A Capacity for Love

CHAPTER 8

- The Truth -

"Miss Granger, what a pleasure to see you out and about again." The Headmaster nodded congenially and leaned forward on his desk, bracing himself on one arm. The other arm remained hidden beneath the desk; Hermione knew it was the withered one.

"Thank you, sir," she replied. She wondered briefly whether she really wanted to go through with this, but before she could consider it further, she blurted out, "I wondered if I might use your Pensieve."

Dumbledore looked mildly surprised. "I don't see why not," he nonetheless readily agreed. "To what purpose, however, if I might be so bold?"

"I want to find the truth."

Dumbledore smiled crookedly. "Ah, the truth. Not unlike a bar of soap," he reported in a typically cryptic manner.

"Sir?"

"Damned hard to get a hold of when you're in the bath," he explained.

Hermione thought about this for a moment, and then countered, "But without it, you're going to stay dirty."

Dumbledore favored her with one of his legendary twinkles. "Quite so."

Hermione decided she'd have to get a bit more specific. "I...wanted to compare two memories," she said, after taking a deep breath.

"Two of your own memories?" Dumbledore probed.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, Sir." She swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn't press her further.

"Not that I wish to pry," he said mildly, "but this wouldn't have anything to do with what happened over Halloween, would it?"

Hermione nodded mutely. Damn, there was no getting around the old man!

Dumbledore's heavy white brows came together as he fixed his gaze on a point on his desk for a moment before looking back at Hermione. "As the memories are your own, you may of course do with them as you please. However, it has been my experience that re-viewing a terrible scene such as that which you experienced, especially from another point of view, only serves to heighten the horror, not lessen it."

"That's not why I want to see it." In fact, she did not want to see it again at all. She had no doubt it would be doubly horrible the second time around. But she needed to be sure. She needed that small security. To her, who had always been so sure of everything, this was one of the things plaguing her the most: that, due either to the mind-control spell, or to the pure trauma of that night, her own memory was failing her. A protective mechanism, she knew, but it gave her no comfort.

"Do you hope to regain some information you think might help one of the other girls?" Dumbledore ventured.

"No," Hermione admitted, with a twinge of guilt. The thought hadn't even crossed her mind. "But if you think there might be something--" she offered gamely.

"No, no," Dumbledore protested. "I did not mean to suggest it. I am merely attempting to help you, in whatever modest way I can. I reproach myself daily for having allowed it to happen in the first place."

"Oh, I don't blame you, sir," Hermione dutifully responded.

Dumbledore nodded in solemn acceptance. "Well then, what do you hope to gain by reliving such a terrible experience? You mentioned a second memory...?"

Hermione squirmed internally and her heartrate increased. She didn't want to share that information, that suspicion, with the Headmaster. Not yet. Not until she was sure. "Yes," she confirmed guardedly. "I thought I saw something that might help identify the... one of the Death Eaters."

"I see." Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his beard as it lay across his brown-and-gold robes. He watched Hermione with a calculating eye. After a moment, he continued. "Miss Granger, I have great faith in your powers of reason. I have no reason to doubt you are correct in your surmise."

Hermione frowned, an odd feeling developing in her stomach. "But you don't know who I'm thinking of."

"No, I do not know for certain," Dumbledore acknowledged. "Without naming names, however, I think it safe to say you suspect someone within the walls of this very castle was present on the night in question."

Hermione's heart was beating very fast now. Did he know? Was it possible he knew Snape had been there? Then she remembered something she had told the Headmaster during her first interview with him, on the day after...

"I'm not thinking of Draco Malfoy, sir," she said as firmly as she could, willing her voice not to tremble.

"Ah, yes..." Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "You had mentioned that possibility, had you not? But you said yourself you were certain it was not he. No, I did not assume you were referring to young Mr. Malfoy."

He watched her calmly. The only sound was a light metallic clicking coming from one or the other of the silver instruments on the periphery of the room.

And then, suddenly, the enormity of what the Headmaster was saying hit Hermione with a wave of impotent rage. He knew. He knew! He knew that--that man--had been there. And he hadn't done anything. That's what he meant when he kept saying it was all his fault. And he was still letting him teach! Still letting him stand up before everyone, students, children-- The blood was rushing in her ears, and her hands spasmodically clenched and unclenched on the arms of her chair.

"You..." she finally brought forth, her voice barely more than a whisper. She wanted to jump over the desk and tear at his beard and scratch at his face; she wanted to point her wand at him and Crucio him herself! At the same time, she was horrified at herself for having such thoughts; he was a professor, the headmaster, the head of the Order sworn to defeating Voldemort, a great and venerable wizard, and no matter her feelings, she couldn't bring herself to physically attack such a man. "You knew...." She screwed her face up in troubled disbelief.

