A Capacity for Love

Chapter 15

Christmas Break

Hermione didn't know how she'd made it to the train that morning, but here she was, luggage in the overhead rack and book bag on the empty seat next to her, swaying gently to the rhythm of the wheels on the rails. She had no idea where Harry or Ron was; they hadn't made any effort to find her, or if they had, they hadn't been successful, which was fine with her.

She hadn't slept at all the night before. After Snape and Malfoy had left, she'd waited just long enough to be sure neither of them was still in the corridor, and then had scurried back to Gryffindor tower. Somehow, she'd managed to slink in and get up to her dorm without anyone's attention being drawn to her. This feat had probably been aided by the fact that most of the upper-classmen had been involved in a game of Spin the Bottle, and it hadn't been Butterbeer they were drinking.

Once safely (or as safe as she ever felt these days, which wasn't very) in her bed, with the curtains arranged exactly as she needed them to be, she had tried to put the previous scene out of her head, but it hadn't left her alone. The two voices kept snapping at each other in her mind, until it seemed it was she they were accusing: '... exposed as a weakling ... There are things you do not understand ... I do not need to justify myself to you ... You are sloppy, imprudent ... foolish in the extreme ... it's all just a joke...'

And maybe it was. Maybe Snape and Malfoy and the rest of them got together and laughed about it: about how they'd humiliated and violated a bunch of Muggleborns. Mudbloods. That's all they were, all she was: a filthy vessel, contaminated, irredeemable. Good for nothing, better off thrown away.

She knew, intellectually, that she shouldn't think that way; that she was, theoretically, just as good and worthy as anyone else, just as good as Ginny Weasley with her vibrant smile and all the boys chasing after her; just as good as Terry Boot, who didn't ever seem to have to study; just as good as Lavender and Neville and Michael and Padma, and even other Muggleborns like Justin or Dean, for that matter, only they were all so normal and so--so unspoiled, and she was dirt. She was dirty; still dirty. It would never come off. Because it was inside.

A knock sounded on her compartment door. She started, and was disoriented for a moment when Terry, the Ravenclaw Prefect, poked his head in. She unconsciously felt to make sure her uniform was buttoned up.

"There you are," he said, a bit impatiently. "We couldn't find you before we left, so we just assigned you: you've got patrol in the last carriage."

Hermione fingered her Prefect badge. "All right," she murmured, still half in a daze.

"I saw Pillcock and his gang going in there, so you might want to get there sooner rather than later." With that warning, he withdrew.

Hermione sighed and got up. Not that she was particularly interested in defusing whatever mischief Paisley Pillcock and his band had gotten up to, but at least it would be a distraction.

She made her way through the rocking carriage, ambivalent to the sounds of laughter and occasional thumps and bangs. She was tired; not just from lack of sleep, but tired of being the one to have to enforce the rules. Let someone else do it. It wasn't her problem. It felt good to let the responsibility go, for once; to let other people's problems remain other people's problems.

It was thus with a slightly less heavy heart that she slid open the door to the last carriage. It was quiet, although clearly not unoccupied: someone's trunk was lying halfway out of one of the compartments, blocking the corridor. Without wasting many words, she Locomoted it back out of the way, sparing its second-year owner barely a glance. A quick check in each of the compartments earned her nothing worse than two dirty looks, although thankfully, none of them were from anyone she knew any better than in passing. Pillcock and his three chums were huddled around some magazine or other and didn't even look up when she opened their door.

The last thing to check, then, was the WC. A quick rattle on the door handle revealed it was occupied, which was bothersome, because it meant she would have to wait until whoever was inside came out, so she could make sure nothing was out of order. She settled herself with her arms against the window sill so she could watch the passing countryside.

One of the peculiarities of the Hogwarts Express was that it traveled on tracks which were presumed by Muggles to be abandoned, and never ran directly through a city, once outside of London and environs. This enabled the train to travel at a nearly steady pace for the entire length of its journey, and allowed for a bucolic panorama right up to the outskirts of London.

It was a beautiful, late autumn day, and the yellow and brown fields seemed cheerful and honest beneath the brilliant blue sky. Hermione lowered the window a crack to get a breath of the sharp, cold air, smelling of dried leaves and distant wood smoke, which she found quite refreshing. It was thus quite some minutes before she realized that whoever it was, was still locked in to the lavatory. It was also of course possible that someone had locked the door from the outside, to play a prank. The familiar feeling of righteous indignation began to rise in her, both fueling her actions and sapping her strength. She snapped the window shut and straightened her robes.

"Hello? Is anyone in there?" She rapped on the door with her wand, but there was no answer. She rapped again, louder. "This is Prefect Granger! Please open the door!" she insisted, but there was still no response. Muttering to herself in annoyance, she Alohomora'd the door and yanked it open.

Expecting to find the tiny room empty, she was startled to see a girl in school robes hunched down on the floor, her head on her knees. The chamber smelled of sick. Hermione immediately flushed the toilet, flipped the lid down, and opened the window with a flick of her wand.

The girl raised her head, sniffling, and Hermione recognized her right away.

