Title: Triumph out of the Bitter Taste of Ashes
Author: Kiristeen ke Alaya
Series: nope
Pairing: HG/SS, DM/RW
Codes: Graphic sex (het and slash), violence, sexual trauma, minor character deaths
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Story deals with the aftermath of rape, torture, and the violence of war. The rape itself is not graphically described, nor is this story intended to, by word or implication, glorify it. (The act itself is covered in one single sentence after it's over) For Lucius lovers, this story will not portray him in a good light. Some characters die.
Setting: Takes place mid-7th year.
Summary: Hermione is captured just prior to the final battle. Dumbledore and company, ready for the confrontation, arrive in time to destroy Voldemort, only to find Hermione is no longer there. No one seems to know where she went, or even if she's still alive.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling, her publishers, and heirs do. I intend no disrespect nor copyright infringement with this story. It is purely a work of fanfiction.
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Prologue
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Hermione whimpered as Malfoy pulled away, the glare of the September mid-day sun shining through her tightly clenched eyelids. Curling into a ball the moment he released her, his taunting, laughing voice and the stray wisps of white-blond hair she could see were the only clues to her rapist. For all that, she knew who he was, couldn't mistake him for anyone else. I will not let him break me. I will not let him break me. It was her mantra. It had become so hours ago, when the only thing she'd had to fight against was pain beyond imagining.
At first, they'd asked questions, demanding she tell them everything she knew about Hogwarts' security and Dumbledore's plans. I don't know anything. I won't let him break me. soon replaced the first mantra; she'd believe it if she said it enough, she was sure . . . sometime . . . Let me believe it! she'd thought. I don't know anything. I won't let him break me! He cannot break me!
She'd held out as long as she could against their torture, saying nothing they wanted to hear, the pain steadily growing until she'd thought dying would be better than living. An hour, two, with her telling herself, I'll tell them something in a minute. I'll just hold out one more minute. She'd read once that was how addicts got through the cravings for drugs. And, right now, she was an addict, she craved surcease with every fiber of her being. Yes, she would have been grateful for the release of death, then.
Three hours and her screams were incoherent. She'd begun speaking, her voice coarse and screeching. She'd started with the 'wrongs' she'd done before learning she was a witch, every little thing, real or imagined had come pouring out of her. She spoke as fast as she could, leaving no space for breath or betraying truths.
It wasn't what they wanted, of course, her words doing nothing but angering her tormentors. She kept up the torrent of words, one after another, letting them all spill out, hoping against hope that they would create a wall between her, the pain, and what little she did know. When she began to run out of wrongs to confess, she began making them up. She didn't dare stop. If she did, she was lost and she knew she would tell them what they wanted to know -- she would tell them anything to simply make it stop.
Then they'd stopped, she wasn't sure why; maybe they'd decided she didn't know anything. Even so, the healing had come as a shock, the lessening of her agony a pain all its own. It hadn't been until the masked, hooded death-eater had kneeled between her legs that she'd realized why, and that contrary to her child-like whispered prayers, her torment was far from over.
Her silent, useless tears had dried long ago; she had none left to cry.
"Next," Malfoy called out tauntingly, several male voices responding, ringing out in laughter.
NO! Hermione screamed silently. Aloud, she whimpered, curling tighter. Go away! Go away! Let . Me . Die!
A shout. Voices cursing. Hermione ignored it all, withdrawing into herself as much as she could, willing it all away. People running, their footfalls fading quickly. Wait! Fading? They're leaving?
A choked sob escaped her as she tensed, waiting for the trick behind the trap to spring. They hadn't left. They were waiting for her to believe they had, then it would start all over again. Seconds ticked by, draining into minutes that passed like eternal hours.
When the dreaded touch never came, when no one grabbed her, forcing her out of her ball, no one forced her legs apart, Hermione opened her tightly clenched eyelids, finally beginning to hope they were really gone. She squashed it down ruthlessly; hope was a weakness, a vulnerability she couldn't afford right now. To have it back and lose it again would be as effective as a dementor's kiss.
Gone! They're gone!
An explosion startled a screech out of her. It ripped open her raw throat, but this time the pain served to clear just the smallest portion of her mind and she forced her eyes to focus in the direction of the sound. Vivid flashes of colored light showed through the trees. A fight, she thought. There's fighting. Slowly, what was happening filtered through her disorientation and terror. Someone's attacking the death-eaters. She'd been left behind and forgotten in the clamor. She could get away.
"Yes," she croaked hoarsely. "Away. Get away."
She rolled onto her hands and knees, her body aching with pain beyond agony. Muscles she hadn't been aware of until today violently protested every inch she gained toward the freedom she could almost taste. It tasted of the bitterness of bile, but it was freedom. She didn't try to rise to her feet. In truth, she didn't even think of trying; that was far too complicated. Crawl. She could crawl. She remembered crawling. She'd been able to do it for years.
So, why is it so hard, now?
Rocks, sticks, hard clumps of dirt: they all dug into her knees and palms. She didn't notice. They were simply more random shots of pain among many. Her breathing harsh and strained, she couldn't seem to draw in enough air. Panic radiated through her in nauseating waves. The world around her spun, her vision blurring briefly.
She wasn't going to make it. She moved forward again. There wouldn't be enough time. And again. Surely the fighting was over by now. They'd be back any second and find her. She wasn't far enough away. She was still out in the open . . . exposed.