Dumbledore's countenance turned hard at this accusation, and he spoke with a vehemence that scared Hermione a little. "I did not know! Afterwards, yes, but not then, certainly not before. When I say I feel responsible for what happened, I must make it perfectly clear that I am referring only to the failure of the protective measures on the school. The actions of individuals are beyond my control." Dumbledore stood up and walked around to the front of the desk, so he was standing next to Hermione.

She was suffused with a fury she had rarely felt before, and she refused to look up at him.

"You are an adult now, Miss Granger, and I believe it right to treat you as such. I made the mistake in the past of trying to shield those whom I believed to be too young to understand, or indeed come to terms with, the gravity of their situation. It was wrong of me to withhold information then, and it would be wrong for me to do so now."

Dumbledore summoned a chair, which slid into position next to Hermione's. He sat down in a billow of gold and peppermint and caught Hermione's eye, which was brimful with tears of anger. "You think me heartless." He sighed. "Perhaps I am, in the sense I am willing to accept smaller measures of inhumanity in order to prevent much larger ones."

Hermione didn't trust herself to say anything, and at any rate, she wasn't able to think clearly at the moment. All she could feel was an overwhelming sense of betrayal and hurt. She had trusted Dumbledore above everyone else, had trusted him to always be right, to protect her, them, everyone, from Voldemort and the world. And now he had done this...had allowed That to happen.

The elder wizard's demeanor became sympathetic; clearly, for all his wisdom, he did not know what Hermione was really thinking at that moment, for if he had, he would not have continued in that tone of fatherly concern, "I know, Miss Granger, that what you went through must have been horrible. Horrible." He shook his head in emphasis. "Which serves to underscore the importance of the task with which we are faced: We must not allow them to gain the upper hand. We must not give in to fear and intimidation, for those are their most powerful tools, not the acts of violence themselves. Do you understand me, Miss Granger?"

Hermione was staring at the edge of the desk, her jaw fixed. Did she understand him? No. She had never been less capable of understanding than she was at the moment. But she nodded her head nevertheless, hoping only that the interview would soon be over, allowing her to escape to...anywhere else. Only there was no escape. Wherever she went, she would carry what had happened with her.

"Good, good." He nodded blithely. "Understanding is better than acting blindly, although, sometimes, we are called upon to act in blind faith. Sometimes, in fact," he continued, "we are called upon to do something, in blind faith or otherwise, which we would otherwise find so foul we would rather die than do. Do you follow me, Miss Granger?"

Hermione raised her eyes to meet Dumbledore's steely blue gaze, and she nodded her head slowly under the force of it.

"I am glad of it. The truth is indeed a slippery thing." Dumbledore cleared his throat. "And now, I believe, you wished to have the use of my Pensieve...?"

Hermione started. The Pensieve? She shook her head curtly. "No, thank you, sir," she said, sitting up stiffly. She felt repulsed by the presence of the man sitting next to her, crushed and sickened by what he had revealed. "I... I'm sorry for having bothered you," she said as neutrally as she could, and stood up, avoiding looking directly at him.

"Not at all," he replied pleasantly, standing as well and taking her hand. "And Miss Granger...I am truly sorry."

The words, coupled with his warm, dry hand over hers, penetrated her mantle of negative emotions, and startled her into glancing briefly at his face, but she looked away again quickly, unwilling to accept the truth of the anguish written there. Right then, she was more comfortable with her anger.

+++000+++000+++

The night air was cold and still. Hermione felt as if she were moving across the grounds in suspended animation. She hadn't been able to stand the oppressive gaiety of the rest of the student body, preparing for the next day's Quidditch match. If anyone asked, she was on her way to Hagrid's, but she was already past his hut, on her way to the lake, an empty black space delineated by the dense shadows of the Forest. She stopped just beyond the reach of the inky liquid lying all but still in its basin. There was a smell of pine and snow in the air, although the ground was dry. She stood with her arms slung about her, staring out into the distance.

Hermione felt more alone than she ever had in her life, and that was saying a lot. She had no allies left, no one whom she could trust. Dumbledore was allowing the man who had attacked her to continue to teach...to be her teacher. She knew he must have his reasons, but they were unfathomable to her at the moment. The truth...faith...the prevention of inhumanity. Abstractions that had nothing to do with that black figure standing before her, claw-like hands pulling at her pyjamas, loathsome flesh touching her.... She closed her eyes tight and dug her nails into her arms as hard as she could through her clothing, trying to increase the pain to a point where it would drive those memories away.

