A Capacity for Love

CHAPTER 9

- With Friends Like These -

AN: Some dialogue in this chapter was copied verbatim from HBP, Chapter Fourteen: Felix Felicis.

Hermione rubbed her eyes, which were sticky from lack of sleep. Her dormmates were getting ready to go down to breakfast. Much as she did not want to join them, she also did not want to lie in bed any longer; her muscles ached from tossing and turning all night.

It was Saturday. Normally, she would have spent Saturday in the library, but she honestly didn't feel like doing any homework, and there were no answers to the real-life problems she was currently facing in the dusty tomes there. No, perhaps it would be for the best if she got up and went to the Quidditch match. The fresh air at least would do her some good. She would take a seat low down, away from the others. But first, she would need a very large mug of tea with plenty of cream and sugar.

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Hermione hadn't been to the Great Hall for breakfast all week, and she had made sure to show up during the last fifteen minutes of the other meals, so as to avoid having to interact with the others as much as possible. This, coupled with the general excitement due to that morning's Quidditch match, caused the room to seem even more crowded and loud than usual to her.

She couldn't help herself from glancing up at the front of the hall as she walked toward the Gryffindor table. Professor Snape was sitting there, his back as stiff as a board and a sour expression on his face. Professor Dumbledore was gazing cheerfully out at the students, and she fancied he might have given her an extra smile. Her stomach roiled at the sight of the two of them, and she hurriedly looked away.

She was on her way to the far end of the Gryffindor table, where the first years were sitting (they were too intimidated by her Prefect status to try and engage her in conversation), when she noticed Harry fiddling with Ron's cup, then palming a small vial. What in the world...? Her sense of moral outrage flared when she realized what he had been doing: the Quidditch match--Ron's poor goalkeeping ability--Felix Felicis. She stopped dead behind Ron.

"Don't drink that, Ron!"

Ron turned around with an ugly look on his face that startled her. "Why not?" he challenged her.

Hermione looked quickly away, not able to bear the malice in those eyes--those eyes which had such a short time ago caused her heart to flutter so pleasantly. Instead, she focused on Harry, who seemed to have a bit of a smirk on his face.

"You've just put something in that drink," she said with a hurt expression. She had thought that Harry at least had his priorities straight; didn't he realize how valuable that Felix Felicis was? He shouldn't be squandering it on a meaningless Quidditch match.

"Excuse me?" said Harry.

"You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron's drink. You've got the bottle in your hand right now!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said loftily, and she could have sworn he winked at Ron.

"Ron, I warn you, don't drink it!" Hermione pleaded.

Ron sneered at her and turned his back, saying, "Stop bossing me around, Hermione." He picked up the goblet of pumpkin juice and knocked it back like a shot, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave the rest of the table a triumphant look.

Hermione, her face red with shame, turned away. These were supposed to be her best friends, and this was how they treated her. She blinked back tears, hardly able to see where she was going. All thoughts of breakfast forgotten, she left the Great Hall and ran back up the stairs. A couple of giggling Ravenclaws passed her on their way down. Ravenclaws...

Without really having a plan, she turned left at the second-floor landing rather than continuing up to Gryffindor Tower and walked rapidly along the corridor. The sun was streaming in through the mullioned windows, casting diamond-shaped patches of yellow on the flagstones. It looked like an optimal day for a Quidditch match.

At the end of the corridor, Hermione pushed open one of the three-meter-high double doors leading into the infirmary and immediately sought out the third bed on the right. A blond student was lying in it, asleep, but not the one she expected. She stormed over to the Slytherin youth.

"What have you done with Lisa?" Hermione demanded.

Draco opened his eyes and jerked back, then, registering who had disturbed him, relaxed slightly and closed his eyes again.

"Go away, Mudblood," he muttered through pale lips.

"I will not, not until you tell me where Lisa is!" Hermione clenched her hands at her sides.

Draco opened his eyes again and frowned in irritation. "Who?"

"Lisa Turpin, the girl whose bed you're lying in!"