She raised her head, staring straight ahead. The barely discernable tree line away from the fighting seem so far away, as far as the horizon, and just as unreachable. Her head dropped and she doggedly continued forward. She had to get away. She just had to. It would be bad if she didn't. They would make her be bad.
She didn't know how long she'd crawled before her arms buckled, tumbling her forward, but she lay there, breathing heavily. She had to get up. She had to move. She knew that. If she didn't, she would die. They would get her. She forced her eyes open, only to watch the patches of visible sky above her grey and brighten several times before she could make herself move.
Hissing at the stinging pain beneath her palms, she moved again, even more slowly this time. One hand, then the other; one leg, then the other, over and over again. Focusing on nothing more than that, she forced herself to continue.
Her arms buckled again, sending her hard to the ground just as the daylight around her was beginning to fade, but even that last little bit of light was lost to her as her head hit the ground and blessed unawareness rushed over her.
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Chapter One
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Severus Snape's legs gave out beneath him and he sank unceremoniously to his knees. It was over. Voldemort was dead, his death-eaters -- the majority of them -- bound, their wands confiscated. A few, of course, were still on the loose. Either they hadn't been here, or had apparated to safety the moment the Order attacked. All that was left now, was the clean-up. So many people dead, he thought numbly, his gaze scanning the battlefield without lighting on any one scene for more than a moment.
A chuckle, crossed with a choked off sob, escaped him as he struggled back to his feet. He was still alive. He truly had never believed he'd live to see this day. Oh, he'd believed the day would come, Voldemort had been too obsessed to ultimately succeed; he'd just assumed he'd be dead before it happened . . . or as it happened. Mechanically, he began moving, his wand out as he scanned each body he passed for signs of life -- so far, none. Mentally, he filed away the names of the ones he knew by sight, too numb to feel anything but profound relief that it was over, finally over.
The prophesy had been fulfilled; though, not in the way everyone had expected. Irony. Severus Snape loved irony. The prophesy, simply by existing is what had been Voldemort's downfall. If it hadn't existed, he would not have been distracted at the crucial moment. An hour into the battle, Voldemort had spotted Harry Potter and, predictably, had gone for him, duelling an unwinnable battle. Severus, having suddenly found himself presented with the Dark Lord's back, had lifted his wand and cast the killing curse. It was the ultimate example of a self-fulfilling prophesy. It didn't make it any less true, just made it. . . .
"Ironic," Potter said softly, "isn't it?"
Turning his head to stare at the greatest thorn in his side -- barring Voldemort himself -- Severus couldn't help but snort, a wry amusement twisting his lips up into a parody of a smile. "I believe so," he replied before he thought to stop himself, too tired to try all that hard, then continued, his voice retaking its normal disdainful tones. "What makes you think it?"
Harry shook his head, letting loose a snort of his own. "He was killed while fighting me . . . just like the prophesy hinted. The irony is that if he had been watching his back, instead of trying to take me out, a half-grown kid who had little chance to actually kill him without an awful bloody lot of luck, he might not have died."
For a moment, Severus was utterly stunned. Hearing his own thoughts virtually echoed by 'The Boy Who Lived' was unprecedented. It was, to say the least, disturbing, and he found himself agreeing before he could censor his words. "Exactly," he said. The bright smile he received in return was . . . surprising, untainted by malice or scorn as it was.
"Bet that hurt to say," Potter quipped before turning away, his own wand mimicking the movements Severus had been making moments ago, his expression turning to sorrow.
Shaking his head, and seriously wondering if the nine hells had all frozen over, Severus returned to checking for life, not needing to wonder why Potter looked as he did. So many dead bodies. It was hard for him to see. He could only imagine what it must be like for someone so young -- brat or not. At least none of the bodies he'd come across had been the boy's know-it-all friend, Miss Granger. That, Severus thought, would kill the boy. As long as no body was found, the boy had hope; he was certainly Gryffindor enough for that sentimental twaddle.
Severus, himself, held out no hope for Miss Granger's survival. She, a 'mudblood', had been in death-eater hands for well over 24 hours; if she wasn't dead yet, she would be better off that way. He had to admit, however, that he was shocked that the Order's Headquarters had not been attacked. Miss Granger had known the address. Not to mention the fact that she also knew of the entrance to Hogwarts grounds under the whomping willow. Both pieces of information would have been highly sought by Voldemort and his followers.
As far as he could tell, one of two things had happened. Either Lucius was far more stupid than Severus had given the man credit for and hadn't questioned her about it, despite the fact that he knew she'd been staying there, or, Severus Snape had severely underestimated one Miss Hermione Granger. He snorted, even as he continued his search for living remnants of the battle. The likelihood of the second was so low, in his opinion, that he was left with the rather unsettling conclusion that twenty years ago, he'd put his faith and trust in an idiot. It did absolutely nothing for his current mood.
"Harry!" George Weasley cried out, his panicked, horror-filled voice shooting out over the battlefield.
Severus turned toward the two, a heaviness in his heart. She'd been found.
"She's not here!"
"What?" Potter exclaimed. "She has to be!" he exclaimed, suddenly spinning away from Weasley and renewing his search of the bodies. This time, Severus noticed a certain . . . urgency to his movements.