"Sandy? Sandy, what's wrong?" Hermione knelt down beside the Hufflepuff who had shared her Halloween ordeal. "Are you sick?"

Sandy nodded her head miserably.

"What is it? Can you get up?" She put her arm underneath Sandy's elbow and half-lifted, half-guided her to the toilet, where Sandy then sat with her head supported on her hands, panting slightly.

"Here, have some water," Hermione suggested, Conjuring a paper cup and filling it with water from the tap.

Sandy took a small sip before handing the cup back to Hermione with a shaky hand. "Thanks," she croaked.

"You look terrible," Hermione admitted. "Did it just hit you suddenly?"

Sandy shook her head and burst into a fresh round of tears. Hermione patted her gently on the back. "I'm sorry. Why didn't you get something from Madam Pomfrey before we left? Are you sure you should be traveling if you're so sick?"

Sandy took a moment to get herself under control, then she announced, her voice thick with emotion, "I'm not sick, Hermione. I'm pregnant."

+++000+++000+++

"Is it just me, or did that seem to be a particularly difficult term?" Minerva McGonagall asked as she took her seat in the staff room.

"Absolutely!" Professor Sprout concurred. "There was a great deal of disquiet in the air. Very disturbing. The sixth years were the worst. Of course, we all know there's no love lost between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, but I had the feeling there was even tension amongst the Gryffindors themselves. Especially those three. You know." She nodded knowingly at the other Heads. "You don't suppose they're involved in something again?" She looked from McGonagall to Headmaster Dumbledore, her eyebrows raised beneath her floppy witch's hat.

"No doubt they are," droned Snape. "Potter has attracted trouble since the day he set foot in Hogwarts. I for one shall be glad to finally see the back of him."

"I've no doubt the feeling is mutual, Severus," Professor McGonagall said disapprovingly. "However, now that you mention it, I have been noticing Miss Granger is less... enthusiastic about her coursework than usual. You don't think--" She looked at Professor Dumbledore with something akin to alarm.

Dumbledore cut in serenely: "I am certain it is nothing more than the usual worries over their NEWT coursework. That, and they are of a certain age..." He sighed and turned to Snape. "Or do you have any specific reason to suspect Mr. Potter is involved in any intrigues at the present time, Severus?"

Snape scowled and crossed his arms. "No, none, Sir."

"I am glad to hear it. After the terrible events of the past months--" Dumbledore was watching Snape with a penetrating stare. "--it is no wonder that those involved may be somewhat more emotional than usual."

"What events do you mean, Headmaster?" asked Professor Sprout, frowning slightly.

"The battle at the Department of Mysteries, of course," he replied easily. "Not only Messrs. Potter and Weasley and Miss Granger, but also the other students who unfortunately were present, went through an ordeal which no one, let alone children, should have had to endure."

"And all the fault of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" exclaimed McGonagall.

Snape glared at Professor McGonagall. "If Potter would not act so rashly, he would be able to avoid half of the trouble he gets up to."

"Are you suggesting it is his fault he has been targeted by You-Know-Who?" Professor McGonagall asked indignantly. " he is somehow to blame for being ambushed at the Ministry?"

"Of course not," Snape snapped. "I would merely ask what he was doing there in the first place. If he followed the advice given to him by the Headmaster and others wiser and more experienced than he, including yourself I might add, it would be that much more difficult for those who wish him harm to get to him."

It looked like McGonagall was about to launch into a lengthier defense, but she was cut short by Dumbledore waving his withered hand.

"That will be all, Minerva, Severus. Surely this is neither the time nor the place to discuss Mr. Potter's past adventures. Unless there is anything which you think has some bearing on our current semester?"

"No, Albus." Minerva pressed her lips together into a thin line.

"In that case, let us move on to business. Pomona, I believe there is an issue which involves one of your seventh years."

Professor Sprout's face took on a look of concern. "I'm very sorry to say that Sandy Ploppe has decided to leave school."

"Oh, no! Not another one?" McGonagall tutted. "I don't understand how these parents can think they can protect their children better at home. Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain."

"Oh, it's not that," Professor Sprout said. "Her parents are Muggles anyway; they don't really have any idea about..." She sank her voice to a whisper to say: "...He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Then why, after allowing her to study here for nearly seven years, are they pulling her out shortly before she completes her education?" Professor McGonagall seemed quite indignant.

"It's not them pulling her out," Professor Sprout explained. "It's herself. She doesn't want to continue." She held up a hand. "And before you ask, I have done all I can to convince her to stay. Offered her her own room, any help she might need getting to classes, extra tutoring for any classes she might miss... it was no good. She has her mind made up."

Professor Snape snorted. "Why on earth would any of that make her feel she's safer here?"

"It has nothing to do with feeling safe, Severus," Professor Sprout told him with a hint of annoyance. "The girl is pregnant."

"Oh, dear." Professor Flitwick clicked his tongue in sympathy. "What a shame. She was doing very well in Charms."

Snape's mouth snapped shut, and he flicked a glance in Dumbledore's direction. "How far along is she?"

