Getting Past Broken: Part One

[tychesong]

"Wait…no…Ronald, STOP!"

A very naked and visibly upset Ronald Weasley rolled off his girlfriend of seven months and cursed. Awkwardly, Hermione sat up, her feelings rioting between remorse, anger, embarrassment, and hurt. He didn't notice and instead cursed again, turning to face her, glaring. Every centimetre of him appeared to be angry, including his erection.

Hermione supposed she couldn't really blame him; she was repeatedly cutting him off right before sex, but how could he really blame her, either? It wasn't as if it was her fault. She'd tried to get over it, and she had told him that it was a problem for her. He simply refused to listen.

He had managed to talk her into losing her virginity to him, though the only position they had been able to work out was with her on her hands and knees in front of him. It had given him the level of control he wanted, and it at least hadn't been on her back, but the whole process had felt detached, painful, and humiliating. She had still had to fight off panic and had not experienced any of the bliss that purportedly came with sex. Ron had seemed dissatisfied as well and that, in turn, had made her feel even worse.

There was really no way around it-she and Ron had a serious problem as far as sexual compatibility. Oh, the chemistry was good enough, she supposed. They could kiss and she would feel herself warm in response, but the truth was that Ron was a man very used to being in someone else's shadow: his brothers' and then Harry's and, academically, hers. It made him…very dominant in the bedroom, to the point where he had trouble getting off if he wasn't in charge. Unfortunately, he did not seem to be capable of understanding the blind fear that the act triggered in her.

Hermione sighed and started dressing, only partially listening as Ron angrily began to inform her how unreasonable she was being. He was jerking on his own clothes, muttering about cold showers and blue balls and wanking because she was such a tease when Hermione finally snapped.

"I told you! I told you, Ron. I can't do it! I just…I just can't. Every time you pin me down all I can think about is how I can't move, and then I can't seem to keep myself from panicking. All I can think about is how terrifying it was in that…that house, and how much they hurt me, and how much it hurt the last time we had sex, and my brain starts screaming at me to fight and…and…I told you, Ron! You said you'd help me through it, but all you do is yell at me to get over it, and try to hold me down again!" She was weeping openly, she realised, humiliated and angry tears leaking down her face to spot her pale blue shirt.

"You're a Gryffindor! You're supposed to bloody well face your fears!"

"And you're supposed to be my best friend! Even if you didn't purportedly love me, you're supposed to be my friend! Friends are supposed to support and help each other, not make them feel like crap because they have problems to work through!"

"Right! Yet you keep leaving me hanging. It took you half a year before you'd go out on a date with me after the war, and since then, it's been seven months, Hermione. Seven months, and we've only had sex the once!"

"I told you I might be able to…to bear it another way, if you would only be willing to try! I'm not saying it has to be that way forever-"

"And I told you I hate it when a woman rides me-it's just not right. I can't bloody well get off that way." He crossed his arms at her resentfully. "Lavender was a pain in the arse but at least she let me do it my way, and enjoyed every second of it. Even let me play with her arsehole once or twice. Certainly she never made me wait five fucking months and then turn me away afterwards. I swear, I put up with a hell of a lot from you; you're frigid, skinny, scarred up, bossy, whiny, and act like you're always right! If putting up with that isn't love, nothing is."

Hermione recoiled as if slapped. There was a long pause, as they both stared at the other. "I think…I think it would be best if I left, Ron, and didn't come back." She drew a shaky breath and added, "Maybe you should try again with Lavender, since she apparently isn't frigid."

Tears threatening to choke her, Hermione left the beautiful London flat Ron had purchased after the war had ended and out into the early evening. She wandered aimlessly for a while; at first heading to the local pub to for a drink, only to change directions when she realised just how much noise there would be there. She was half-way home to the small, but pretty house she was leasing when she changed directions again, feeling lost and depressed. As much as she didn't want to be surrounded by noise, the thought of her empty, lonely home was unbearable.

Nearly two hours after she had left Ron's she was still aimlessly walking, her feet and mind numb, and her tears coming in short bouts just when she was certain she was done crying. Night had fallen, and she was running out of the energy she really needed to continue as she was, but she couldn't really think of a place to go, either.

It was too late to go to Harry and Ginny's; they were probably already getting ready for bed, and no doubt Ron would have gone there to whinge first. Ginny was his sister after all, and Harry his best friend as much as he was Hermione's. Luna was currently in Belgium. Neville was…Honestly she wasn't sure where Neville was. Hermione frowned, trying to recall. Now that she thought of it, she had not seen him in nearly two months.

She used to take tea Thursday evenings with Minerva as well…when had that stopped? Hermione came to a slow halt in the middle of the pavement as it dawned on her. That had ended about two months ago, as well. Right about the same time that Ron had started demanding more and more of her attention, and they had begun to have more and more intimacy…issues. A fresh wave of anger and hurt hit as she realised just how much she had let him wrap her up in his needs.