Sighing, Severus turned his attention away from the two students. If Miss Granger was out here, among the bodies, she was, indeed, dead. But not even he had the insensitivity to point that out to them right now.
**
Eyes beyond dry, every muscle in his body aching from unaccustomed activity, Severus slumped into the nearest chair. Order headquarters, rapidly filling with every member who'd been on life search, should have been filled with jubilation and shouts of victory. It wasn't, however. If everyone felt the way he did, Severus could certainly understand why. Seven hours they'd all spent looking, hoping for survivors. So far the count was hideously uneven. 600 bodies -- dead from both sides -- had been recovered from the battlefield, and only 20 wounded, 9 of whom weren't expected to make it, not even with the best magical care available. Most of the people around him were beyond tears; though, he'd certainly seen enough of those shed today. Everyone was simply too tired to openly grieve the devastating losses.
Of course, they hadn't yet begun raiding captured death-eater homes. Who knew what the total would rise to then. Without doubt, there would be suicides from both active death-eaters and from families of such. No one wanted Azkaban, and some would prefer even death to it. Severus wasn't too sure he didn't agree. His own short time there had left him with a respectable terror of the place.
Someone had to get these people moving. Everyone, himself included, needed to sleep . . . needed time to regroup and move on. Before he could so much as twitch a muscle, however, the front door slammed open, sending everyone to their feet, wands out -- himself included.
Glowering, Severus rolled his eyes. Albus was lucky he hadn't been hexed by any number of the forty-odd battle-weary people he'd just startled. It took several moments, during which he got his own heart-rate back under control, for him to notice something he'd never, ever seen before. Albus Dumbledore was openly furious.
"What is it?" Severus demanded, denying the terror that coursed through him seeing the most controlled man he'd ever known look so out of control. He couldn't think of a single thing bad enough to warrant Albus' fury . . . and that, in itself, was a very frightening thought.
"Hogwarts was attacked."
Loud gasps and not a few short, cut-off screams met his pronouncement. Severus paled, sinking back into his chair. "When?" he choked out.
Albus' fury melted suddenly, his grief openly displayed as tears ran freely down his face. "Simultaneous to our attack on Voldemort," he replied brokenly, swaying.
The implications immediately sinking in, Severus knew Albus would probably never recover from this completely. If they hadn't mounted the direct assault on Voldemort, simply because of one student's capture, they'd have been at Hogwarts to protect it . . . and the students. Severus wanted to rage and strike out. Unfortunately, he had no one to blame. Miss Granger had been snatched via Port Key from her very room, so, not even he could lay blame there. Obviously, someone from inside Hogwarts had done that piece of dirty work. He immediately thought of Malfoy, but had no proof. He didn't want to falsely accuse the young man and destroy any chance of him not turning to the dark.
No one could have known of the attack, save perhaps himself. Should that be who was blamed? Did he carry a measure of responsibility? He was the spy inside Voldemort's inner circle. Why hadn't he known about it?
"T-the ch-ch-ildren?" Molly Weasley stuttered, her hand hovering in horror over her mouth, tears, absent earlier, now filling her eyes.
"Poppy and a team of emergency medi-witches from St. Mungos are caring for the survivors," Albus replied, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
The word, 'survivors', echoed in hushed, horrified whispers throughout the room. Most of them had children who attended Hogwarts and now had the added fear of a hurt or dead child to hover over or grieve. Severus had never been so grateful to be childless. He took in the shocked blankness of expression around him, and did what no one else could . . . or dared.
"How many?" he asked flatly.
"Seventy eight students dead, a hundred twenty three wounded. I--" Albus' voice cracked and he had to take a moment to clear his throat before he could continue. "I wasn't able to get specifics. Everyone was too busy caring . . . caring for the children."
Thrusting his exhaustion aside, Severus rose. He knew no one was going to get any sleep until they knew for certain which parents still had their children. "I'll go brew some pepper-up potion," he said tonelessly. "Somehow, I think we're going to need it." Striding out of the room, he was glad to have something to do. Waiting had never been his strong suit, and having something useful to do would help keep his mind off . . . everything. He felt . . . selfish worrying about the future, his future, but he couldn't stop, not completely. What would he do now? Where would he go? Would he still teach at Hogwarts? He knew he wasn't the best suited to teaching, but he did actually enjoy it -- when he came across students who were actually semi-capable.
His step faltered as he thought that. He'd had a few of those students over the years, students that had pushed his ability to push them to their limits. Hermione Granger had been one of those. As much as she had been an annoying, bossy, know-it-all, she had also been gifted with potions. He'd pushed her more than he'd pushed anyone except Potter, and she'd met each challenge. He swallowed convulsively. It would be . . . odd not having her in class sitting so proudly between Potter and Weasley, driving him to distraction by seeming to know the answers before he even bloody asked the questions.
In some ways, it would be easier. Other students would now have to survive or fail on their own merits. In other ways, some small part him realized, he would sorely miss the challenge she represented to his teaching ability. He shook himself. No time for that kind of silly sentiment. He had a job to do.
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Chapter Two
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"Mum! Mum! There's a naked girl outside!" Cecily Thomason ran full out toward the house. "Mum!!"
"What is it, Cecily?"
Cecily skid to a halt, the dust from the ground billowing up around her as her mum appeared in the doorway. She coughed, panting for breath as she repeated her news. "There's a naked girl at the edge of the woods!"