"Nearly eight weeks," Professor Sprout said. "She won't tell me who the boy is." She sighed. "I think it was the shock that precipitated such a quick decision. I implored her to take time over the holidays to think about it. But she was adamant. She won't come back."

"Maybe she will yet, Pomona," Dumbledore said. "I think you've given her good advice. It could be she will change her mind after speaking with her family. Would you follow up with her after Christmas? Let her know we will do everything we can to ensure a normal completion of her year?"

"Of course, Headmaster, thank you."

+++000+++000+++

"Oh, Severus, if I might have a private word...?"

Snape frowned, but stood and waited while the other Heads left for dinner. Once they were gone, Professor Dumbledore closed the door and walked over to the window. It was dark outside, so he couldn't have seen much more than his reflection.

"What do you think, Severus?"

"Sir?"

"Miss Ploppe's departure."

Snape exhaled through his nose. "She is placing herself in a very dangerous position. I hope that is clear to her."

"Mmm. I see what you mean. If the - I hesitate to use the word - father - were to find out..."

"We must ensure that doesn't happen." Severus thought for a moment. "It would be helpful if there were another boy to take the blame."

Dumbledore turned and frowned at Severus, his blue eyes severe. "We must not allow anyone else to be dragged into this."

"I didn't mean literally," Snape replied, a bit stiffly. "But if there were a rumour..."

Dumbledore shook his head. "It's the same thing. When the truth cannot be told, silence must take its place." He turned back to his reflection in the window and made good on his aphorism.

After several seconds, Snape prompted, "Was that all, then, Headmaster?"

"Miss Granger."

Both let the words hang in the air. Snape certainly wasn't about to pick them up.

Still looking at the window, Dumbledore said slowly, "I have also noticed a marked change in her behaviour ... and appearance. I wouldn't exactly call it slovenly, but there is something ... careless about her."

"I can't say I've noticed," Snape said shortly.

"Ignoring it won't make it go away."

Snape spoke through clenched teeth: "This issue is past and done with."

"It may not be. What do you think?" Dumbledore turned once more to Snape and fixed him with a penetrating stare. "What if she is also with child?"

+++000+++000+++

Hermione lay curled on her side, watching the shadows of the trees outside her bedroom window. It was past midnight. Her parents had gone to bed hours earlier; she'd heard them talking for a while, probably about her. She hadn't eaten any dinner. She knew they were worried about her. She was worried as well.

If she were at Hogwarts, she would have been able to go to the library, find a medical text, do the diagnostic spell herself. Now she would have to wait the entire two weeks of the term break. Unless of course she got her period. Then this whole thing would be resolved. Why hadn't she noticed its absence before? She could be eight weeks gone already. The thought made her sick with worry.

What would she do? What if she really was-- She couldn't even bring herself to think the word. The thought that he had left something inside her... It was more than disgusting. It made her want to turn herself inside out, rub out every body cavity with sandpaper. How Sandy could live with that--She was going to keep it. Hermione was glad she was leaving.

It had been bad enough seeing Sandy and Oonagh nearly every day, the mutual discomfort palpable, avoiding speaking to them for fear that they might say something about Halloween, feeling that gnawing guilt that she wasn't doing anything for them; she also hadn't visited Lisa for the past two weeks. Lisa was doing better, physically at least; her seizures were under control with medication now. But the medicines made her tired. And she was so sad. Or maybe that was also a side effect. On her last visit, Hermione had only stayed for half an hour. Neither of them had had the energy, or interest, to make small talk.

She also hadn't really had much to say to Theresa; she didn't much see the point of talking to her anymore, to tell the truth. It wouldn't change anything. She knew it wasn't her fault. She knew what had happened to her was terrible and wrong and had nothing to do with love or even sex, really, and everything to do with power and terrorization. She knew she had just as much right to be happy as anyone else. But it was different to know something and to feel it.

If Sandy stayed, if Hermione had to watch, even from afar, as the thing grew in her... It would be like watching her own inner filth grow. Please don't let there be anything like that inside me, she thought, rigid with fear and wide-open eyes staring out into the night. Please... please....

+++000+++000+++

The castle was quiet. Even Peeves, deprived of the adolescent impulses on which he fed, had withdrawn to a remote corner somewhere. Normally, school holidays were the one time when Snape enjoyed being at Hogwarts. He had the run of the place, then, could wander the corridors or walk the grounds without running the risk of any unpleasant surprises in the form of students. They were no different now than they had been when he himself had been a student; little on their minds but juvenile power struggles; always looking out for someone weaker to prey on. Often, that role had fallen to him.

Even now that he was a professor, when he should command respect and adulation, it was the same. Rarely, if ever, openly, of course, but he heard the ugly names, he saw the protruding tongues and nasty grimaces. The difference now was that he was in a position to strike back, make their lives just as unpleasant as they made his. Only he didn't, really; they had lives apart from his classroom, friends for solidarity and comfort. For every unpleasant moment he caused them, they had a Quidditch victory, a Christmas with family, a first kiss under an apple tree. His life outside of the classroom was even worse than in it: pursuit, torture, death. He had no friends. Not that he deserved any, or would even have known what to do with one if one had unexpectedly turned up. Stab them in the back, most likely.