Hermione tucked her arms around herself and shivered, suddenly feeling the early evening. She had a sudden, almost desperate need to see Minerva-the older woman's comforting but pragmatic presence was exactly what she needed at this point. She was probably even still awake-the older woman tended to keep to later hours in the summer when school was let.

Hermione ducked into an alley where she wouldn't be seen by any Muggles and glanced about carefully. She drew her wand from the sheath under her sleeve to send a Patronus to Hogwarts, asking if she might stop by, only to have the spell fizzle. Drawing a frustrated breath, Hermione concentrated on her usual Patronus thought. Most might assume that she focused on the end of the war, the death of Voldemort, but they would be wrong. The whole ordeal was so incredibly overwhelming to her emotions; there was no pure delight in it to be found, no way to pick the joy from the pain and the exhaustion of it all.

The day I finally got an O on a Potions essay… Such a little thing, but it always brought with it the warmth of accomplishment and happy excitement. It was perhaps silly to find a school mark from three years ago inspiring enough to produce a Patronus, but Hermione had long since decided what no one else knew wouldn't hurt her.

She had been the only one to achieve an Outstanding in the class on any project the entire year-even the Slytherins had only managed Exceeds Expectations. The essay had still been marked with various red notations, but it had said "O" at the top, and the curt comment "Better." Hermione had actually done an embarrassing little dance of happiness when she had finally managed to gain some privacy. After re-reading her own essay several times and all his comments, she had carefully folded and saved it away. She still had it, in her home, along with a few other various precious items.

Hermione tried to concentrate on the feeling of seeing that O, of the elation that Professor Snape had given her an Outstanding, even if it was only on one essay, once. She waved her wand again, willing her Otter to appear. Once again, her spell fizzled as her frustration and hurt drowned out any feelings of happiness. The feeling of being let down by the one simple and silly memory she had always been able to count on hurt nearly as much as that horrid confrontation with Ron.

Screw it. Hermione finally decided. Minerva would not turn her away, and even if she were improbably asleep, Hermione would still be able to crash for the night in the comforting old castle. No matter how alone she was there, Hermione never felt lonely at Hogwarts. Something about it always just felt like…home. Gripping her wand Hermione took a deep breath and Disapparated with a sharp turn.

Her teeth immediately began chattering. Night fell faster and was a lot chillier in the evenings at Hogwarts than in London, she recalled suddenly, and she hadn't a cloak or even a Muggle coat. She cast a quick warming charm, and sighed in relief when the air about her heated. She was quite a ways down the hill from the front gates of Hogwarts, and further still from the front doors.

Hermione picked her way gingerly up the road that ran between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, lighting the tip of her wand when it got too dark to see properly. Ahead of her, the castle was fairly dark, only a handful of windows glowed with warmth. A few of the outdoor magical torches along the parapet walks, the bridge and the pinnacle of the Owlery were lit, lending the castle an even more dramatically gothic look than she had remembered. Any moment she supposed a dragon might appear, or a giant.

A tiny smile dragged at the corners of her mouth. Or at the least, a half-giant. The thought entertained her, until she realised that because no one was expecting her, no one would be meeting her at the gates. She was still wondering how she was going to get the attention of Hagrid to let her in-and mentally cursing herself for not having gone home first to Floo Minerva-when she realised that she was not, in fact, alone at the gates.

His sweeping black robes and cool composure had made him blend almost effortlessly into the night; some things, Hermione thought nostalgically, never changed. Not that she was especially fond of Professor Severus Snape, but the comforting constancy of Hogwarts was why she was here, after all.

"Professor." She nodded her head, greeting him through the elaborate wrought-iron bars of the gate. "I don't suppose you would mind opening the gate for me?"

A dark brow lifted in response and his low drawl was dry. "Indeed, Miss Granger. I happened to catch sight of you from the castle. I hadn't realised that anyone was expecting you." A slender hand efficiently cast an override on the wards of the gates and then drew it open wide enough for her to slip through.

Hermione shrugged uncomfortably. "No one is. I…I had a bit of trouble conjuring a proper Patronus."

"I see." There was a wealth of understanding in those two small words, and Hermione was suddenly horribly glad it had been Snape to meet her at the gates. She was not sure she could have handled Hagrid's boisterous enthusiasm. Her day had just been so horrible, and the well-intentioned grounds keeper would have noticed right away-and then would have pestered her for what was bothering her while attempting to feed her tepid tea and biscuits that tasted like rock-cakes.

They reached the large front doors of Hogwarts in silence, where the professor finally cleared his throat and ventured, "It was a nice day today. What brings you to Hogwarts?"

Hermione looked at him askance, feeling a wry smile twist her mouth, and asked incredulously, "Small talk, Professor Snape?"