Her mom's eyes widened and she hurried forward. "Show me."
Nodding, Cecily took off again, urging her mother to hurry. "She's in a bad way, Mum."
"Algar! Matthew!" Mrs. Thomason roared, not breaking stride, continuing as soon as Cecily's two brothers appeared. "Get my supplies. Quickly now!"
The two ran off, the younger quickly falling behind. After that, Cecily returned her attention to where she was headed. The last thing the hurt girl needed was for her to fall over her own clumsy feet and not be able to guide help to her. Just this past year she'd grown a full 6 centimeters, and all of a sudden she was constantly breaking things and tripping over nothing. It was embarrassing!
Almost to the edge of the woods, she pointed.
"I see her," her mum replied, rushing ahead.
"Good!" Cecily replied, dropping instantly to the ground. She didn't think she could run another step, the stitch in her side seemed to agree with her. Unfortunately, she'd have to.
"Cecily Elizabeth Thomason, get off your bum and get over here!"
Scrambling awkwardly to her feet, Cecily hurried to her mother's side. Looking down at the poor girl, Cecily really hoped her mother could help. It looked to her as if the girl had been put through a magic sieve . . . twice for good measure.
"Here," her mother said suddenly, grabbing hold of her hand and placing it firmly on the girl's stomach, "keep the pressure on. It'll slow the bleeding until I can repair the damage."
Cecily winced as her mother shouted for the boys, her voice filled with worry. She took a closer look as her mother removed her apron and spread it over the naked girl, no the woman, she wasn't as young as Cecily had originally thought. She was an adult, not a child like she'd thought. One by one she carefully catalogued the injuries she could identify, paying particular attention to everywhere she saw blood. She wanted to follow in her mother's footsteps and help heal people. She was pretty good at it, even if she was only 10, and she was pretty sure the woman had gone through more than just getting herself beat up.
"Mum?" she asked faintly as her mother shouted out the boys again, directing the two to their spot.
"Yes, dear?" she asked absently, muttering words under her breath that Cecily couldn't quite make out.
"Men did this, didn't they?" she asked.
Looking at her sharply, her mother nodded once. "Yes, though, that doesn't mean that women didn't have a hand in it as well."
Gathering her courage, Cecily forged on, "they forced her, like the forest animals do, didn't they?"
Her mother frowned at her, glancing at the swiftly approaching boys, before replying. "Yes, and no."
"That didn't make any sense, Mum!" Cecily protested.
"The animals of the forest don't force their mates," her mother said quietly, most of her attention on the woman she was working to save. "Some have to work at dominating, to prove they're the best for the job . . . so to speak, but it's only humans that rape, child."
"Oh."
The boys, winded, skid to a halt and dropped next to the three of them. Her mom set to work immediately, confidently applying poltices and external potions to aid the young woman in healing.
"What was that spell you murmured earlier? What does it do?" Cecily asked quietly, hoping she wasn't distracting her mother too much.
"It'll protect her, child, for a little while."
"How," Algar asked instantly. He'd been happily learning spells from his mother for years now, and wanted to hear it all.
Cecily knew her brother was already more powerful than her mum. Her mum knew hundreds maybe even thousands of spells, but didn't have the power to cast most of them. She did have the knowledge to teach him, though, and he soaked up every scrap she gave him.
"It will hide her from anyone searching for her -- for a short while. It isn't very powerful, but it will, at least, give her time to heal and decide what she wants to do before she can be found. Of course, if someone really powerful wants her bad enough, they'll break through it easily enough."
"Why not just take her into town?" Cecily asked, worried that something might happen to them for protecting her. Her mum's words about someone wanting to find her, scared Cecily. It made her imagination run wild, and she didn't like the things she was thinking.
It was Algar who answered her. "Because we don't know who did this. We can assume," he said, sounding like he was pretty bloody sure who it had been, "but we don't know. No matter where we take her, we could be making the wrong choice." As he finished speaking, he looked suddenly hesitant, glancing to their mum. "Right?"
Their mother merely nodded, most of her attention still on the young woman.
Cecily, shuddered, Algar's reminder of the evil in their world entirely unwelcome on top of everything else. She was young, but she knew why they lived in a cottage in the middle of nowhere. She knew why her oldest brother, who desperately wanted to go to Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, was home schooled. It was because, after their father had died, their mother had ended up married to a muggle. Her little brother was a half-blood. She didn't see why it was such a big deal, but evidently this He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, really hated muggles, and everything associated with them. That put them in danger.
She sighed. It really wasn't fair. Algar wanted to go. She knew that when her time came -- assuming she had the gift -- she wanted to go. Her mother was brilliant, but it wouldn't be the same as learning with all the other kids. It just wouldn't. She sighed again. Looking back down, she wondered if their patient was a witch, and if so, had she been allowed to go to Hogwarts or had she learned somewhere else?
"Well, I've done what I can," her mother said suddenly, rising slowly to her feet. "Algar, help me get her back to the cottage."
Cecily watched uneasily as her mother and brother carefully lifted the woman and began the slow, long walk back to the cottage. She lifted her mother's basket, lost in thought. She wasn't entirely certain this was a good idea. What if the bad man came looking for her and found her here with them? He already wouldn't like their family. If he came, and found out they'd helped someone he'd hurt, wouldn't that put them in more danger? She spent the remainder of the trip pulled between worrying about what she'd have done if it had all been up to her, and with making sure her little brother was keeping up. He was only five and forever running off when he shouldn't.