He was going to have to kill the old man. The one person who had treated him with a scrap of decency, even if he had used him, was still using him, to his own ends. But still, it was more than most had done for him, and he was going to have to kill him. Draco couldn't be allowed to do it, even if he did ever come up with a plan that had any sort of chance at success. Draco could still be saved; he, Snape, was lost already. Dumbledore hadn't said it in so many words; he kept going on about love and such nonsense, and how Snape must do it out of love, rather than hate. He didn't hate the Headmaster; but he wasn't even sure what love felt like, so rather than take the chance at not having enough of it, he was going to do the deed the way he had learned from his Master.

Given that his soul was already destined for eternal damnation or whatever it was that happened to ruined, blackened souls, what did it matter what happened to Granger at this point? It was his fault, yes, of course it was, he'd had the choice, but now it was done. Apologies, restitution... those things were about as effective as plasters on a cancer. He'd tried, anyway, because Dumbledore had requested it, and that was the end of it.

But if she were pregnant? That could be undone, of course; it must be. He would make sure of it. Not because he feared any potential claims of a monetary nature (he would be dead himself by the time such demands were made), but because if the child were to be born, what a terrible burden both it and its mother would bear: the spawn of violence, an orphan, offspring either of a Muggleborn and a half-blood (tantamount to a death sentence should the Dark Lord be victorious), or of a traitor.

+++000+++000+++

"Hermione?" A knock on the door roused her from a half-sleep.

"What?" she said after a moment.

Her mother pushed the door open. "Do you want some breakfast?" Her voice was soft and her eyes kind, but Hermione could tell she was concerned.

"No, I'm not hungry." Hermione rolled onto her side and pulled the cover up under her chin.

"Are you sure you're all right? You didn't want anything last night, either." Her mother sat down on the bed and put her hand against Hermione's forehead. Hermione flinched away.

"I'm not sick," she said irritably. "What I meant was, I don't want anything right now. I'll have something when I get up."

"I'm sorry I can't stay," Mrs Granger said. "Your father's already gone ahead to the surgery. I just have to nip to the store, and then I have to take patients from ten o'clock. I hate leaving you alone when you aren't feeling well."

"I'm fine, Mum! I'd just like a bit of a lie-in, if that's all right? I never get the chance at school."

Hermione's mother smiled gently. "Of course. I'll give you a call around lunchtime, see how you're doing, all right?"

"Mm-hm," Hermione murmured, snuggling deeper into the bed.

Her mother kissed her on the forehead. She smelled like rubbing alcohol and talcum powder, and she didn't close the door on her way out.

Hermione closed her eyes again. Normally, she was an early riser, but she absolutely did not feel like getting up. Getting out of bed would involve things like formulating a plan and mustering the energy to carry it out. If she stayed in bed, she could continue to ignore all the unpleasant things which needed to be dealt with; basically, everything in her life. After another fifteen minutes, however, she realized if she didn't get up, she would possibly be lying in a pool of her own urine.

Having taken care of that, she wandered, out of force of habit, down to the kitchen. She really wasn't hungry, but her mum had left some fresh croissants on the table and a pot of tea on the stove for her, so she took some. At the first sip of the tea, she made a face; it was only lukewarm. With a sigh, she got up to put it into the microwave, but then realized she was seventeen. She'd left her wand in her school bag, as she always did when she went home to visit. Now, she ran up the stairs, suddenly invigorated by the prospect of doing something which had hitherto been forbidden.

Back in the kitchen, out of breath, she swirled her lovely oaken wand and pronounced a simple heating charm. Immediately, the tea began to steam, and she sat down again with a satisfied sigh. If only every problem were so easy to fix.

Feeling a little bit spooked at being alone in the house now, she switched on the counter-top television. A block of commercials was running, promising a happy family in return for buying some chemicals in a can. Muggle magic. And they believed it just as firmly as she believed in hers. There followed more advertisements for furniture stores, personal hygiene products, and sugary foods.

Hermione watched them all with an outsider's eye; these were all things which no longer concerned her. Then a nappy ad came on, and it all came crashing down on her. She turned the television off hastily. A baby. And to make things worse, it would be Snape's. Her life would effectively be over. The assault itself was one thing, terrible as it had been, and as large a shadow as it cast over her now, it had only actually happened once. A pregnancy, a baby: the one would last for several months, and the other would last a lifetime. She couldn't keep it. She absolutely could not. If there was one. Following a sudden inspiration, she gulped down the rest of her tea and rushed out.

+++000+++000+++

That evening, she made a good effort at having dinner with her parents, even managing to come up with a couple of innocuous anecdotes about Hogwarts, and that seemed to appease Mr and Mrs Granger's worries.

Afterwards, her mother insisted they go to the High Street and look at the Christmas displays. Hermione was glad for the distraction; the paper bag and its contents, Transfigured into a paperback book (just to be on the safe side, should her mother happen to find it), lay heavily on her mind. She could have done the test as soon as she'd gotten back from the store, but the instructions said the results would be best first thing in the morning, and Hermione wanted there to be as little margin of error as possible.

