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The Quickening	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 32428 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
Thanks lunarose, Bella_Principessa, Niclaire, Remarkable, Bournespeed and DinaTheCat for comments and predictions about the plot line. They give me much food for thought. Thanks also Ash for your very kind review, it gave me a huge buzz to think that my writing is being enjoyed.
Chapter 8
Three sourgify spells later, she could still smell the slick essence of his sweat on her skin and taste his bitter sweet ejaculate in her mouth. She wasn’t going to be able to do any more about it until she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, and it was this singular focus that kept her mind from collapsing completely. She partially tamed her matted locks with a disentanglement spell and stemmed the scarlet trickle from her scraped knees with a hastily cast Tergeo. The battered text books somehow concerned her more—innocent bystanders in the whole sordid incident. She carefully retrieved them from the dusty floor of the alcove, squeezing them to her chest like a protective mother. Gulping down deep, steadying breaths, she approached the entrance to the alcove.
Harry’s invisibility cloak would have been a blessing in that moment but he was most likely in Arithmancy class, where she should have been. Burying her chin in the remains of her tattered shirt front, and shielding herself with the books, she focused intently on the ground as she strode as quickly as her aching body would allow, back to the Gryffindor common room. There were groups of younger students spotted about the room when she entered but, thankfully, their attention was directed elsewhere, heads bobbing together in excited conversation. Snippets reached her as she headed for the stairwell.
“Apparently he’s warded the door to his chambers. No one can get in . . .”
“McGonagall called for Hagrid. Maybe they need to break the door down . . . “
“Did you see him at breakfast? Had a fit or something . . .”
“Hope the greasy git’s on the way out. He should never have come back . . . “
Hermione’s breath was having trouble squeezing past the growing lump in her throat. She hastened to a trot, a desperate fist trying to stifle her frantic gasps as she started up the stairs. Her mind felt like it had sprung a leak, her thoughts becoming more and more difficult to collect. How did they know? Had he confessed? What had he told them? Why had he warded his door? She ran up the stairs as quickly as she could manage, ignoring the uncomfortable breeze around her bare nether regions and the insistent tender reminder in her core, nagging like a rotten tooth. Lunging at her door, breathless, like a marathon runner finally crossing the finish line, she stopped short as she saw Ginny jump up from her bed and storm towards her.
“Where have you been?” she cried.
Drawing in ragged breaths, Hermione shook her head, willing her not to approach.
“I’ve been trying to find you ever since breakfast. I need to talk to you. Listen Mione, I’m not sure what’s going on between you and Snape but . . . “
“You need to leave,” Hermione’s gasped, as she held up a shaking hand.
“What?” Ginny stopped in front of her, a puzzled frown creasing her brow.
Hermione clutched the books even tighter. They were digging painfully into her bruised flesh.
“Just leave Ginny.” Hermione’s voice had taken on a note of panic.
“Mione, what happened?” Ginny’s eyes finally fixed on her, taking in her dishevelled hair, the bloody scrapes on her knees and the scraps of tattered material that used to be her shirt.
Hermione closed her eyes but didn’t respond.
“Mione . . . what happened,” she repeated, closing the distance between them.
Hermione pulled away, her back slamming against the door. Instantly, memories of the alcove flooded back.
“Get out!!” she screamed, her voice cracking with the strain.
Ginny stopped abruptly, face flooding red with anger and concern.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “He got you back didn’t he?”
Hermione was breathing heavily, the grim line of her mouth failing to quell the quiver that had captured her lips.
Ginny shook her head, as the grave realisation settled like a stone in her chest.
Silent tears trailed down Hermione’s cheeks, sliding down her neck and under her collar. Ginny’s eyes welled as her heart broke for her friend.
“Mione. What do you need?”
Hermione gave an anguished sob as she drew breath. She wanted time. Time to process. Time to consider. Time to scourgify herself to within an inch of her life.
“I need to be alone,” she whispered.
Ginny looked crestfallen but she understood. She considered Hermione for a long moment before giving a small nod. She desperately wanted to hug her but knew she couldn’t be touched.
“I’m not going to classes today,” she murmured. “I’ll be in my room when you need me.”
Hermione slowly stepped away from the door, allowing her friend to quietly leave.
Despite her love for the treasured books, she now let them slip from her arms and land in a tangle of pages on the stone floor. She only just managed the few unsteady steps to her bed, before collapsing onto it with a gut-wrenching wail.