It was getting dark, and the dark was no place for a little boy. She shuddered as the sun set, the shadows deepening quickly. She wasn't exactly fond of it herself. She wished Algar and her mother could hurry, just a little, the growing darkness feeling suddenly like it was hiding all sorts of monsters, some that wore the shape of men.
By the time they got home, however, she'd decided that yes, she would have still helped. She would, if it were up to her, limit the length of time to woman stayed, though. She would let her stay just long enough for her to take herself off. The best of both worlds, Cecily decided. She just hoped her mother saw it that way, too.
Quickly setting the basket back in its proper place, Cecily followed her family. "Is she going to make it?" she asked, worried.
"Yes," her mother replied almost immediately, her and Algar carefully laying the girl on Cecily's bed.
Why mine?
She frowned at that thought, only half listening as her mother continued. "She'll need a lot of help, but she should be all right."
Why did I think that? she wondered. Am I that selfish? Swallowing guiltily, she hurried out of the room. "I'll start getting dinner for you, Mum," she offered. She wasn't usually that keen on helping with the food, but right now she needed to so something to wash away the sick feeling inside.
The rest of the evening flew by far more quickly than Cecily had figured it would. They'd all taken turns sitting with the woman, alternately sponging her face, and holding her down when in her delirium she thrashed about. They also dodged items suddenly flying across the room, as the feverish woman's magic lashed out in response to the images she saw in her nightmares.
"No more!" she cried out, and Cecily jumped. It was her turn to sit and watch, and this was the first time the woman had spoken.
"It's okay," she whispered, trying to be reassuring. "You're safe now."
"Safe, no. I let them-- I didn't tell-- Dirty now-- Didn't tell."
Cecily frowned. That hadn't made any sense. She wished she knew what the woman was talking about. "Yes, you're safe. And you're not dirty," she added, wondering why that mattered at all. "We cleaned you up good and proper."
"Didn't tell," the woman murmured again, this time sounding far more frantic. "I swear."
Cecily worried that she was going to start one of her fits again, and hurriedly leaned forward and gently petted her hair. Hoping it would help, she tried to reassure her the only way she could. She said she believed her. "It's alright. We know you didn't tell. You did good. You didn't tell." To her complete relief -- not to mention surprise -- it seemed to help; the woman subsided back into a less restless sleep.
She stayed with the woman until her mother came to relieve her, not once having to do anything more than wipe the fever sweat from her face.
**********
Chapter Three
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Severus sighed, scowling out over the remaining Hogwarts students as they gathered for the morning meal. His own breakfast lay largely untouched in front of him. Three weeks it had been since the final conflict with Voldemort . . . and the attack on Hogwarts. A pall still lay over the faculty and student body alike, the only exception being the morbidly excited whispers as eyewitnesses told and retold of what happened that fateful night.
Their losses had been devastating, which he realized was a bloody obvious thing to consider. It had been especially hard on his own house, with Gryffindor coming in second in the death totals. The first and second years had remained virtually untouched -- as far as depleting their numbers was concerned. Protected both by the staff that had remained behind and by the older students, they'd managed what none of the other years had, to emerge from the battle virtually unscathed . . . physically.
Forcibly shutting away the glaring reminders of lost lives, vividly portrayed by the emptiness of the great hall, Severus turned his attention to his own students. Some of the upper years that remained were a surprise, a welcome surprise. Severus'd had few enough of that kind of surprise over the years to fully appreciate this one.
Through the last 6 1/2 years he had worked subtly to wean Draco away from his father and the possibility of his becoming a death-eater. He'd thought he'd failed in that. He'd been wrong. From the tales told of the battle he'd missed, Draco had stood side by side with the likes of Finnegan, and Weasley, to hold off the invaders, to keep them away from the students who couldn't protect themselves.
The second years virtually glowed as they retold the tale of how the three boys had stood shoulder to shoulder, physically and magically barricading the entrance to where the young children were hidden. Horror, tinted with tentative pride and overflowing with awe colored their young excited voices as they recounted the tale of how their personal heroes had saved their lives. Young Draco Malfoy now found himself in a position rather new to him. He had awestruck Gryffindors that idolized him.
It boggled the mind, really, and he couldn't help but wonder whether anything he'd done had helped the boy make his decision. Part of him hoped so, but another, larger part hoped not. Draco Malfoy's decision had carried a hefty price tag for the young man -- which led to Severus' biggest shock of all.
Of the 7th years, Blaise Zabini, he'd expected to remain. Parkinson and Bulstrode, he hadn't been sure about, but hadn't been surprised when the former had left and the latter remained. Both were dead, so it was a moot point anyhow. Zabini's only remaining parent was the muggle. Parkinson's father was dead, as were both Bulstrode's parents. No, it wasn't them that shocked him to his core, them nor their families, nor the dozens of others who'd chosen one side or the other.
It was the young Crabbe and Goyle that had completely defied his logic. They'd stayed. Apparently, their loyalty was to one Draco Malfoy, not the invisible -- to them -- Lord Voldemort, not some ideal that the delusional half-blood had purported. Draco Malfoy. When he had stayed; they had stayed. Shocking.