The man grimaced and admitted quietly, "It isn't Thursday, and I couldn't help but wonder if you had come to call in my debt to you." He looked pained, and then added, "Considering, you should also probably begin to call me by my given name; I have not been your professor for a year now."

Hermione stopped short just inside the large open door, and stared at him. He had kept track of what day of the week she had used to visit the headmistress? Suddenly realising he was still waiting for a response, Hermione felt herself colour, and answer, "The thought never occurred to me."

His face was passive, but his eyes oddly lit as he questioned, "That I have a given name, or that you no longer attend school here?"

Hermione only barely kept herself from gaping openly. Had Professor Snape just cracked a joke? "No, sir."

A brow arched in what was definitely amusement.

"I mean, Severus. I meant…well, no to any of it, really. It never occurred to me to take advantage of your purported life debt, or to refer to you so informally without express permission."

He was silent for a moment, and then simply stated, "Which I now have given."

Hermione felt her lips quirk; the simple invitation was horribly pleasing. "As you say, Severus, and you have mine to call me Hermione."

His lips tightened. "You realise, of course, that it does not matter if you acknowledge the debt between us or not. You saved my life."

Hermione shook her head firmly. "No more than any of the medi-witches saved any of the wounded."

"That isn't true. You came back when no one else bothered to, when no one else spared even the thought, and would likely have turned the other way had they even remembered. The debt stands."
Hermione looked at her feet. "I never asked or expected it, and I didn't come here for that."

"Why did you come?"

"I have not seen Minerva in a couple of months, and I've had a rather rough day and could use a hot cuppa." She answered, sighing. "To be frank, I was rather hoping I might stay for the evening."

His dark eyes stared at her a moment longer, before he responded, carefully, "I am certain it could be arranged, but I regret to inform you that she is out."

"What?" Hermione heard her voice rise shrilly and saw her former professor's eyes widen in surprise. Mortified, but unable to stop herself, Hermione felt her lip tremble, and she said in a small voice, "But…but I need her right now. I don't know where else to go!" What little composure she had managed to attain since her last deluge of emotion crumpled entirely, and she burst into tears.

Honestly, she had rather thought she'd run out of them at this point. Yet here she was, weeping a horrid, slightly snotty waterfall in front of Professor Snape of all people. He looked nearly as horrified as she felt, and entirely uncertain what to do with her.

"Miss Gra-Hermione," he said at last, her name appearing to stick in his throat. "The front entrance is an entirely unseemly place for such a hysterical display." He paused for a moment, and then added, "Please desist."

Hermione only cried harder, to both of their dismay. A moment later, his long fingered hand closed firmly about her upper left arm, and pulled her after him down the hallway. The pace he set was just a touch faster than she could keep up with comfortably; his grip on her forced her to jog a little. Her feet were already smarting from her nearly two-and-a-half hour walk; the low-heeled pumps that had been so comfortable in the store had not held up under the emotional over-use of the day. Each step in them now seemed to spike pain through her toes and jar up through her shins to make even her knees ache.

Nonetheless, the pace did make it difficult for her uncontrollable weeping to continue and instead finally reduced her to what she was certain was going to be a spectacularly nasty case of the hiccoughs. Unwilling to trust her traitorous tear-ducts to stay in line, Hermione tried to concentrate on regulating her breathing in order to banish the hiccoughs and take her mind off her abused feet.

Her ability to block out the aches didn't work; the flight of stairs downward was utter torture. Of course, now that she had noticed her feet, it was nearly impossible to focus on anything else. She was quite sure there were blisters forming under her pumps. Hermione was breathless, still hiccoughing and nearly back in tears from sheer pain by the time he ushered her into what appeared to be their final destination: his office.

She collapsed gratefully into one of the tall, straight-backed chairs facing his intimidating desk with an agonized groan, and bent to fumble with her left shoe. A small whimpering sound left her throat as she gingerly removed it, wincing as she caught sight of a large blister that had indeed formed on the side of her foot.

Professor Snape-Severus-turned at the sound with a dramatic swirl of his robes, and glared at her in annoyance. The look oddly soothed her; he had been behaving uncharacteristically nice since she had arrived, their hurried gait through Hogwarts notwithstanding. His eyes narrowed fractionally when he saw her foot, and he watched with silent disapproval as-hiccoughing violently-she then removed the other, revealing a similarly blistered result.

"Why on earth did you not change your footwear when it became apparent that they didn't fit properly?" he groused, and stomped toward a door that no doubt lead to his private chambers. "I will return shortly; wait here," he muttered. "Whiny, senseless, insufferable Gryffindors."