It was windy, and a few flurries of dry snow whisked along the ground. Hermione had elected to wear her cloak; she hadn't a Muggle coat that fit anymore. Her parents thought she looked "smashing" and her mother asked Hermione to buy one for her also, as soon as she got back to Hogsmeade. The streets weren't very crowded, and the three of them took their time, wandering from one storefront display window to the next.

Stopped before a diorama of Santa's workshop, Mrs Granger asked, shyly, "Have you ever met him? Father Christmas?"

Hermione laughed. "I hate to break it to you, Mummy, but there isn't any such person. Not unless you mean the seventh-century Greek patriarch, Saint Nicholas, but he's long dead."

"Of course," Mrs Granger mumbled, and Hermione felt bad now, seeing her mother's embarrassment.

"Well, after hearing you tell about goblins and trolls and all," Mr Granger jumped to his wife's defense, "it's hard knowing what's real after all, and what's just fairy tales."

"I'm sorry, Mum. I didn't mean to laugh at you. It's just things have been so serious this semester, and the idea of Father Christmas being real... Well, it would be wonderful, wouldn't it?" She snuggled herself deeper into her cloak and smiled wistfully at the plastic figure with the apple-red cheeks and jolly chortle poised to spill out of his unmoving lips.

Later, as she lay in bed, sleepless again, she realized tonight had probably been the first time since Halloween when she'd laughed, really felt amused. Maybe she was getting better after all. Or maybe it was just hormones.

What was she going to do if she was pregnant? She couldn't imagine actually having the baby. On the other hand, she also had a deep aversion to the idea of abortion. No matter how the child had been conceived, it hadn't done anything to deserve being killed. But how could she go seven more months, knowing something of Snape's was inside her? To feel it move, to have it feed off of her... The idea was horrendous. And if she did have it, what would Snape then expect? Would he feel it was his child? Would he want to have a part in raising it? He would be welcome to it, she thought spitefully ... On second thought, she couldn't leave an innocent child to the care of someone like him, someone who cared nothing for others, who was cruel and heartless and devoid of love. Only she couldn't love it, either. She could pity it, but never could she love it.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione was awake early. It was Christmas Eve morning. She must have drifted off at some point, but she didn't feel rested. Her eyes were sticky and she felt slightly dizzy. It was time. Immediately, her stomach churned in nervous anxiety. She'd know in just a few minutes.

She got up and Transfigured the bag back into its original form, then took out the slim cardboard package, shook out the contents on her bed, and read through the instructions again. It was very simple. She could hardly make a mistake. Heart pounding and hands trembling, she carried the plastic stick into the bathroom.

Five minutes later, she had her answer. Negative. Negative! She wasn't pregnant. Or at least, there was a 98% chance she wasn't pregnant. She'd have Madam Pomfrey do a magical test to be doubly sure, once she was back at Hogwarts, but for now, that was good enough. She started to cry. Tears of relief? She didn't feel so much relieved as just... empty. She turned on the shower so her parents wouldn't hear her, and she cried with great, heaving gasps. It didn't last long. As suddenly as they had come, the tears were gone, and she sat there, on the toilet lid, breathing in the steam with little hiccupy breaths. Finally, she blew her nose thoroughly and stepped into the shower.

When she was done and dried off, she still felt strangely empty. It was as if something were missing; not that she felt bereft of anything, but it was as if something she'd gotten used to having around was now gone. She still didn't feel happy or relieved or ... well, much of anything. She was just blank. It was an uncomfortable sense of being in a precarious balance; anything at all might tip her in one direction or the other.

She got dressed and went down to breakfast, walking carefully, as if through a fog. Her mother had on a recording of the London Philharmonic playing traditional English carols while she was preparing breakfast. Hermione sat down at the kitchen table and mechanically poured herself a glass of orange juice. Tasting it, she made a face; she'd unconsciously expected pumpkin juice. Still in a netherland between elation and depression, she half-listened to her mother telling her what she had planned for Christmas dinner and didn't even register Mrs Granger going over to open the kitchen window until a breadbox-sized blur of feathers landed ungracefully on the table before her, causing her half-finished juice to slop over the rim.

"I assume that's for you?" Hermione's mother asked, half-amused and reaching for a tea towel to mop up the spill.

Hermione fumbled to unfasten the message from the owl's leg and was looking around for a bit of food to offer it when it unceremoniously took off again, leaving a downy tan feather floating in Hermione's glass.

"I think it was a school owl," Hermione said, by way of explanation, although she didn't know who was left at school who might be sending her a message.

"Oh?" Mrs Granger said, obviously trying not to look too interested.

Hermione unrolled the scrap of parchment, and her heart dropped immediately. She'd recognize that tight, sharp hand anywhere, even if the ink was black this time instead of the usual red she found on her Defense essays.

"It's--Just something for school. An assignment," she said, her voice suddenly scratchy. She thrust the parchment into the back pocket of her jeans, unread.

"They certainly do keep you busy, don't they," Mrs Granger said cheerfully.

Hermione grunted something noncommittal in reply.