Unfortunately for Draco Malfoy, both had died as a result. That was something no one could help the young Malfoy heir with. He would have to come to terms with that himself, in the privacy of his own mind. The fact that his two ever-present cronies had been willing to die for him had rocked Draco Malfoy's world and ripped the ground from underneath him. The whispers said that Avada had been accurately aimed at Malfoy, a tale confirmed with quiet respect by none other the Ronald Weasley. Crabbe had dived directly into the path of the deadliest of curses, protecting Malfoy's body with his own, and in the finest tradition of true bodyguards everywhere, taken the hit himself. Those who told the tale, trembled as they spoke, each wondering if they would ever be called on to be so sacrificing.
Goyle, in contrast, had launched himself at the curse thrower, tumbling the death-eater to the ground. He'd received a dagger to the gut for his troubles. No one had expected anything like it. No one thought that in the middle of the biggest magical battle this century, perhaps ever, that one of their number would die by such mundane means. In the debriefing that followed, Draco had been unable to testify coherently, and had agreed to a pensieve being made. Severus had been one of those who'd seen it, felt it.
In the privacy of his own mind, Severus would be forever grateful that Lucius Malfoy had been at Voldemort's side during the double battle. To have father and son pitted directly against one another had happened too often that night and he was glad that Draco Malfoy, at least, had been spared that. Considering how things had turned out, he was just as glad that Crabbe had not lived long enough to realize that it had been his very own father who had thrown that fatal curse. Draco knew, however, and it was simply one more burden for the young man to bear.
Malfoy was not, of course, the only student haunted by the events of three weeks past. Quite without his approval, Severus' gaze drifted to the Gryffindor table. 'The Golden Trio' was a trio no more. The Granger girl had been the first to be lost, a bossy know-it-all that had not had the chance to grow up and be anything more. The two left behind seemed . . . diminished somehow, like they weren't quite whole. He didn't know why he thought that specifically, because Circe only knew, the duo had as much else weighing them down as everyone present.
His eyes moved to the open space just a few feet down from Ronald Weasley. Ginny Weasley, gone. No one knew how she'd died, her death unseen by any of the survivors. She had died alone, and probably terrified out of her mind. That alone was enough to weigh down the two Gryffindors . . . if not all of them.
Space after empty space was found by Severus' keen gaze as he continued scanning the table of each house in turn. He could have told, had he been willing and had anyone asked, full essays on the person who's name leapt to mind for each space. He could tell what they had tended to prefer at meals, what aptitude, if any, they had for potions, what friends they kept as well as many of the ones they'd forsaken over the years they had attended Hogwarts. He could, in fact, probably make fairly accurate estimates on which of the fallen had managed to lose the yoke of virginity. Yes, Severus Snape, the most feared Professor at Hogwarts made it a point to know his students. It was the best kept secret at Hogwarts, simply because he had revealed that fact to absolutely no one. He was Slytherin to the core and held his secrets close to his chest.
One by one, the students trickled out of the Great Hall, and like him, most of them left with easily half the food remaining on their plates. Severus watched as Draco Malfoy rose slowly, the once proud and arrogant boy a shadow of his former self, seemingly lost and alone. For the very first time since beginning his teaching career, he truly wished he was the type of man who could reach out to others, who could grab hold and give comfort where it was both needed and due.
He snorted in disgust at the increasingly sentimental nature of his thoughts and let his fork drop to his plate, giving up on actually eating anything more. Silently striding out of the Great Hall, Severus headed straight for the dungeons. Today, a Saturday, he had the luxury of returning to his chambers and to the privacy they represented. Today had been planned months ago to be a Hogsmeade weekend, which would ordinarily have meant he could have wandered the castle and still been reasonably assured of being left alone. He seriously doubted, however, given past events, that many, if any, of the students would actually go.
He was already in the dungeon, a mere 20 meters from his treasured privacy when a voice stopped him. Draco Malfoy, only the voice wasn't directed at him. The blond young man didn't even realize he was there.
"Why?" he asked.
"Draco," came the reply, which Severus was surprised to realize was Weasley, "it's not your fault. They made their own choices. It wasn't like you ordered them to do it."
"I may as well have," Draco retorted angrily, "the result would have been the same."
"No," Weasley calmly denied instantly, "it wouldn't have."
"How so?" Draco demanded. "They'd still be dead."
"Maybe so," Weasley admitted, "but in that case, you really would be responsible for their deaths." There was a short silence, during which Severus eased forward until, still hidden by the shadows, he could see the two speakers. "Just like any good battle commander."
Draco snorted.
"Or," Weasley added, obviously changing tactics, "any good liege lord."
Severus was impressed, despite himself. He hadn't thought the youngest surviving Weasley had enough wisdom to make that intuitive jump.
Draco let out a soft, short whimper that had Severus aching to simply wrap the boy in comfort. The concept of liege lords was something that, as an aristocratic pureblood of an ancient line, Draco could not only understand, but embrace.
"Why did they do that?" Draco asked plaintively.
"Loyalty," Weasley answered simply, firmly; though, his confusion was clear when he continued. "Do you truly not understand that?"
Draco shook his head. "No, I truly do not." Draco suddenly sat up straighter, turning to look Weasley directly in the eye. "What drives people to that length, to that kind of self-sacrificing loyalty?"
Taking a deep breath, Weasley opened his mouth several times before any kind of response emerged. "I can't tell you that, Draco. It's not something that can be explained, really, it just . . . is."