"What are you doing here?" a deep male voice demanded harshly as a light flared up behind her.

Hermione whipped around and drew her wand, her heart in her throat. A black figure was standing a few feet away from her. In the glow from its illuminated wand, Hermione saw the unmistakable long black hair and narrow-featured face of Professor Snape. He looked most displeased.

"Students are not allowed out after dark," he said with a deep scowl. "What were you thinking? Where's Potter?" He raised his wand and directed the light emanating from it into the shadows behind Hermione.

Hermione shook her head. "It's just me," she said, instinctively trying to protect Harry. She shivered with cold and fear, then realized that had been a stupid thing to say. She should have pretended Harry was there with her; now she was without protection. The awful thought struck her that he might be here to kidnap her again.

"I have to get back," she said quickly and started toward the castle, attempting to give Snape a wide berth, but he held out his wand to block her.

"What are you doing out here, Miss Granger?" he demanded.

Hermione froze, staring at the wand tip in front of her. "Nothing, sir." She didn't know what to do: try and talk her way out? Run? Stand and fight?

"You were out of the castle at this hour, alone, without any motive whatsoever? I find that difficult to believe," he sneered.

Something about this accusation caused her anger to override her fear and indecision. She looked into the hated face and spat, "Nevertheless, it's true! I was out here for absolutely no reason other than I wanted to be. So I've broken a rule! What are you going to do, take House points from me? Go on, then, I've had worse done to me!" --by you, she was tempted to add, but wasn't quite able to. She scowled back at him defiantly, breathing hard, her heart pounding.

Snape's face remained a mask, but he answered in a lethal tone, "Miss Granger, you of all people should know what can happen to a student caught alone and without protection. These are dangerous times. Five points from Gryffindor. Now get back inside before I reconsider."

Hermione stared at Snape, trying to see what was behind those black eyes. Five points? He should have taken away fifty. He was going easy on her on purpose. What were his true feelings, his true loyalties? How could he be the Death Eater who had ... raped her? How could he be so impassive? For a moment, then, it looked like he was on the verge of saying something else, but that instant's alteration in his expression was enough to send Hermione bolting for the castle.

+++000+++000+++

So she knew it now. Complications. The old man had told him, urged him to talk to her. Ridiculous. He'd come out here to get away from it all. As she likely had done, as well. Ironic, that they had both chosen the same spot to escape to, and run into the one person they least wanted to see at that moment.

Dumbledore didn't think she'd expose him, but the risk was certainly there. Not that he feared for his miserable life; that was already forfeit. But the wrath of Voldemort would be great, indeed, if his pigeon-in-the-hole at Hogwarts had to fly the coop. No telling whom he might take it out on: the rest of the Death Eaters; Muggle-borns. Muggles. The Order would suffer less if he were lost; they had other spies (and spies in spe), although none enjoyed the degree of confidence or had the talents Snape did. But there would be none left to fulfill the task Dumbledore had set for him; the culmination which they both hoped would not come to pass, but which they nevertheless knew would.

Snape was looking forward to it, in fact, even though he knew it would seal his fate and destroy his own soul. Not that he particularly believed in an eternal soul, but from all he had read, it was a very Dark matter indeed to take another life with hatred in one's heart. And as he would not be able to summon enough love to do the task (as Dumbledore had always insisted he do), hatred it would have to be.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione ran blindly across the grounds as if the Death Coach itself were after her. She tripped at one point over a root (probably an outrider of the Whomping Willow) and fell headlong across the rocky ground, crying out and skinning both knees, even through her jeans, and the underside of one arm. Aware at some level that no one was chasing her, she was nevertheless still filled with a mortal panic. She scrambled to her feet and was already propelling herself over the last stretch of land between her and the castle when she heard the unmistakeable brogue of Rubeus Hagrid.

"Who's there?" he bellowed, concern mingling with challenge. "Someone need help?"

Hermione turned instinctively toward the voice, which had always represented goodness and simple decency to her, and saw she was but a few metres from the gamekeeper's hut. The half-giant was standing in his open doorway, looking out into the darkness, his trusty boarhound Fang at his side.

"Oh, Hagrid!" Hermione gasped and staggered to him.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, reaching out to catch her. "Wha' in th'world? Wha' happened?"

Hermione buried her face against Hagrid's burly arm and shook her head, trying to catch her breath.

"Is ever'thing all righ'? Where's Harry?"

Of course, that would be his first thought, Hermione thought with a touch of bitterness: Harry's safety. Never mind there was a Death Eater and rapist roaming the grounds of Hogwarts; as long as Harry was tucked in and safe, all was right with the world.