His comment reminded her of Ron's earlier hateful words. You're frigid, skinny, bossy, whiny, and act like you're always right, if putting up with that isn't love, nothing is! Hermione felt her lip tremble again. She knew she was hung up sexually and she wasn't the ideal vision of feminine beauty and, alright, yes, she could at times take charge when perhaps she didn't need to, but it had still hurt horribly to hear it. And whiny? She liked to think she generally was not, but if two people had said as much in only a few short hours…

When he reappeared after several long moments, bearing a jar and a slender-necked potion bottle, she was still shuddering from her own thoughts-not to mention the awful, chest-jarring hiccoughs-but she had herself more or less under control. He handed her the bottle silently; a brief inspection of the label declared it a Hiccoughing Remedy, which she gratefully accepted and swallowed. Her eyes slid closed for a moment while the cool solution slid down her throat, appreciating the way it calmed the spasms in her chest and her nerves along with it.

When she opened her eyes again, it was to find him regarding her warily. He held the jar he still possessed out to her, exchanging it for the now-empty bottle she had finished. The jar proved to be a salve for her blisters, and Hermione carefully began to dab it on her feet in the appropriate areas.

"Now, perhaps you would like to explain to me what has put you in such a state?"

Hermione wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms, and actually found herself chuckling wryly. "Circe, I'm a right proper mess, aren't I?"

"Indeed."

It was difficult not to glare at him. Apparently, the horrid man had never learned the Very Important Lesson that however one might agree with a woman's self-deprecating remark, one wasn't supposed to actually say so. Even knowing that she shouldn't find this surprising coming from him, it was still rather startling to be agreed with so bluntly about her poor appearance.

Hermione pursed her lips instead of snapping crankily at the man; he didn't deserve it after everything. He had honestly been incredibly cordial considering that she'd appeared randomly and then cried all over him. She did wish, however, that he would stop staring at her expectantly like she was a student who had broken the rules. Desperate to regain the sense of near-amity and humour they had attained before her embarrassing melt down, she finally asked, "Is it possible to have a cup of tea? I feel like I'm being interrogated."

He rolled his eyes-rolled his eyes!-at her, and made a sarcastic gesture at the door he had disappeared through earlier. Feeling both curious and shy, Hermione stood carefully in her bare feet, and then bent to retrieve her shoes from the floor. When she turned to face him again, she was surprised to see his eyes jump fractionally. Had he been looking at her arse? The action was so minute and fast, she nearly managed to convince herself that her mind was playing tricks on her; a careful study of his expression only revealed slightly bored impatience.

Feeling self-conscious, Hermione preceded him into the adjoining room. She could feel his presence behind her, dark, solid and unyielding-and now she couldn't help but wonder if those dark eyes were trained on her arse as she did so. Once inside what looked to be his private sitting room, she spun abruptly, hoping to catch him off guard and see if he was looking at her, only to completely catch herself off balance and land with an undignified yelp on the floor.

He stared down at her, his eyes oddly lit again in what she was beginning to recognise as his expression of amusement. "Let me guess-stop the room; you'd like to get off?"

She had expected something cutting; his puckish sarcasm was so incongruous that Hermione couldn't help the short burst of mad laughter that escaped her. "Yes, actually, it's become quite the problem. I can't get off, or even get him off! What sort of failure of a woman can't manage to even 'lie back and think of England'?" She clapped a hand over her mouth as if to hold the words back, staring at him wide-eyed.

His own eyes had rounded and his brows furrowed in shock. "I beg your pardon?" he asked incredulously.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, and wondered if falling through the floor was at all possible if one wasn't a ghost. "I cannot believe I just said that. I'm sorry, that was entirely inappropriate."

He stared at her a moment longer, clearly unsettled, and then muttered, "Tonight is going to be one of those that make me regret giving up alcohol." He turned abruptly and swept out of her line of sight, leaving her on the floor. Hermione only barely stifled a groan of mortification, and levered herself back to her feet.

The room was not at all what she had expected. She wasn't entirely sure what she had expected; something similar to his office, she supposed. Judging by that space, she would have expected him to favour dark green and cherry wood furnishings and a dank, oppressive atmosphere, assisted by various dusty and cobwebbed jars of pickled…things. His sitting room told an entirely different story.

His furniture was still cherry wood, but it was polished to a rich, beautiful gleam, and the only green to be found was a pale, sea-foam green paired with what could only be called a champagne gold. The two soft colours accented the room here and there, but the predominant colour in the décor was cream.

The cherry wood framed couch and low backed, stuffed chairs were cushioned in cream; thick, cream-coloured rugs covered the room's natural flagstone floor in strategic places, and even what little available wall space there was available was hung with tapestries in muted, complimentary colours. It was the obvious work of a woman, Hermione decided. Everything fit together just too perfectly, the colours blending and complimenting each other, right down to the slightly worn and clearly loved crocheted afghan that been left carelessly in a heap on one end of the couch. There was simply no way Hermione could believe that Severus Snape had decorated his own rooms with such ruthless panache.