"I didn't want this," Draco admitted suddenly, "any of it. I just wanted the choice to live the way I wanted -- that's all." A resounding silence followed that admission and Severus almost stepped forward. He was stopped short by Draco's next quiet, sorrowful words. Though, he couldn't see them, Severus could hear the tears in the blond's voice. "I didn't ask to be responsible."
"Most people don't," Ron said, equally quiet. "Most people get responsibility whether they want it or not, whether they can handle it or not, even."
So, Severus thought to himself, it's my day for shocking discoveries. Apparently, he had severely underestimated Ronald Weasley.
Violently wiping the unseen tears from his eyes, Draco's convulsive swallow was quite audible. "You're talking about Potter, aren't you?"
"No," Ron denied. "Well, not entirely, anyway, but he is a prime example."
Drawing his knees to his chest, Draco locked his arms around his legs before he spoke again. "I never really thought about it that way. I only ever saw the fame."
Weasley shrugged. "You'd never walked the proverbial mile in his shoes before. Why would you think of it that way?"
"So, if not Potter, or not primarily Potter, who did you have in mind when you said that?"
"Who said I had anyone in mind?" Weasley shot back defensively.
Draco tilted his head thoughtfully a moment. "No one," he admitted, "it just really seemed like it to me."
Weasley didn't answer right away, and when he finally did, Severus had to strain to hear the words. "Did you know that my parents blame me for Ginny's death?"
Draco's appalled, "What?!" echoed the one reverberating silently through Severus' mind. How could they, he wondered incredulously. The boy was instrumental in saving the lives of more than forty children. What was he supposed to do, he silently spat, leave them all and go chasing after one girl he didn't even know the whereabouts of?
The boy had to be mistaken was the only answer Severus could realistically come up with. While he did not know Arthur Weasley very well, what he knew of Molly told him it was not possible for her to blame her son in this situation. It simply didn't fit. Obviously, the boy held himself responsible, and in his grief, projected that onto his equally grieving parents. That would have to be dealt with, he decided firmly, glad, at last, to have something he could do to help. Lost to his own shock, he missed part of the conversation, and was surprised to hear the sounds of crying, from both boys.
Backing up slowly, he used all his abilities at stealth to move away undetected. To intrude now would be unconscionable.
**********
Chapter Four
**********
Draco pulled back suddenly, rising to his feet awkwardly, suddenly all too aware of the very public hallway they were in. "I can't believe we both blubbered like babies!" he muttered, uncomfortably aware of the blush coloring his face.
Ron chuckled uneasily, lowering his glance to the floor after a quick glance behind him. "Yeah, me neither."
Frowning, Draco too, glanced away from Ron then back again. "No one hears about this, right?" He needed to make sure. He still wasn't completely comfortable with the red-headed Gryffindor, but adversity and bedfellows and all that. Not that, that could be taken literally, he quickly amended silently, just metaphorically. He almost rolled his eyes as his thoughts started getting a touch ridiculous.
Ron nodded enthusiastically. "Agreed. No one."
Draco sighed in relief his expression relaxing for one brief moment before it hardened suddenly. "This doesn't mean I like you, you know, because I don't."
"Course not," Ron replied easily, a crooked grin growing. "Doesn't mean I like you either, 'cuz I don't."
"Good," Draco replied, suddenly back to feeling relieved, "glad that's settled." He had to get out of here. He needed to go back to his room and just . . . be. He needed time to figure it all out, to sort through the whiplash of emotional highs and lows he'd been seesawing between lately.
"Truce, then?" Ron asked hesitantly, "Of a sort."
Draco hesitated briefly, then nodded once. "Truce."
Ron stuck out his hand, and despite the fact that this was Weasley, Draco was irresistibly reminded of the day he had offered his own hand to Harry Potter. This time, however, the offer on the table was slightly different, and Draco had no intention of refusing it; though, he was fairly certain it was going to be rather large adjustment -- one he wasn't altogether certain he could make. He tilted his head thoughtfully for a moment. "You know, I don't think I can go cold turkey on the insults -- not right away anyhow."
Ron laughed genuinely then. "Of course not, 'sides, I think the two of us getting along too well would give the lot of them heart attacks."
It was Draco's turn to chuckle, but that quickly turned into something approaching his usual smirk as he pictured everyone trying to figure out what, exactly, was going on. "Might be worth it at that, just to watch 'em squirm."
Ron's eyes widened. "Okay, now you're scaring me."
Draco blinked. "How?"
"You sounded just like Fred and George there, just before they try out a new gag."
Draco's jaw dropped incredulously. "Did you just compare me to your brothers?" he asked when he could speak. He could not believe Ron Weasley had just compared him to those two. . . . He couldn't think up an appropriate name at the moment. He would try later.
A slight squeak escaping, Ron nodded once. "I think I did."
"Okay," Draco said after a long moment of silence, "this is getting too weird. I'm not pissed at you for that."
Ron's eyes widened. "You're right, that is weird."
Voices echoing down the hallway startled both of them, and without further words, they both strode different directions -- Draco deeper into the dungeons, and Ron back toward the first floor.
Draco shook his head trying to clear his thoughts. It didn't work very well, unfortunately. He was still thinking about the strange encounter with the Weasel. The strangest part out of all the weirdness that was that conversation, was the fact that he had started it. Out of all the people he could have gone to--
Right! Like who?