Curled in a ball, fistfuls of blankets clutched to her chest, Hermione cried in great heaving sobs. She cried for her immeasurable sense of loss. The war had taken so much from her—her sense of trust, feelings of security, dear friends and loved ones, but also what she had liked most about herself—her kindness, humanity, even her ability to love. For their own safety, she had relieved her parents of their memories of her. Their fiercely devoted daughter. She had set them free, as if she were some malevolent weight around their necks, threatening to drown them. She hated herself for it, even though she knew it was the right thing to do.
She cried for her loyal and loving friends, especially Harry, Ron and Ginny. She hadn’t been a great friend since the war had ended. She’d been so critical of everything, determined that if she could reach some level of perfection, everything would be better. Of course it never was. The harder she worked, the more she expected, the less happy she became. She was suddenly struck by the realisation that her current predicament no longer felt like some anomaly. It was as if she had been building up to this all along, spiralling closer and closer, willing some destructive element to tear her apart. To take away the pain once and for all.
And suddenly she was crying for Severus Snape. The man she knew to be brave and selfless to a fault, to have sacrificed himself willingly to save the wizarding world—to have almost died. It had been so easy to forget this fact in the daily grind of classes, under the constant barrage of insults. She knew the trauma of his life and yet had forgiven him nothing.
But what he did to her was wrong! Her harried mind fought back. It was unforgiveable. He had raped her! Her bloody knees and shredded clothing could attest to the violent destructiveness of the man. He had been domineering and relentless, had violated her in so many ways on this very bed only half a day before. Had it really been only a matter of hours? She screwed her eyes shut, trying to think. It was hard to account for the slippage of time, it felt like so long ago.
She gave a great hiccoughing sigh, her body finally falling still on the mess of damp sheets. Bone weary, she knew she didn’t have the mental clarity or emotional fortitude to fully process what had happened. The woolly thoughts that swam through her mind and fleeting memories that seemed to change as she watched them, made her question whether she was, in fact, losing her sanity. Simply giving in to the forces that were threatening to engulf her, slipping away into an insensate oblivion, seemed like the most alluring of options in that moment. Her mind had always been both a blessing and a curse, it tormented her, tirelessly turning over like a possessed washing-machine. If only she could be free of it for just a short while . . .
She suddenly sat up, her mind snapping her back into reality. She rubbed her swollen face with her hands. Snape was still on the loose. Who knew what sort of danger he posed to others? How much time had she already lost? She needed to tell someone what had happened as soon as possible. But who? The only person with the authority and power to oppose him was Professor McGonagall. No one had forgotten how the fiercely protective woman had ousted Snape after he’d killed Dumbledore. Her stern and proper demeanour belied an immensely powerful and determined witch. Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if Snape was still fearful of her. Yes, she would tell the Headmistress exactly what had happened. What he had done to her. She sat on the edge of the bed, pleased that she had managed to decide upon on a course of action.
Then her mind, that insufferable know-it-all mind kept churning through the scenario. Professor McGonagall would ask her why he had done it. What might have caused him to behave in such a way. And what would she say in response? That she had raped him. Twice. That’s exactly what she had done. Once in front of the entire school. The realisation hit her with the force of a bludger to the chest and her heart started to ache with the shame of it. Ginny had tried to stop her. Why hadn’t she seen what she was doing to him? She was so consumed with anger, loss and hurt—she had wanted to hurt him. The man who had endured more torture at the hands of Voldemort than any other. She wanted to hurt him. To show him what it felt like to be humiliated, debased. No wonder he had responded the way he did.
“Fuck!!” she screamed into the empty room, hugging herself around her stomach. Then she clamped her arms over her head and started rocking from side to side, groaning with the physicality of the emotional pain she both felt and had, inevitably, caused. Regardless of how she looked in that moment, Hermione knew that this wasn’t madness. It was the painful acceptance of a horrifying reality. She was not innocent. She was equally to blame. Then another image came to her. That of Snape standing over her in the alcove. Looking down on her as she finally opened her sticky eyes. He wore such a complex expression she hadn’t quite understood it at the time. A mixture of doubt, guilt and . . . fear. His long fingers had been stretched toward her, as if he was about to touch her, but then he’d turned away and, with a swish of his wand, disappeared. But it wasn’t just his expression that struck her, it was his eyes. They were still impossibly black but had cleared, the blue flame had gone.