The only things that pointed to it actually being his rooms were the books. Glancing about, Hermione could not help but sigh a little enviously. Floor-to-ceiling cherry wood bookcases took up the vast majority of his available wall space, each filled to brimming with writings of every size and kind.
He seemed to own everything from large illuminated manuscripts and heavy grimmoires to the usual research texts and novels. Carefully ordered periodicals took up a full bookcase, and another was even customized with broad latticework shelving, instead of traditional straight shelves, to hold stacks of scrolls rather than books. Books rested sideways on top of other books, where he had run out of room, and random stacks of parchment and writing journals were jammed into a section that was clearly reserved for his personal notes.

It was exactly the sort of room she would like to own one day. Feeling a little entranced, Hermione made her way over to the nearest section of shelving, and blinked. The section she had randomly planted herself in front of was devoted to various religions and philosophies. Like his sitting room, it wasn't what she had expected at all. Wonderingly, Hermione reached out and removed an English translation of Tao Te Ching, opening it idly. His return interrupted her perusal of it.

"I was searching for answers, first when I was teenager, and then again after I survived. There are times when I can't help but wonder if there is some meaning to it all…some higher power or purpose. We can joke all we like about making our own luck whilst brewing Felix Felicis, but I wanted to know."

Hermione carefully replaced the book and dropped her hand to her side, turning to look at one of the most intelligent men she had ever known. "What conclusion did you come to?"

Severus grimaced and set the mugs of tea he had procured down on one of the room's tables. "I didn't. I still believe that there very well might be a higher power, but I have no idea which it might be, or if any of the thousands offered is truly correct." His voice fell into the pattern that she recognised as his "lecturing voice" as he continued. "Witches and wizards tend to venerate the ancient gods of whatever land they are from and their ancestors and heroes-it's one of the reasons bloodline importance has been such a persistent topic. However, I find it difficult to believe that Merlin or the Founders or Cassandra were really so different than we are today. In several hundred years will young witches and wizards swear by Harry or Dumbledore, or you?"

"Or you?" Hermione answered lightly. "You did more to win this war than I ever did."

He looked horrified. "Merlin forbid."

"Why, Severus, don't you mean Harry forbid?"

"Don't make me toss you off the castle wall when I've just made you tea. I already owe you a life debt, and it would not bode well with whichever god or goddess that does exist to kill you at this point." He waved a hand at the couch. "Sit."

Hermione couldn't help a little huff of laughter, and sat into the thick cream-coloured cushions, picking up the warm mug to the side of her. "You're not what I expected at all."

He sneered. "I suppose you had me all figured now that you have been made privy to my history and my alleged personal motivations."

Hermione felt herself blush, and she tilted her head at him, conceding his point. "I beg your pardon; I didn't mean to be rude. I just…You were never this tolerant of me as a student, and I never would have anticipated cream, champagne and sea-foam décor, or tapestries, or religious musings, and…well…good humour."

He looked defensive. "What, the evil, horrible Death Eating teacher can't have a sense of humour or wonder about the afterlife? Rather unsporting of you when I've managed to incur three life debts in only thirty-nine years."

"Three?" Hermione's mouth fell open.

His mouth firmed into a hard, displeased line. "You have been made aware already of my debt formed as a student, which I fulfilled in your first year. The second debt I owed to Albus Dumbledore after a particularly nasty night as a young man. His terms for fulfilment were that I use my regretted status as a Death Eater to spy for the order until released from the duty. He held my oath fulfilled once I agreed to take his life in Draco's stead-I would not have done it otherwise. You are…intimately aware of the third debt I owe. It should not surprise you that I am eager to converse with you in hopes of learning how I might discharge it."

"I have told you I do not hold you bound to it!" Hermione protested.

"As I have told you that it does not work that way." His eyes narrowed in irritation. "I can feel the enchantment binding me, it does not go away simply because either of us will it to. I really did think you were brighter than that, Hermione."

She sighed, suddenly feeling every minute of the wretched day, and asked resignedly, "Well, how might we dismiss it? You have done more than enough for this world-I have no wish to keep you beholden to me."

He gave her a disgruntled look. "You must set me a task to fulfil; ideally one that doesn't result in your death."

"That's all?" Hermione felt incredulous. "Well, then I task you to pour me another cup of tea and put me up in the castle for the night."

"Don't be deliberately obtuse," he snapped.

"I am not being 'deliberately obtuse,' I'm being tired!" Hermione raised her voice to a near shout. "I've had a very long and trying day that started with my boss taking credit for my work, after which my boyfriend and I had a row culminating in him calling me skinny and frigid. Then I had a humiliating melt-down, blistered my feet, and now I've got an impossible arse informing me he feels obligated to be polite. This is before calling me obtuse, mind you!"

Severus seemed to struggle with biting back his own remark before finally responding stiffly, "I apologise." It escaped clenched teeth, but the apology was there, it was more than he had likely done for anyone else in quite possibly years.

Suddenly feeling chagrined for her outburst, Hermione took a healthy swallow of her tea, and said at last, her tone overly courteous. "Please elaborate, if you will, about what sort of task I might set you at to free you from your imposed obligation."