+++000+++000+++

After breakfast, while Mr Granger went out to take care of his "last-minute" Christmas shopping (the only kind he did), Mrs Granger roped Hermione into helping her with the preparations for the next day's dinner. She wanted to pre-cook as much as possible so the oven would be available for the turkey the next day. Hermione was assigned to peel apples for the tart, and had just begun to tell her mother how quickly Ginny had been able to peel an entire basketful of apples at the Burrow when she realized she could do the same thing and dashed upstairs to get her wand.

She grabbed the wand from among her school things and was about to go back downstairs when she remembered the note, still in her pocket. She pulled it out and debated for a moment, then unfolded it and read what it said:

Miss Granger -

It has come to my attention that you may be faced with a problem which might cause you some discomfort some months hence. If that is the case, you must rectify the situation immediately, by any means currently at your disposal. Any expenses will be covered. Reply upon completion.

Prof. S. Snape

Hermione gaped at the note, incensed. He wasn't... He was! Although couched in careful terms in case the message had been intercepted, it was clear to her what he was saying. He was telling her to get an abortion "by any means currently at her disposal". Was she supposed to grab the nearest coat hanger?

And how did he know she had bought a pregnancy test in the first place? Was he having her followed? Or, worse, was he himself following her? She glanced at her bedroom window; the curtains were partially parted. Quickly, she flicked her wand in their direction, and they snapped shut. She then sent a beam of yellow light at the parchment, and it disintegrated in a puff of smoke. Reply upon completion indeed. It'd be a cold day in Hell before she replied to any message from him.

Trying not to let her hands tremble too much, Hermione returned to the kitchen, where she slowly began to warm to her mother's Christmas preparations. She even found herself laughing again as they tried to sing The Twelve Days of Christmas and got hopelessly lost after the ninth day. Mr Granger came blowing in shortly after four, his ears and nose red from the cold (and perhaps from a pint or two) and his pockets bulging with mysteriously shaped packages.

That evening, watching the Christmas specials on the telly with her parents, Hogwarts and all it entailed was all but forgotten, and Hermione was transported back to her childhood, before she'd known there was more to her than just being very clever, back to a time of hot chocolate and bedtime stories, and she felt very, very good.

At the end of the evening, all three Grangers hung their stockings up over the electric fire, and Hermione went to bed in the certain knowledge that, in the morning, they would all be full.

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Snape shuddered as the Knight Bus disappeared with a bang. Distance and unfamiliarity with the neighborhood had made Apparation impractical, there were no Floo connections nearby, and Severus Snape did not do broomsticks. He walked quickly past the brick-walled gardens; he wished to reach his destination without being spotted, if possible. It was early yet, the weak December sun not yet high enough in the sky to cast shadows.

Why had the girl not responded yet, even if only to tell him there was no substance to his suspicions? It had been three days since he had sent the owl. The lack of an answer only served to confirm to him that she was in the same situation as that stupid Hufflepuff girl, and that she was dawdling with a decision. It was even possible she had decided to carry it to term. Damn Gryffindor morality! This was no time to be sentimental. It had to be terminated, and the sooner, the better.

He turned in at a gabled home screened by sturdy box shrubs and rang the doorbell firmly. The house projected a sickening sense of wholesomeness. After several seconds with no response, Snape reached up and rapped sharply on the door, just beneath the neat pine-branch wreath with a cheerful red bow tacked there. He glanced around quickly to ascertain no neighbors were watching, then extended his wand toward the building and spoke: "Revelio hominum." Three pale beams of light unfurled from the wand, all pointing toward the upper story, but one of them seemed to be moving, descending toward his level. He quickly stowed his wand in his sleeve, expecting the door to be opened momentarily.

After a moment, though, when nothing further happened, he frowned and depressed the bell again. He knew they were in there; most likely Hermione had recognized him through the peep-hole and decided to pretend they weren't home. She wasn't going to get rid of him so easily!

"Open the door this instant, Miss Granger!" he demanded. "Or I shall be forced to open it myself!" Instantly realizing she had no way of knowing he was not there with sinister intentions, he amended, impatiently: "I simply wish to speak to you. I can do so through the door, if you would like this to become the business of the entire neighborhood."

Another moment passed in silence, and then he heard, muffled through the door: "Put your wand through the mail slot."

"My wand--? I'll do no such thing!" he exclaimed.

"If you want me to open the door, you will," she responded decisively. "Put it through, if what you have to discuss is so urgent. Otherwise, it will have to wait until I'm back at Hogwarts."

"Oh, for the love of--" he muttered, and grudgingly slipped his wand through the brass slot.

The door opened a crack, and an eye and the tip of a wand, not his, appeared. "What do you want?"

"Did you receive the message I sent?" he asked impatiently.

"Who is it?" he heard a man's voice whisper from somewhere behind her.

Her eye turned away. "One of my professors," she hissed back.

"And you're keeping him standing out in the cold?" the man said, a little louder.

"Yes, Dad, it's not--" Hermione tried to protest, but the door opened wider now, and a middle-aged man was standing there in grey trousers and a blue cardigan.