* * *
Hermione ran to her dresser and pulled open the top drawer. There were three potions left. She tore the stopper off one and gulped down the cool silvery liquid. Only moments later she felt the projection leave her body. She used her mind to guide the translucent vision out of her room, down the stairwell and through the Gryffindor common room. She sped along corridors, moving through walls and opening doors until she reached the dungeons. If she had been there in person, she would have been prevented from entering by an unusually sombre looking Professor Sprout who was standing with her arms crossed, allowing no students through. Clearly, there was something serious going on.
Hermione directed the projection around Professor Sprout and along the shadowy dungeon corridors to the potions classroom where there was a second sentry standing guard. This time it was Filch, leering about for any sign of students. Hermione was tempted to poke him in the eye but she continued on, through the door to the classroom where four figures were standing in front of the entry to Professor Snape’s chambers. Despite her milky vision, she recognised the enormous and tiny forms of Hagrid and Professor Flitwick immediately then, as she approached, she identified Madam Pomfrey and, finally, Professor McGonagall. The Headmistress was frowning deeply as she spoke urgently to the door.
Were the rumours true? Had Professor Snape really warded himself into his chambers? Hermione approached, unsure of whether the projection would be allowed passage through the wards. She forged ahead and in moments had melted through to the other side of the door. She made a brief mental note to include this feature of the potion in her first publication. But then focused on what she was seeing.
She had never been in Professor Snape’s chambers before. Straight ahead was a fireplace with two stylish armchairs on either side and an ornate wooden mantelpiece arching over the top. Leaning against the mantelpiece was the tall, lean form of Professor Snape. His stance was casual and he held a glass loosely in his fingers. Moving closer, she noticed an almost empty bottle of Firewhisky on the mantel near his elbow. Perhaps he was celebrating? Hermione circled around him until she could see his face. His lids were heavy, his eyes bloodshot, but this time she knew the flames in his black orbs were simply a reflection from the fire into which he was staring, unblinkingly.
Next to the Firewhisky bottle was his beloved hourglass. The students despised the device which caused so much angst in the classroom. Now it was melting down, only minutes left. What was he timing? How long it would take him to finish the bottle? When he would finally remove the wards? Then she noticed another small bottle, next to the hourglass, she had to glide up very close to read it. ‘Postleshade’
Hermione gasped, springing up from her bed. Postleshade, otherwise known as ‘Escape from Azkaban’. It was the most contraband and sought-after substance in the prison. The only essence capable of bringing relief to the tortured soul. It was the strongest poison known to the Wizarding world. Liquid death. Postleshade would allow a permanent escape and there was absolutely no way to counter it. Snape reached out for the bottle of Firewhisky, pouring the remaining contents into his glass. Despite having clearly drunk the whole bottle, his hand barely wavered. He was just so strong, Hermione thought. Those hands that had fought, bled, brewed and caressed. And, in a minute’s time, would be permanently stilled. An anguished sob tore from her at the realisation of what he intended to do. And the knowledge that she was, at least in part, responsible.
He drained the glass in one gulp and set it gently on the mantelpiece. His body was filled with the warm heat from both the liquor and the fire. It was pleasant. He felt a twinge of sadness that this would be the last he would feel of such sensations. Of any sensations, pleasant or otherwise, for that matter. He had had some pleasant sensations. Particularly over the past few days. More than he had had for a very long time. Perhaps in his entire life time. But he had done other things that made it impossible to wish for more. He watched the last grains of golden sand trickle through the hourglass. He saw no need to hurry it along this time. He had an eternity of nothing after this and so a few more moments of something were worth savouring. And then it was finished.
He could have written a letter but he didn’t really care to explain himself to those waiting impatiently outside his door. There was only one person he wanted to understand him. But that was now out of the question. There was nothing even he, despite his undeniable eloquence, could say to justify what he had done. To be honest, he couldn’t understand it himself. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the small bottle.
Just before his fingertips reached it, the bottle suddenly toppled off the mantelpiece, exploding into the fire. Before he could react, the hourglass did the same, smashing down onto the bricks around the hearth and scattering sand at his feet. He could scarcely believe his eyes when the sand grains started to move. They were being pushed around by an unseen force. Then letters started to appear, furrows dug through the grains. His face contorted as he read each letter in turn.
“I FORGIVE YOU”
Drawing his arms to his chest as if the pain there was just too great he closed his eyes, his head falling back. He gave a child-like wail and then collapsed to the ground.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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The Quickening