Draco chuckled weakly. He really did look quite ill. "Granger, I'm not lying in any girl's bed. And if I were, it certainly wouldn't be..." He trailed off, getting a sly look on his face. "Turpin," he mused. "Are you talking about that snivelling blonde Hufflepuff?"

"She's in Ravenclaw!" Hermione corrected him fiercely.

"Whatever," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You can't expect me to keep you all straight."

"All who?" All the girls who had been there on Halloween?

"All of you Mudbloods, of course." A pained look crossed his face, and Hermione thought for a moment that he was going to be sick. But he swallowed hard and hissed, "And now get out. I'm sick, can't you see that? And the sight of you is only making me sicker!" He closed his eyes again, looking truly more than a little green around the gills.

Just then a woman's voice called from behind her: "Hermione!"

Hermione turned to see Madam Pomfrey bustling toward them. "I'm sorry, dear, but Mr. Malfoy is not in any shape to be receiving visitors."

"Good morning, Madam Pomfrey. I was actually looking for Lisa. Is she better?" Hermione asked hopefully.

The nurse's face fell. "No, I'm sorry, she isn't. In fact, her parents have transferred her to a...Muggle hospital." She said this with slight disdain.

Hermione's heart dropped. "A Muggle hospital? But what about St. Mungo's? She was--" She was about to protest that Lisa was suffering from magic-induced injuries, and that therefore Muggles, however well-meaning, would be able to do very little to help her. But she remembered just in time that no one was supposed to know the nature of Lisa's illness. She glanced at Draco to see if he was listening. His eyes were closed again, but she knew he was still awake.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Madam Pomfrey continued, her quick look in Draco's direction also making it clear that she was aware of the need for circumspection. "I should have let you know, but it honestly didn't cross my mind."

Dumbledore could also have told her, or Professor McGonagall, Hermione thought grimly, but they had both left her in the dark.

"That's all right," Hermione said to the matron automatically. "Do you know where she was moved to?"

"I have the name written down in my office. If you can wait a moment...?"

Once Madam Pomfrey had gone, Hermione turned to look at Draco again. She'd just realized that he was the Slytherin Seeker, and a big game was about to start; the fact that he was lying here in the hospital wing had to be due to only one thing: Felix Felicis. Righteous fury bubbled up in her. Stupid boys!

"What's wrong with you anyway?" she said to Draco suspiciously.

He groaned a little in answer, but didn't open his eyes.

"You do know that the Quidditch match is about to start?"

Draco turned onto his side, facing away from her. "Of course I know that, for Merlin's sake, you think I'm lying here for fun?" he answered testily.

"Something you ate?" she asked a bit nastily.

He gave a noncommittal moan.

Hermione frowned. There was of course the possibility that he was up to something, but that could be explained by the Felix Felicis as well, making him decide that it was much more important to take care of some shady business than to play Quidditch. In fact, if Harry and Ron's enthusiasm for the sport was anything to go by, there was very little short of magic that could convince a teenage boy not to play Quidditch.

"Here you are, Hermione." Madam Pomfrey returned with a slip of paper in her hand. "You'll find all the information on here. I'm sure I don't know what they think they can do for her. The Headmaster argued most forcefully for a transfer to St. Mungo's, but they are the parents."

"Thanks, Madam Pomfrey. I'll try to send her an owl at least, let her know we haven't forgotten her." With a final glance at Draco's back, Hermione left.

It was only once she was halfway down the stairs again that it occurred to her that Draco had thought Lisa was "a snivelling blonde Hufflepuff": that description nailed Sandy Ploppe dead on. And why would Draco have jumped to the conclusion that Hermione was trying to find Sandy Ploppe? What connected her and Sandy? Why would he have assumed that Sandy might have been in the hospital wing? The only logical conclusion that Hermione could come to was...that he had been there on Halloween as well.

