A Capacity for Love

CHAPTER 11

-- Stockholm Syndrome --

Hermione's visits to Teresa Goodwin and Lisa Turpin became a regular feature of her Sunday afternoons. A member of the Order would pick her up from Hogwarts and Apparate with her to the Muggle hospital where Lisa was being treated, then bring her back two hours later. Being aware of the ways of the world, it did occur to Hermione to ask who was paying for the sessions, but then she figured that Dumbledore must have worked something out, and well he should, since he was at fault (as he had told her) in the first place.

After talking with the therapist for forty-five minutes, Hermione would go down to Lisa's room and chat with her for an hour or so; when the weather was conducive, they would go out to the enclosed courtyard and sit on one of the stone benches there. The Ravenclaw girl was once again able to interact and communicate, but she tired quickly, and often Hermione would find herself holding a monologue on the week's events at the castle.

She tried to keep Lisa up-to-date on classwork, but she didn't feel comfortable performing magic in the Muggle setting, even when they were alone, and it was difficult to explain how to perform a charm or transfiguration without actually demonstrating. Mostly they just talked about superficial things: the weather, food, fashions. Or just sat together in silence. They never mentioned Halloween.

As Hermione worked to integrate the horrifying experience (and she did work at it, as if it were a N.E.W.T. subject), she found herself growing closer to Harry. Not physically; in fact, she found that they were spending more time apart than they had during any other year since they'd met. But she was developing a deeper understanding for how Harry must have felt all those years of being terrorized by Voldemort, with no family to whom he could turn for comfort, no witnesses to what had happened with Quirrell, or in the Chamber of Secrets, or at the Triwizard Tournament.

Oh, yes, she and Ron said they believed him. They had believed him, did believe him. But it was like a religious belief: one believed because one was expected to, or because one wanted to, not because it was a fact that one knew to be true based on verifiable sensory experience and memory. And so there was always a seed of doubt: had it really been like that? Had he maybe just imagined some of it? For, surely, if he had really come face-to-face with Voldemort, surely, he would not have come out of it alive time after time....

Now she knew that feeling. Yes, if she told Harry what happened on Halloween, he would believe her (as would Ron), but he wouldn't know what had happened. He'd second-guess the experience, as she had his. He would probably think, if he had been there, in her place, he would have done such-and-such and then things would have turned out quite differently. Only she would ever know what had happened. Not even Oonagh, Sandy, or Lisa could understand. The other girls had been through their own personal hells; the one she had been through was just for her. Her and Snape.

Parallel to her more profound connection to Harry, Hermione found to her despair that her relationship with Ron was slipping out of her grasp like mist over the lake on those late Autumn mornings. Every time she reached out timidly toward him, he skittered away, into the warm, unsullied bosom of Lavender Brown.

And so she stopped trying, painful as it was. She had to let him go; she had to let go whatever promise there had been of a great love between them. She would only disappoint him. She had disappointed him. He was a great, eager puppy of a young man, and what was she? Something old and black and shriveled. She used to see herself as pink and vibrant, but now she felt as if she were encased in a rotten shell, and what was inside was dried up, dessicated.

The other girls, Oonagh and Sandy, the only other ones with whom she might have spoken openly about that night, seemed to have found their own coping mechanisms, and they didn't involve discussions with Hermione.

Oonagh had slipped on a tough exterior and assumed the role of the brave survivor. Maybe it was just a front; maybe that's how she really saw herself. Hermione still heard remarks at the Gryffindor table or in the common room about Oonagh's version of the attack, dirty looks shot Grubb's way, reminders among friends to keep one's wand at the ready when going out alone.

Sandy had become ensconced in a well-padded layer of friends who, it seemed, were doing everything for her except sleeping. They formed a protective bubble around her that carried her from her dorm to the dining hall to classes to the castle grounds to Hogsmeade; so that while she was physically present and engaged to some degree in student life, she was shielded from any actual confrontations, stress, or unpleasantness.

But for Hermione, there were no friends to shield her; no pretenses at heroism. She was alone.

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"Harry? Harry!" Hermione hissed at him across the library table, frowning a little at his inattention.

"Hmm?" Harry mumbled, not looking up from the book he was holding in his lap.

"I said, are you done with that Ley line atlas yet?"

Harry frowned, still not giving her his full attention. "Lee what?"

"The atlas! That book with the pretty pictures lying right in front of you!" She pointed, slightly exasperated, at the table before him, where a book was open to a page showing a colorful map.

Harry let his gaze wander unfocused over the book. "Oh, that. Yeah, you can have it. Here." He shoved it across the table toward her. "Nothing useful in there, anyway."

"And I suppose 'Famous Quidditch Players and Their Brooms' is much more useful," Hermione snarked.