He responded with similar cautious civility, "A life debt may only be discharged by either the return of the favour, or by the completion of a task that the holder desires to the depths of their soul, the very marrow in your bones. It is not a simple thing to even divine, much less complete. Most desire something at that level which is truly unattainable, particularly by another person."

Hermione glanced at him, startled. "What chance have you then of ever being free?"

His mouth had turned down into a scowl again. "Very little. If the debt-holder is not both reasonable and very self-aware, or if the one indebted simply has nothing to offer of worth that the debt-holder requires…" his voice trailed off. "I will admit to have held…hope…that you might be one of these. The first life debt I found myself bound in took me fifteen years and had to transfer to the next generation in order to be held fulfilled.

"I have been as oddly fortunate in repaying life debts as I have been oddly prolific in gaining them. It is one of the reasons I still find myself believing that a higher power must exist." He frowned into his tea mug. "I'm fairly sure it continues to keep me alive, despite everything, for its personal amusement."

Hermione looked at him seriously. "I cannot promise that I will know the answer to this particular dilemma, or that the correct answer will be something you can help me achieve, but I will think on it; it is not my wish for you to remain beholden to me."

She smiled wryly and stood, setting her mug down and picking up her shoes. "On that note, I should probably go to bed. Where am I to be put for the night? No doubt the usual room Minerva puts me in is not ready?"

Severus stood as well and, to her surprise, fell into step beside her as they left his rooms. "You would be incorrect. The house elves keep the guest wing in a constant state of readiness. Which do you usually claim?"

"It's a lovely suite of rooms just off the fourth floor corridor."

Severus turned his head abruptly to consider her as they walked. "That's not in the guest wing-those are staff quarters."

Hermione ducked her head. "Yes, I suspect Minerva originally put me in them as incentive."

"Incentive," he repeated, a curious lift in his voice.

"She's been trying to woo me from the Ministry, practically since the end of the war." Hermione chose her words carefully, attempting to remain tactful. "From what I am given to understand, the current transfiguration teacher is a bit…casual."

"A lax, overindulgent idiot, you mean."

"Ah. You share the opinion, then."

"Indeed, the Head Mistress is particularly displeased since it is her previous subject. She never seemed quite so horrified about such things when it was the Defence post." A small smile tipped his lips. "Save for the Lockheart year, of course. I think she even preferred the teaching methods of Dolores Umbridge."

"Really, you think so?"

"Abhorred the woman, of course, that couldn't be helped, but at least she attempted to control her classroom. Azalea Fairchild is like Lockheart in that she seems to be more preoccupied with her social status with the students than with teaching them. When attempting the same, Horace at least actually bothered with teaching and discipline, as well. I had not realised she had offered you the position."

"I have given it some thought; I don't find the idea unappealing, particularly after days like today. I am unsure that I would be comfortable with it, however-especially considering that I was a peer of most of the students only two years ago."

"It was one of my largest hurdles when I first started," he responded.

They walked in silence for a while, Hermione forcibly telling herself to not to steal incredulous glances at the dark figure beside her. She had never really imagined herself carrying on a conversation with Severus Snape as an equal. She had become friends with both Minerva and Filius following graduation, but the stark Potions master had always loomed in her head as remote and unsociable, despite being several decades closer to her own age. Seeing this side of him was both surreal and slightly thrilling.

Hermione paused when they reached one of the ready guest suites, and gave him a shy smile. "Thank you for letting me in and listening, putting up with my 'hysterical display' and for the potions. I really do appreciate it."

He inclined his head, the amused light back in his eyes. He had clearly noticed how disconcerted she was. "I have been an instructor at Hogwarts for eighteen years, and Head of Slytherin House for twelve of those; yours was not the first 'hysterical display' I have dealt with. I trust you recall from earlier visits what time most full-time residents gather for breakfast?"

She nodded in response and, after a slightly awkward pause, murmured "Goodnight," and went to bed. Emotionally exhausted, Hermione found herself drifting off to sleep quickly; she had only barely crawled into bed and doused the lights before she found her eyelids getting heavy and her mind fogging with sleep. With sleep, came dreaming.

Pain. Her body was wracked with it, her mind overwhelmed with a blind, panicking fear. Acid was running through her veins instead of blood, her heart convulsing and lungs restricting with every breath she took. She could feel tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and into the messy, unwashed mass that was her hair, and fancied it was blood rather than salt water. Her entire being felt on fire; each nerve ending was screaming in agony.

Her shirt had been torn open to provide access to her torso. Hermione was uncertain at this point if the pain raging there was a result of the gouges left by Bellatrix's cursed knife or the several times she had been hit with the Cruciatus. Her own screams rang in her ears-a mixture of pain and terror and anger-her throat had been rendered raw with them.