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After that, the day only got worse. It turned out that Harry had not, in fact, used the Felix Felicis to aid Ron's Quidditch skills (or make Draco ill), which was in and of itself a good thing, but it meant that Harry had blatantly used Hermione to trick Ron. Then Ron, rather than being happy that he'd done such a good job all on his own, accused Hermione of doubting his abilities and went off and started making out with Hermione's own dorm mate in front of everyone. Lavender knew that Hermione had fancied Ron; at least, she and Parvati had always teased her about it before. So seeing Lavender and Ron together was a double slap in the face to Hermione. In summation, basically everyone who had any sort of friendly relationship with Hermione had made her look stupid within the last twenty-four hours. Well, to be honest, that was a bit of an exaggeration. It had been less than twelve hours.

Now Hermione was on her way to the library, her last refuge. She felt certain that it would be deserted, being a Saturday night with a Quidditch match to celebrate, and she was right.

Madam Pince was at the front desk, as usual, reading a book, and nodded curtly in acknowledgment of Hermione as she entered. Hermione's love of books was not enough, apparently, to put the student into Madam Pince's good graces. Probably one too many trips to the restricted section, which Hermione had been given free access to this year. She was headed there now, too. In addition to having the most interesting books, it was also the furthest back and most secluded part of the library, and had the most comfortable window nook in which to curl up and read. Or think. Or just...be.

Hermione breathed in the trusted scent of leather and parchment and felt herself relaxing within moments. Books would never betray her, never abuse her, never pretend to be something they weren't. She stood before a shelf full of tomes with titles like 'The Flying Nun', 'Confessions of a Warlock', and 'On the Road to Damascus...With a Detour to Hogsmeade'. Hermione mused for a moment on why these should be in the restricted section; it's not like they were particularly Dark. She was about to pull down 'Why I am Not a Wiccan' when the swishing of a cape and a shadowy movement to her left startled her.

Assuming it was Madam Pince wanting to check her note from Professor McGonagall for the umpteenth time, she started fumbling in her pockets for it, muttering darkly to herself. Honestly, one would think that the woman felt threatened by Hermione's presence, the way she policed her every time.... There it was. She pulled the tightly-rolled slip of parchment out and held it out to-- Professor Snape.

"Miss Granger, what, may I ask, are you doing in the restricted section of the library?" His tone was slightly threatening. Or maybe it was his physical presence. It was hard to tell what it was, since nearly everything associated with Hogwarts' Defense professor scared Hermione at this point.

She was briefly unable to put two coherent thoughts together, but then thrust the roll of parchment at him, keeping her eyes directed somewhere in the region of his chest. "Here!"

Snape snatched the parchment away from her, and examined it briefly. She saw his long, thin fingers grasping the creamy material and had her memory of the hand holding the wand pointed at her confirmed once again. Snape exhaled through his nose and handed the parchment back to her. She hesitated, not wanting to touch something that he had touched. The permission slip was now contaminated. She would have to burn it. Never mind that she wouldn't be able to get into the restricted section any more. She forced herself to overcome her revulsion and took the scroll between her forefinger and thumb and hastily dropped it into her pocket.

There was silence for a moment, during which Hermione continued to avoid looking at the professor. Was he going to stand there watching her forever?

"Is there something wrong?"

Hermione was startled by the question. Not that it sounded particularly caring; it had been delivered in a rather disdainful tone of voice, reminiscent of how a manor lord would query a servant who hesitated in carrying out a direct order.

Hermione shook her head. "No, Sir," she replied in a low voice.

"I take it you are here, once again, on no particular business," he stated.

Hermione took affront at this. "I have permission--" she started to defend herself.

"Yes, so I see," he cut her off shortly.

Again, there was silence.

"Miss Granger, I hope you understand the necessity for me, as a professor at this institution, to deduct House points."

Hermione was confused. Confused and indignant. So much so that she forgot her fear temporarily and looked up at him; just as far as his chin, though. "You can't take points away from me!" she protested. "You've just seen, I have permission to be here!"

Snape appeared impatient. "That is not what I mean, you silly girl," he sneered. "I thought you were supposed to be the clever one."

"Are you talking about the other night?" she ventured.

He nodded. "I am."

"You only took five points from me for being out of the castle alone," she said.

"I had not expected to find you there. By all rights, I should have taken fifty points."

Hermione raised her eyes a little further. He did not look at all amiable. He looked quite out of sorts, in fact. A little disgusted, even.