"Nothing, Hagrid," she assured him between gasps, "Harry's fine."

"Well wha' are you doin' out here, then?" he asked, holding her at arm's length so he could get a look at her. "Here, you're hurt! Come in, come in." He led her inside and set her onto one of the human-sized chairs he kept for visitors. Fang snuffled at the hand she let dangle down to the side and licked off the blood solicitously.

"Lemme jus' get summat to wash that off with, don' look like you'll be needin' Madam Pomfrey fer tha', it's jus' a scratch. Let off, Fang, there's a fella." Hagrid handed Hermione one of his monstrous handkerchiefs, sopping with water from a bucket by the fire, which she used to rinse off the dog drool, while trying not to bring the material into actual contact with the wound on her arm. She might just end up having to pop by the hospital wing later, if her hazarded guess as to the amount of bacteria which had just entered her body was anywhere near correct.

"Now, then," Hagrid said as he sat down opposite her, "what're you doin' out in the middle o' th' night? There's not any trouble, is there?"

"No, not really, I... I wanted to get some fresh air." She attempted a wry smile and jerked her head toward the castle. "They're all spouting Quidditch up there."

"Ah." Hagrid nodded in understanding. "How'd you get all bunged up, then?" He indicated her scraped arm.

"Oh, silly, I tripped and fell in the dark. I should've lit my wand, but I was in such a hurry to get away--"

"Get away from what?" Hagrid asked, immediately alert. "Did you see summat out there?"

"No, nothing," Hermione corrected herself quickly. She didn't want to mention having seen Snape, for some reason. "I-- I meant I was in a hurry to get back."

Hagrid frowned. "I don' like you bein' out there alone, Hermione," he said. "'Specially near the Forest. Them centaurs, they're not to be trusted. An' there's other things...."

"I wasn't near the Forest," she reassured him, "just the lake. And there wasn't anything... I got spooked by being out alone, I reckon. I'll be more careful, Hagrid, I promise."

"All righ' then," he said grumpily, then brightened as a new thought struck him. "Can I get you a cup o' tea? Or how 'bout a nice crumpet? Baked a batch this afternoon, I did."

"Oh, no, Hagrid, that's very nice of you, but it is getting rather late. I should really be getting back. It wouldn't do for a Prefect to be out after curfew, would it?" She tried to speak in a light and casual manner as she stood up.

"Fang an' I'll see you to the castle, anyway," Hagrid said, and Hermione didn't argue.

+++000+++000+++

Why hadn't she told Hagrid about seeing Snape? Hermione wondered later as she lay in her bed. She wouldn't have had to reveal anything about the events of the previous week (had it already been a week?). She could have said she ran into Snape on the grounds and he'd startled her. True enough. Hagrid would've understood that. Had she been trying to cover for him? For what? As a teacher, he had every right to be out on the grounds at any time; maybe he was even patrolling, it occurred to her now, although for some reason she had had the impression he was out there on a personal errand, much as she had been. Had he also been trying to get away from the pressures and duties of his life in the castle? Had he also been trying to escape from his memories....

But that was ridiculous, she admonished herself, actually snorting out loud into the darkness. He had wanted to do it, had enjoyed humiliating and hurting her.... Hadn't he? Of course he had, she scoffed, just like he enjoyed humiliating and baiting Neville and Harry, just like he had enjoyed giving her the nightmare. He was a cruel bastard, a heartless, hateful Death Eater.

And she had it in her power to put a stop to him. She could go to the Aurors, lodge a formal complaint.... No! She pounded her fist against the mattress. She couldn't. She and the other girls had already agreed not to make it public. There was no way to accuse Snape without bringing an investigation down on Hogwarts, very likely ending in the school being shut down. And that was what Voldemort wanted in the first place. That and mass panic, perhaps even an exodus of Muggle-borns from the U.K.

Dumbledore expected her to keep this new-found knowledge to herself; wasn't that what he'd meant by accepting smaller measures of inhumanity in order to prevent larger ones? Easy for him to say... He wasn't the one who'd been... His hand, she thought. What had happened to cause that withering? Had something equally awful (was there anything as awful as rape?) happened to him?

Truth...Promises...Inhumanity...Courage...Sacrifice...Fear...Terror... Hermione's mind spun a web of ever-increasing complexity, bringing her little respite that night.

AN: In Irish folklore when the Bean Sidhe (banshee) wails and someone dies, a headless man comes down from the skies riding a coach (the Death Coach) with two black horses and picks up the spirit of the deceased.