the dreams he walked all night to avoid having were coming back in disordered and vivid fragments. Considering what tonight's dream had been...yes, all in all, very strange that he felt relaxed.

"Merlin, give me strength," he breathed quietly. Or any other deity feeling inclined to watch over me today, for that matter. He left unsaid what he needed the strength for - but it ran through his mind anyway before he could totally suppress it. Strength to make sure the world was safe from him.

The thrill of taking what he wanted was the most clear of all the memories.

No - not memories - dreams that would never be acted upon.

Thrill enough to exorcise the demons of eleven years under the stairs, neglected and hated. The thrill of pure power coursing through his veins, undiluted enough to cancel out the constant pain of hopes crushed...hopes of escaping the Durselys for good...of winning the TriWizard Tournament, and with it Cho.

And all the while his mind ran over the possibilities that the dream presented to him, the rational part of his screamed that it wasn't just a her, to be dehumanised and used, she was Hermione, his friend. His friend. That the whole plan had swung on the fact that she trusted him enough to meet her in a deserted part of the castle in the middle of the night, without a wand.

Harry closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block out the torrent of conflicting thoughts and feelings of the morning. He could never attack Hermione, abuse her in such a way. He badly needed that strength - because he was honest enough to admit that the dreams hold some appeal. And revulsion. Not that he would ever admit either out loud.

And not that Hermione would be stupid enough to go anywhere without her wand, to meet him. Surely listening to his dreams that time had been enough to warn her away from him. Finally convinced that such a series of events could never come to pass, that he could never rape anyone, let alone Hermione, Harry disentangled himself from the knot his cloak and robes had formed in the chair, noticing for the first time that he wore nothing beneath his robes.

Just like in his dream

A cold chill went through him at this thought as he realised what it meant, and he looked down at his hands.

There was blood on his fingers.

Dazed and suddenly nauseous, he flicked his wand ('speculum') to conjure a patch of mirror in the wall by the chair. It showed fingernail marks in the skin of his face.

Pointing the wand at his face he muttered 'coalesco' a healing charm that removed the scratches from his face, if not from his soul, before performing a cleansing charm on his hands. Then and only then he headed back to the Gryffindor Tower in search of Hermione.

He was clinging to a last thread of hope that the dream was only that, not memories, and that when he found her, she'd be fine.

Eyes glazed and breathing shallow, he walked on, wondering why his first reaction had been to remove the evidence of an attack, not to fear for the victim of the attack

The victim. His friend. Hermione.

* * *

Severus Snape watched Harry Potter wander past, looking troubled and unfocused, heading towards the Gryffindor enclave, from the shadowy alcove he had ducked into on the sound of footsteps. The telltale tuft of silvery material coming from under his robes suggested he had been out all night.

Typical, thought Snape, the whole castle is geared up to ensure his security, and he goes out for a night-time stroll, damn the consequences. The urge to confront him, put him in detention rose in Snape's mind...but no it was too much trouble.

So Potter looked troubled...well let him join the rest of the world. The Golden Boy has to take of his rose-tinted glasses... battling with the after effects of another night of the Cruciatus curse, and the welling feelings of guilt for another innocent brutally debauched and killed, Snape had little enough energy left to stay alive. He still had to report to Dumbledore, not that he had learnt anything new, or of real value. But as he had long ago learnt, very little was worth the value of a human life, and nothing was worth inflicting the terror and suffering he saw every time he attended a Dark Revel.

In fact, scarcely anything held value for Severus Snape any more. Not his life, not his body or any of the people he interacted with any more. About the only thing of value to him was his sarcasm - it ensured that people stayed away from him - that no-one was tainted by him or his ways any further.

Not that he'd need it if he were dead.

But Dumbledore, under the guise of compassion, and with reminders of his duty, saw fit to deny him even the most fundamental of choices.

Not that the Promissum Charm could not be broken, if he had help.

It was ironic, he mused idly, that countless numbers of his students must fantasise about causing him harm after one of his caustic comments. But if he were to ask any one of them to help him die, the would run screaming.

Proof that the Gods have a sense of humour, really.

* * *

Voldemort reclined idly in his throne. It had been a gift from Lucius Malfoy - inspired really - although the man could be relied upon to show the garish taste of the nouveax riches in every aspect. Wormtail cowered by the door awaiting instruction.

So much for Gryffindor courage.

Snape had finally returned to consciousness and staggered away, probably to report another failure to Dumbledore and be absolved of his sins. Perhaps that was where Pettigrew's courage had gone to. Snape was proving unexpectedly resilient.

Any other man would have got on with it and killed himself by now.

Voldemort was loosing patience - having Snape admit defeat and take his own life would be sweet, but the waiting was growing tiresome, and the killing curse was nothing if not quick and efficient. Perhaps next time...

...But the games with Potter were going much better. For the first time he had been able to control Potter in his dream state - make him act as a noble Gryffindor never should. Potter was showing less resilience than Snape...quite a paradox.

Time to take a back seat, no use in allowing Potter to think anyone else was controlling his actions, telepathically or otherwise, or he would be able to shift the blame away from himself and duck the consequences. Anyway he had done enough to gather the clouds for the coming storm. Perhaps the girl would find herself pregnant...that would put pay to all the inevitable denials...and be most amusing.

Plans laid, there was nothing to do but wait and watch, and revel in his own evil genius. Getting comfortable in a suitable indolent position, he began to laugh, the high cold sound chilling the hearts of even the most fervent acolytes.