"Then, why--"

"Just because I am assigned certain duties due to my status, does not mean that I necessarily take pleasure in exercising them. Nevertheless, if I did not carry out my duties, I should be reprimanded. Possibly even punished."

Punished? Dumbledore would never punish a Head of House for not deducting House points when the situation warranted it. Would he? Hermione was just about to open her mouth to inquire further, but Snape turned abruptly and left, without another word.

Curiouser and curiouser, Hermione thought to herself with a frown. What in the world had that been about? Absently, she wandered over to her favourite nook and snuggled up against the upholstery. One could look out across the grounds from here. In the daytime, one could see the lake. She pressed her forehead against the cold pane and cupped her hands around her eyes to block out the light. The ground below was dark and unfathomable. Just like a certain DADA instructor.

Not take pleasure in deducting House points, my arse, Hermione thought with a snort. He lived to deduct points from Gryffindor. Mostly from Harry, but he'd take Ron, Seamus, or Neville-- Anyone, really. Why had he only taken five points from her, then? It was a puzzler. Maybe he'd felt sorry for her or something-- But that was ridiculous! First of all, Snape never felt sorry for anyone. Secondly, he'd been the one who'd attacked her. He should have thought of that before, if indeed he were thinking along those lines now, which she seriously doubted. And what to make of that stuff about being reprimanded or punished for not deducting House points? Again, that didn't make sense.

She closed her eyes and rolled her forehead back and forth across the cool glass, then sat back and pressed her fingertips into the condensation left by her breath, making little dark spots on the window. And then she knew what he had been saying. And she felt the now-familiar fury invading her body.

He actually had the unmitigated gall to try to explain away what he had done by saying it had been his duty as a Death Eater! Pleading that he would have been punished if he hadn't gone along.

How dare he! How dare he make excuses! He had chosen to join the Death Eaters! He had chosen to stay on as a spy! He had chosen to be there and to do...to do what he had done! So what if he would have been punished for not doing it! What would he have gotten: a little pain? A little suffering? A little humiliation? What was that to her? Was she supposed to feel sorry for him or something? And what if he had been killed for refusing? It would have been only just, for all the things he'd already done.... Why, he'd probably already done that kind of thing before; dozens -- no -- hundreds of times!

Hermione threw herself headlong out of the seat and down the narrow aisle between the bookcases, ignoring Madam Pince's indignant cry, out of the library and up the stairs, running hard until she was gasping for breath, forcing her burning legs to mount one more step, then another, then another, until she burst out the door at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

The round observation platform was empty, and she lunged to the parapet, gripping the cold stone with hot fingers and leaning over to gulp in mouthfuls of snow-tinged air. It was so dark she couldn't see how far a fall it was to the ground. It might have been just a couple of metres; she knew it was more, but her brain tried to convince her it was a survivable distance. What would it feel like, to just float in the air, surrounded by darkness? It must feel better than this, she thought, with impotent rage, an aching in her soul. I can always conjure an air mattress at the bottom, before I hit the ground, if I decide I don't like it, she considered. Or Levitate myself. Although I've never tried it at speed, it might work.

She leaned farther over, letting her head hang down so that the wind whipped through her hair, pulling gently, teasing her. She got her wand out and held it in her right hand against the rough-hewn stone edge, then, as if in a trance, lifted it out over the abysm. It looked so small, nine-and-a-half inches of vine wood encasing a dragon heartstring core. What would happen if she... She opened her hand, and the stick began spiralling downward. She lost sight of it in less than a second. All of a sudden, it struck her what she was considering doing. She pushed herself back from the wall, horror-struck, stumbling on the hem of her robe. She sat down hard to prevent herself from falling and felt the hard, dirt-covered stones beneath her fingers. Oh, God. She had almost jumped. She had almost--

She swallowed convulsively over a dry throat and started shaking all over, then lay down on her back right there on the floor of the platform, her knees raised. After a moment, she became aware of winking lights above her. Moving lights. Airplanes. She laughed once, a choked sound that ended with a sob. There were still Muggles in the world. There were people who knew nothing of magic and Death Eaters. Tomorrow, she would go and visit them.

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