"It's 'From Blagging to Wronski: A Captain's Guide to Strategy'," Harry retorted, holding up the book for her to see, "and yes, it's a sight more useful, at least for those of us with a life beyond schoolwork. I don't see the point of looking up some old fields that have long since been turned into Muggle car parks anyhow."

"You never know when knowledge will be useful," Hermione said, although she silently agreed with Harry that their assignment of mapping ancient centres of Dark magic was more busywork than anything else.

"I know this will never be useful," Harry said, flicking his fingers disdainfully at the books spread out on the table. "Snape only gave us the assignment so we'd have to spend more time looking at books, and he doesn't have to do anything. Have you noticed that we spend ninety percent of our class time just reading?" He put on a scowl and intoned, "Open your books to page six hundred and ninety three. There will be no discussion."

Hermione tutted even as she inwardly squirmed at his imitation of Snape. She had noticed that, after the nightmare class, he'd moved away from full-frontal teaching mode to more of a book-based class structure, as he had back when he'd subbed for Lupin in their third year. Which was fine with her. That was one of the reasons she had even been able to return to class with him. She'd also mentally separated Snape-the-Professor from Snape-the-Death-Eater, even if she knew they were one and the same. It was her coping technique at the moment.

"Without a grasp of the fundamentals," she reminded Harry in her old know-it-all manner, "you can't expect to succeed at all. How would you ever have known about the Mens Protego spell if you hadn't read about it somewhere?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe a teacher might actually have shown us? Explained what it was for? Rather than blasting into our minds completely without warning! I'm a little surprised that you of all people are defending that particular teaching method." Harry narrowed his eyes at Hermione.

Hermione bristled at that. "I'm not defending it! But what do you think the next Death Eater you run into is going to do? 'Oh, excuse me,'" she simpered, "'I'm going to try to blast you into next week in a moment; in case you're wondering, a well-placed Protection Charm right about now wouldn't be amiss.' That's not how it works, Harry! They sneak up on you, hit you from behind, get you when you're down, play off your worst fears!"

"Hey, hey, calm down!" Harry said. "I was there too, remember!"

"No you weren't, you--" Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth and looked at Harry in horror. She had very nearly told him about Halloween.

Harry gave her a funny look. "Department of Mysteries... Did you forget? What's going on with you, Hermione? You've been acting kind of weird this whole term."

Hermione shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything. Her stomach was squeezing that evening's dinner together in a most uncomfortable way.

"Are you sure you aren't using a Time-Turner?" Harry stood halfway up and reached across the table, pulling Hermione's jumper aside at her neck.

Hermione jumped up, knocking her chair backwards. "What are you doing? Get your hands off me!" she screeched.

Heads turned toward them and several annoyed 'shhhs' sounded.

"You're hiding something from me, Hermione Granger," Harry accused her, moderating his tone slightly. "I've been telling you everything, and you can't even have the decency to do the same!"

Hermione stood there, holding her jumper close to her throat, and answered in a fierce whisper: "There's nothing to tell you! I just don't take kindly to being groped, thank you very much!"

"I wasn't groping," Harry said, a little abashedly, and took his seat again as Madam Pince came up.

"I shall only warn the two of you this one time," she said severely. "Another outburst and you will have to leave." She eyed both Harry and Hermione down her long and pointy nose. "There are no special privileges to disturb the peace in my library." She sniffed superciliously and minced away on soft-soled shoes.

Hermione scowled after her. "Special privileges... What's she talking about?"

"Filch'll have been feeding her stories of how we're allowed to get away with murder. Well, mostly me," Harry muttered darkly.

"Filch?"

"Oh, sure," he said sourly. "He's my number two admirer. After Snape. The git! I hate him!" Harry's eyes looked like they could burn holes in the table.

Even though Hermione could easily second that sentiment, she was nevertheless taken aback at the vehemence with which Harry spoke. "Hate is a very strong word, Harry." She felt for her seat with her right hand, still holding her top close to her with her left.

"Not strong enough, not for Snape. I loathe him, I detest him. When I think about what he did to me last year, how he's always tried to hurt me... and you!" Harry's eyes snapped up to meet Hermione's, and she was startled at the fervor and emotion she saw there.

"He--" Hermione tried to swallow over a dry throat, but her tongue caught. She didn't want to have to defend Snape, but she also didn't want to get caught up in Harry's irrational hatred of the man. She had a reason to hate him; he didn't. What had Snape done to Harry, after all? Taunted him during class? Taken House points away without cause? Assigned unjust detentions? He had also tried to protect him from Quirrell/Voldemort. From Sirius Black, whom he'd thought at the time to be a murderer. She sat down heavily. She couldn't believe she was about to do this....