Perhaps if Bellatrix had used the Full Body Bind curse on her, she would not have fought as wildly-perhaps her brain would have recognised the futility. Instead, Fenrir Greyback was holding her down with brute force-his filthy, hairy arm across her throat, his teeth bared in a horrible parody of a smile, his legs between hers. It had triggered an answering animal instinct in her, and she had struggled fiercely, her mind unable to comprehend that escape was impossible.

Her fear and pain excited him; she could feel his erection against her, could smell his foul breath puffing across her face in aroused pants. "You're a bit old for my appetite," he had informed her, "but you're so very lively! Do you suppose she'll let me have you, after you've told her everything she wants to know?" He had ground his hips into hers and his free hand had viciously pinched at one of her nipples, through the fabric of her tattered bra.

"I wonder if I will be your first. I love the smell of virgin blood on my shaft when I rip into a cunt for the first time." He laughed raucously when his comment drew a fresh round of frenzied distress from her, and continued, "I suppose it's likely too much to ask after you've been following two males around like a bitch in heat… I'll bet your little arsehole is still virgin, though…and oh, yes, you can be sure I'll have that too. I'm going to fuck you bloody in every hole you have, little girl."

Hermione saw red. She was not sure how much later Bellatrix's words cut through her terror, probably only a few moments, but it felt like eons had passed in her desperate fight to be free of his heavy body. "Perhaps I will let you have her, or perhaps not. It depends on what information the filthy little Mudblood decides is worth giving up in return."

The possibility that she might not be horrifically raped very nearly made her babble everything: the Horcuxes, the Hallows, that it truly was the Sword of Gryffindor still clutched in Bellatrix's off hand. Only the sure knowledge cutting through her that the lunatic would give her to the werewolf anyway kept her tongue in check.

The Cruciatus seared her again; Greyback's appreciative laughter grunted in her ear. His furry chest abraded her wounds, causing blood and sweat to drip down her rib cage to the floor underneath her. The air stank of copper and salt, and Hermione's vision tunnelled.

"Aw, don't pass out on me now, love, I like it better when you're screaming…"

The scream was still on her lips when she jolted awake, bolting upright in the unfamiliar bed. Hermione gasped in a breath, and scrubbed her hands over her face. They came away damp-she had been sweating and weeping in her sleep, and for good reason. She shivered a little in remembered terror, and gathered the thick down comforter more tightly to her chest.

It had been a while since she had dreamt of that horrible day-it hadn't happened for nearly a month now, the last time she had attempted intimacy with Ron. He seemed incapable of engaging in the act without trying to put her on her back beneath him. Every time he did Hermione would trigger, and hard. If she slept at all she would usually wake up in terror, as she just had. It had finally managed to destroy their relationship, she realised, drawing in a shaky breath. How much else would she let it destroy?

Hermione felt tears on her face again and, feeling frustrated, she stood, leaving the bed to walk unsteadily to the small toilet connected to the bedroom. At the sink she wet a cloth and dabbed at her face, taking deep breaths to calm herself down.

"You look terrible. Bad dreams?" her reflection asked.

"Thanks," Hermione said sourly. "That's a bit of an understatement. Old memories…We may have won that godforsaken war, but it broke something in me. They took away any possibility of me getting to really live."

"Surely you're being melodramatic," the mirror answered dubiously. "Perhaps some better hair products, getting your nails tended to…?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, and continued, slightly desperately, "Because of this…block, I'm completely unable to satisfy a man. While it's not the most important thing about a relationship, it is certainly a crucial aspect of one. I…I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life because I can't get past those memories. They shouldn't be able to control me like this! How am I supposed to be happy alone?" she burst.

Her reflection looked annoyed. "I'm a mirror, dear, not a therapist. You should put some damp teabags on your eyes when you return to bed. The circles you have there are ghastly."

Growling under her breath, Hermione stomped back into the bedroom, and crawled back into the bed, pulling the comforter up over her. She stared up at the darkened ceiling for a several long minutes, and then, desperately hoping it was later than she suspected, grabbed her wand off the bedside table and cast a Tempus.

It was not quite five, which was later than she had anticipated, but still not late enough to really be up and about. Hermione fiddled with her wand, watching as the glowing hands on the conjured clock switched to 4:52 right before they faded from view, leaving a green after-image burned into her vision. Restlessly, she tilted her head on the pillow, and considered casting the Tempus again, even though she knew it would only make her situation worse.

Finally giving up on sleep and sighing irritably, Hermione sat up in the bed and flicked her wand to light one of the room's lamps. A quick glance about the room proved there to be no books that she might read; the guest suite had little in it beyond the basic essentials. Pressing her lips together in a thin line Hermione tossed back the covers once more and headed back into the bathroom, flicking her wand at the lights as she went.