"I'm terribly sorry, but Hermione has warned us about being careful with --Well, she's said there are some unfriendly types out and about these days, making mischief. But obviously that doesn't mean you." The man smiled and held out his hand. "Herbert Granger. Hermione's father. Won't you come in?"

Snape accepted Mr Granger's offer and introduced himself perfunctorily, noting as he did so that Hermione, wearing a pink dressing gown and obviously just having woken up, shrunk away from him and refused to meet his eye.

"Come in, let me just get my wife. It's so rarely we get to meet someone from Hermione's school. She's just upstairs, excuse me. Hermione," he said, turning to his daughter, "show Professor Snape into the living room and offer him some tea." He turned and jogged up the stairs, leaving Hermione and Snape alone in the hall. She was clutching her dressing gown close to her, her wand still pointed at him.

"Did you get my message?" Snape hissed, as soon as her father was out of earshot.

"My parents don't know anything," Hermione hissed back angrily. "Don't you dare say anything."

"You're in no position to be making demands of me," he responded, equally hotly. "I assume from your response that you did. Why in blazes haven't you done anything about it?"

"I don't think it's really any of your business, what I do or don't do--"

At that moment, Mr and Mrs Granger appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Here we are. Hermione, don't keep the professor standing in the hall," Mrs Granger scolded gently as she came down. "Hello, I'm Jane Granger," she said, smiling at Snape.

"Professor Snape," he said flatly, taking her hand.

"Please, do come in," she said, ushering him into the adjoining room. "Hermione, bring us some tea and--" She turned to her daughter and whispered, "... whatever it is they eat for breakfast." She exchanged a helpless look with her husband.

"Tea will not be necessary," Snape said curtly. "I have a matter of some urgency to discuss with your daughter, and then I will be on my way."

"Well, that's fine, then. Please, sit down," Mrs Granger invited.

"I don't believe any of Hermione's professors have ever visited before ... Well, aside from the first time... We like to call it 'the First Contact'," Mr Granger confided to Snape, once they had all taken a seat.

Snape acknowledged the joke with a thin smile.

"This isn't anything like that, is it?" Mrs Granger asked with slight anxiety. "She hasn't developed new... powers, or something like that? Nothing dangerous?" She put her arm around Hermione's shoulder protectively.

"No. Nothing like that," Snape said, but did not elaborate.

"It's about the assignment he sent me," Hermione said suddenly. "You remember, Mummy, the owl? Isn't that right, Professor?" she prompted, giving him a hard look.

"Precisely," he agreed. "An extra-credit assignment. I wanted to make sure she had completed it."

"I haven't," Hermione said stiffly.

Snape's expression became dark, and Mrs Granger laughed nervously.

"Hermione...Your professor has come all this way...."

"An assignment's an assignment," Mr Granger admonished. "And it's not like you to turn down extra credit."

"What I mean is, there was no need to do it," Hermione said, glowering at Snape as she spoke. "The assignment was contingent upon certain conditions being met, and they weren't, so it would be senseless for me to do it."

Hermione's parents looked questioningly at Snape.

"I see," he said, and seemed to be on the verge of standing up when Hermione added, venomously, "But I wouldn't have done it even if the conditions had been right."

Mrs Granger gasped.

"Then be glad, for your sake, that they weren't," Snape shot back.

"Hermione, that was uncalled for," Mr Granger said sternly. "I'm terribly sorry, Professor, I don't know what's gotten into her. She's not usually like this."

"Yes..." Snape's lip curled into a sneer. "I'm certain she is a most respectful child when she wishes to be," he said, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that what he meant was quite the opposite.

Mrs Granger drew herself up straighter and responded, noticeably more coolly, "Yes, she is. At least, that is how she was raised. I'm not entirely certain what this is all about, but if it is necessary for Hermione to complete an assignment, I can assure you it will be done."

"It appears it will not be necessary, if what she says is true," Snape said peevishly.

"Of course it's true!" Hermione hissed. "Do you think I'd lie about it?"

"Hermione, that's enough!" her mother said sharply.

"I think perhaps you would," Snape said, ignoring Mrs Granger, and as he continued speaking, Hermione's consciousness of her parents' presence faded as well, until it seemed as if it were only she and he in the room, and his every word both fascinated and repulsed her. "If you thought that by doing so, you would be protecting someone, or something, an individual or a cause. But I assure you, a lie here would protect no one; in fact, it would put yourself and whomever, or whatever, you are trying to protect, in grave danger. Miss Granger..." By now, he was on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide and his hands poised on the arms of the chair as if to propel him into action.

"There are plans afoot which you would shudder to hear even a whisper of, things you would not in your most abhorrent nightmares even dream of. What do you hold most dear? Your friends? Your family? Imagine, just imagine, if the only way to protect your loved ones, those most precious to you, were to end their lives, so they would not have to suffer worse, perhaps even at your own hand. The time is past for acts of bravery or of nobility. Those will save no one. What remains is duty; you must do what is required, no matter how unpleasant it may appear; you must be willing to destroy what you value most highly in order to save it."

Snape had a wild, nearly deranged look about him as he finished, but then, abruptly, he let his upper body fall back into the chair, and he seemed to deflate, now looking much older than his thirty-seven years.