"Harry, I think you're wrong."

Harry glared at her, challenging her to continue.

She sighed. "About Snape. He's tried to protect you. Don't you remem--"

"Protect me!" Harry whisper-shouted in indignation, glancing warily in Madam Pince's direction. "He's done everything but serve me up to Voldemort on a silver platter!"

"Now, that's not quite fair--"

"Fair! Since when has he ever been fair? He hates me because of something my father did. What did I ever do to him, other than be born with the name 'Potter'? I didn't even know my father, and he's been trying to pay me back since I set foot at Hogwarts for every insult, real or imagined, that my father and his friends ever threw at him. I wasn't his enemy when I started here, but he's made me one now." Harry sat back and crossed his arms.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said, her brow creasing, "I don't think it's good for you to nurture such feelings. You're only going to hurt yourself in the long run."

Harry sat for a moment, looking like he wanted to argue back, then stood and started packing his things. "Maybe you should give that little lecture to Snape," he said curtly, and looked at her over the top of his glasses, eyebrows raised. "And yourself, while you're at it. You're nursing some hurt feelings where Ron's concerned much longer than is healthy. For either of you." He shouldered his book-bag and softened his expression. "I'm not angry with you, Hermione. There are just some things that you don't understand."

Hermione watched him leave, troubled both by what he had said as well as what she had said. Had she actually come down on Snape's side?

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"What do you know about the Stockholm Syndrome?" Hermione looked at the therapist anxiously.

Teresa Goodwin cleared her throat. "It sometimes occurs in abductions. The victim develops feelings of sympathy for their abductor." She stopped speaking and waited with a look of mild interest on her face.

Hermione nodded. "It's wrong, isn't it? I mean, the abductor is the bad guy. You shouldn't sympathize with him."

"Abduction, taking someone against their will, in fact, making anyone do anything against their will, is certainly wrong," Teresa agreed. "The famous cases of Stockholm Syndrome usually involved brainwashing, or at least long periods of mental and physical coercion and dependency. Feelings that develop out of those situations, I think, need to be examined for their causes."

"So you're saying it's not possible for me to have Stockholm Syndrome, since I wasn't abducted for long enough?"

"Do you think you have Stockholm Syndrome?"

"I've been thinking about him." It wasn't necessary for Hermione to explain who she meant. "As a person. What his motivations are. Were. Are.... I know, what he did was terrible and wrong, and there was no excuse. He's a miserable, pathetic little man. But I.... Maybe he was also forced to do it. What if he was also forced?"

Teresa shrugged. "What if?"

"Then maybe it wasn't his fault. I mean, I know it was his fault. Of course it was his fault. Oh, I don't know. I'm getting confused, thinking about it. I want him to be in the wrong, because he was wrong, but I think I'm starting to understand more of the whole situation, and I don't want to excuse him, but I'm starting to think I have to. That doesn't make any sense." She shook her head, frustrated.

"What is the situation that you're starting to understand?"

"That... Well, remember I told you about the whole organized crime thing, how this was orchestrated by this crime lord? Well, he was just following orders. Yes, he could have disobeyed, but then maybe he would have been killed."

"Does that make it okay for you?" Teresa asked calmly. "That you were victimized in order to save someone else's life?"

"No! Just that... maybe I understand his motivation. Maybe he wasn't doing it to be mean to me, or because he enjoyed it. Maybe he had to."

"Maybe," Teresa allowed. "Does this new insight change your feelings?"

"It-- I thought it did, I thought it would, but I guess not really. I'm still angry at him, but more because he didn't fight back. He could have at least tried! But he would rather have done something awful to me than have something awful happen to him. I guess I understand that, logically, but it still makes me really angry."

"It's lousy."

"Yeah... lousy," Hermione mumbled, looking down at her lap.

After a moment, when it appeared Hermione was not going to add anything more, Teresa said, "Hermione, it seems to me that you're looking for an explanation for what happened to you. You're preoccupied with the question of why it happened. That's perfectly understandable. We all like to have certainty. Much of human existence is based on the search for answers. But I don't think it's always possible to have those answers. Sometimes we just have to accept that terrible things happen, and then go on from there. You've done an admirable job of getting on with your life after the rape. I truly admire your strength. But I'm afraid that your continued search for an answer as to why will get you sidetracked. I don't think that will ever be answered to your satisfaction."

Hermione didn't answer. Teresa's words didn't discourage her. Quite the opposite; she felt a greater determination than ever to find out what had really happened that night.

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Author's Note: Please bear in mind that I'm not trying to excuse rape in any manner. This story is exploring the aftermath of a specific fictional situation. Thanks for reading and reviewing.