"Back so quickly?" her reflection asked. Hermione ignored the mirror and turned the taps on the bathtub, grateful the ledge was stocked with shampoo and conditioner. Approximately half an hour later, she re-emerged, feeling considerably less grumpy and more human. A few swishes of her wand saw her skirt and blouse from the previous day transfigured into a simple black wrap dress that might have doubled for modern-looking robes, and a pair of ballet flats. Even healed her feet just were not up to pumps today, especially considering the amount of staircases in Hogwarts.

Strapping her wrist sheath on Hermione left her room as quietly as she could, not wanting to wake up any of the portraits. The combined chill from the morning air and her still wet curls made her shiver lightly, and she wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to ward it off. She frowned as she walked, lost in thought as she headed down the southernmost hallway of the guest wing towards the main staircase corridor. She wasn't entirely positive where she was intending to end up; she was walking more out of habit rather than because she had a particular destination in mind.

An idle glance out of one of the high, arched windows overlooking the gardens and greenhouses brought her up short. Though still low on the horizon the sun had already crested, creating an eerie landscape of long shadows and glittering morning dew. Hermione had forgotten just how stunning the early hours at Hogwarts were-the scenery was achingly lovely. It wasn't, however, what had arrested her attention so abruptly.

Two floors below her, nearly hidden by the deep shadows in the Herbology gardens, was Severus Snape, sans cloak and frock coat, his shirt sleeves rolled up to expose pale, strong forearms. Oddly mesmerized, Hermione watched as the early light highlighted the stark contrast of the Dark Mark marring the pale skin of his left arm. The same light cast his hawk-like features into a study of severe lines and hard angles, hollowing his cheeks and deepening the set of his eyes, even as it affirmed his strong jaw line. His deft movements were sure and graceful; his gaze intense and focused on his task.

He was, in that moment, oddly, starkly beautiful in a way she wasn't sure she would have been able to explain to someone else. Severus Snape was by no means a beautiful man, or even a handsome one, but he was, in that moment, attractive. It startled Hermione to realise it; he was so very different in both appearance and mannerisms from Ron. Yet this image of him, bent in the early light, looking strangely absorbed and peaceful as he diligently tended to the plant, was incredibly compelling. The thought of all that fierce concentration on her…heat curled low in her stomach and pricked her arms with goose bumps. Her lips parted on an unsteady breath.

She was just the slightest bit aroused, she realised, possibly even more than merely slightly. Hermione felt her eyes widen even as her brows furrowed. That was incredibly unusual. It usually took a discernible amount of effort on Ron's part to put her in this state-certainly more than just an unreturned glance from a distance. Something about the fresh Scottish light, perhaps, Hermione wondered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Perhaps her problem was merely the setting, or that she was not in the correct mood that made her memories so hard to banish. Curious, she studied Severus more closely, taking advantage of the fact that he was unaware of her presence, and imagined those meticulous hands on her, his dark gaze locked with hers... She sucked in an unsteady breath when her body reacted to her thoughts, her breasts suddenly sensitizing and a low ache blossoming between her thighs. Encouraged, she tried to imagine him actually in bed, on top of her, and her mind exploded into panic, automatically replacing him with an image of Greyback, and then blanking in red terror.

Hermione shivered again, all traces of interest gone, and shook her head, trying to clear the images. There had to be a way for her to get past these memories-there just had to be. She was clearly never going to be able to have a normal, healthy relationship with them intact. Not even a Pensieve was able to remove a memory completely-she had tried, and her reaction to Ron's attentions had been no different. The memories of Malfoy Manor were just too forceful. Calming Draughts hadn't been able to touch them either. In fact it had only made it more difficult for Ron to arouse her. Surely there was something she could do-there wasn't anything she wanted more than-

Hermione felt her mouth drop suddenly as she realised what she was thinking, the Professor's words from the night before returning to her. This.This was what she needed to have her life back-to have herself back. The possibility of having those memories gone forever, to be able to start over in a relationship without that awful night hanging over her head, actually made her heart ache and her lungs squeeze in longing.

Obliviation. She had read that it was a horribly dangerous spell if one was untutored in mental magic, but Severus Snape was renowned for being something of a prodigy in that area-had he not assisted her with her parents' memories before the war? His precision and effortless ability in mental spells was legendary. If he could Obliviate Malfoy Manor and everything that had happened to her there, not only would she finally be free, but so would he. It was an utterly perfect and simple solution to both of their problems.

Hermione took a deep breath and smiled, feeling the tightness in her chest loosen a bit as a giant weight lifted. She could give him the means to save her-and himself-and then they would both finally, finally free to live. She nearly skipped down the stairs to the garden.
A/N: And so our tale begins. :-) Thanks so much for reading! This story is already complete in six parts, written over the course of two months, and will be updated weekly. These are longer chapters than what you usually see from me--this story a total of nearly 50,000 total, about the same length that my WIP, Severus, Redux is at this point too. Please be sure give props to my alphas and beta who were with me through the whole thing!

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