"I apologize for having intruded," he said, sounding now subdued. "It was... thoughtless of me."

Mr and Mrs Granger stirred, also having been horrified, if somewhat confused, by what the professor had said.

"No, no, not at all," Mr Granger said automatically. "We-- We're glad you're taking such an interest in Hermione's school work."

"Yes, her school work," Snape echoed, now returning to his usual haughty and cold state. "She would do well not to neglect it. She has been quite preoccupied with childish games." He stood, a black shadow towering over the three people huddled together on the Chesterfield.

"I'm sure she'll take your advice to heart," Mrs Granger said, also rising.

Snape snorted his skepticism before taking his leave. At the door, he paused. "Miss Granger!" he snapped, causing Hermione to jump in momentary fright. "My wand!"

She Summoned it from where she had secreted it, steering it directly at him, so she didn't have to actually touch it.

They heard the retort of Apparation before the door had even fallen into the latch.

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Hermione didn't quite know what to make of the visit, so, for a day or two, she didn't. She went for long walks through the city parks; sat for hours in cafes, people-watching; and when a storm blew up, she curled up in the living room under an afghan with a book from her mother's bookshelf, something she would never have chosen herself.

And then, as the light grew dim, and she reached up to turn on the lamp, her eye fell on the wing chair standing alone next to the piano, and it seemed as if the shadow of Severus Snape were hovering there, neither sitting nor standing, but in an undefined no-man's land somewhere in between. And then she clicked on the lamp, and the impression was gone.

But the thought remained: Where was Severus Snape? Was he on Voldemort's side, or Dumbledore's? Was he his own man, or a puppet? And what had he been trying to tell her the other day? For she was certain he had been trying to communicate something to her, other than urging her to obtain an abortion of her non-existent pregnancy. He had talked of killing people she loved, in order to save them... from what? She certainly wasn't about to kill her parents in order to keep them safe from Death Eaters. There were many other means to do that. She didn't think he had been issuing a veiled threat, either. It was all more than a bit confusing. Maybe he was losing touch with reality. He had seemed somewhat more agitated than she would have expected him to be over the issue of an eventual pregnancy, especially since he had put her off so coldly many times previously when she'd tried to talk to him.

She recalled again the conversation she had overheard on her last night at Hogwarts, after Slughorn's party. It had sounded very much as if Draco had been seriously questioning Snape's loyalty to the Death Eaters. That didn't have to mean anything, of course; it was in the nature of such organizations for every member to be suspect, no one trusting another. There had been something else, though, Snape repeatedly offering to help Draco, even having taken the Unbreakable Vow to help him.

Who would have made him take it? Obviously not Draco. Lord Voldemort, then? If that were true, then it would mean Voldemort valued Draco more highly than he did Snape, and that had to be a ridiculous notion. No, it must have been someone else. Most likely Lucius Malfoy, trying to protect his son. Lucius must have something on Snape, some leverage, which had obligated Snape to take the potentially lethal magical vow.

Which meant, again, that Snape was not acting freely, that he was under magical obligation or duress, that his actions were being steered by others. In fact, it was entirely possible that what he had done on Halloween had been, somehow, in order to protect or help Draco. Maybe it had been part of the Unbreakable Vow, and if he had refused, he would have died according to the terms of the Vow. True, he had insisted no one could ever make him do anything, that he alone was responsible for everything he did, but that was just a matter of semantics. Ultimately, he was in control of his actions, that is, not under the Imperius, but if he was subject to the Unbreakable Vow, he was in effect without free will. Do or die.

Could it be he had been talking of himself, when he had made the statement about killing that which she held dearest in order to save it? It was rather metaphysical, but it was possible he had been speaking of himself: that in order to save himself from performing ever more gruesome tasks, he would have to kill himself... or be killed. She got a chill at the thought. And did Dumbledore know about it? Is that what he had meant when he had said there are things which one must sometimes do, that one would rather die than carry out? Well, obviously, in this case anyway, Snape had decided rather to do it than die.

But he had also, in that strange conversation in the library, spoken of being "punished" for disobedience, and she had been outraged at his presumption, at the idea that he should be excused for what he had done because he had been under threat at the time.

Now, she no longer found it outrageous as much as she found it tragic. It was becoming more and more clear to her that Professor Snape was running scared; trying to keep his head above water for as long as he could, maybe in order to save his own skin, but, and this possibility was becoming more and more the stronger contender, maybe in order to do something for someone, most likely Dumbledore, before he died, because if he were truly in Voldemort's pocket, why would Malfoy have needed to extract the Vow from him to make sure he helped Draco with a task for the Death Eaters? And Dumbledore had asked Hermione not to expose Snape for the same reason: So that Snape could carry out whatever it was that Dumbledore needed him to do. As the tumblers of a lock, the thoughts aligned and fell into place in Hermione's mind. Snape needed to do something for Dumbledore. He was also under magical obligation to help Draco or die. And she, Hermione, had been caught in the cross-fire.

She felt the same way she had when she'd found the page on the Basilisk back in second year. Elation at having found the solution. And dread for what might be coming.

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