--he'd asked Weasley why.
Then, he was angry, as suddenly as that. He gasped as the rage flowed through him so unexpectedly. "Why did you guys have to go and do it for?!" he shouted, listening to his voice echo along the stone hallway. He wanted to lash out, to rage, to do anything but feel so damn confused and alone. He wanted answers, desperately; though, he didn't really expect to get them. It was too much to hope that those idiot goons of his would end up as ghosts just so he, Draco Malfoy, could get answers to questions he never thought he'd ask.
He'd been born to lead, raised to it. He'd had it drilled into him with his mother's milk that he was better than most everyone else. He'd believed in it all, utterly, for so long, and had acted on it, treating the people around him as servants or annoyances for the most part. Only a few had moved past that into the sphere of near equals. So, why didn't it feel right that people had died to protect him?
He didn't want to admit it, but the suspicions growing slowly louder in the back of his mind were getting harder and harder to ignore, to deny. He felt guilty. He didn't want to, but he did. Draco was beginning to suspect that, as with Potter and his fame, he hadn't done one damn thing to earn the loyalty Crabbe and Goyle had given him. That really did not sit well. It made what they'd done even more confusing . . . and, truth be told, terrifying.
If they could feel that way, be ready to die for someone else, would he come to feel that way about someone? He gulped, not liking that thought at all. He wasn't some brave, stupid Gryffindor to feel things like that.
Neither were Crabbe and Goyle, and look what they did.
He shook his head, chasing out that unwanted thought. He didn't want to die. He wasn't ready for that. He should be grateful they'd done it. So, he didn't understand it. So what? Did it really matter in the end? They were dead and he was alive.
"Fuck yes, it matters!" Draco shouted.
"And just what, pray tell, matters," Professor Snape said from behind him, the quiet words sending Draco's heart into his throat, beating wildly.
Draco whirled around. "Is there anyone you'd die to save?" he spat out, speaking, for one of the few times in his life, without thinking about it at all. When the professor's eyes widened briefly before his expression settled back into one far more familiar, Draco did wonder if he shouldn't have thought before asking after all.
After several long moments, where Draco seriously considered running off before the touchy professor could flay him verbally, the man nodded slowly, once.
Draco's eyes widened. Even Professor Snape!? "I don't understand that," he whispered, shaking his head again. "I thought all that self-sacrificing heroism was a Gryffindor trait."
An amused, condescending -- in Draco's opinion -- smirk flitted across the professor's mouth. "Anyone can be brave, Mr. Malfoy . . . given the right set of circumstances. Rarely is the world as black and white as you children see it. It is filled with shades of grey, filled with choices that are very, very rarely entirely right or entirely wrong. In fact, most of the decisions adults come to in this world are what they consider 'the lesser of two evils' -- to borrow an oft used cliche."
Draco stiffened at the sneering of the word children. He wasn't a child anymore. That had been lost to him three weeks ago. It had been lost to them all.
"Now that we have that little childish illusion cleared up, perhaps you'd care to share what 'matters' so much that you've resorted to shouting vulgar profanity in the hallways of this school?"
Draco winced. One day over three weeks ago, his use of that 'vulgar profanity' would have lost him house points, and earned him detention . . . even from Professor Snape. It was a measure of just how much had changed, how much everyone was still reeling that all he received was the censure of disdain.
Glancing down at his feet, unwilling to meet Professor Snape's unrelenting gaze, Draco shuffled a bit before responding, lifting his head enough to stare over the professor's shoulder. "I'd been trying to tell myself it didn't matter that I didn't understand. They're dead. I'm alive. The why didn't matter."
"It doesn't."
Draco's eyes shot to Professor Snape's, even as they widened in outright shock.
" 'In the end', Mr. Malfoy, the why doesn't matter at all. As you said, they are dead and you are alive. The only reason the why matters now . . . is because you want it to."
Hearing his thoughts echoed back at him, thoughts he'd already rejected, angered and shocked Draco. "How can you say that?" he hissed. "They purposely gave their lives for me. I'd say it matters one hell of a lot!"
"I can say that, Mr. Malfoy, because it's true. We can speculate until we are as old and grey as the headmaster, but we will never know for sure why they did it. Perhaps they simply believed that you needed to live more than they did. Perhaps they truly cared. Perhaps they believed it was their duty to protect you . . . at all costs." Professor Snape sighed and shook his head before continuing. "The point is, that we will never know, no matter how much we guess at the reasons, and unless they come back as ghosts -- Merlin forfend -- we can not ask. You should take the gift they've given you and use it. Don't take for granted what they died to grant you."
Swallowing, Draco nodded hesitantly.
"The only thing I can reasonably tell you about Misters Crabbe and Goyle was that they obviously believed that you knew what you were doing. It was to you they gave their loyalty, over and above that of myself, Dumbledore, and even Voldemort. They believed you were worth it. Don't prove them wrong. Prove them right, Mr. Malfoy."
On the heels of that, and Draco's startled gasp, Professor Snape strode off, leaving Draco reeling. While that wasn't exactly a new sensation lately, this time it had a different feel to it. He spun suddenly, calling out.
"You never said who, Professor!"
Professor Snape stopped, twisting only his upper body around to stare at Draco. He looked long and hard before replying. "When you can come to me and tell me there is someone you would die to protect -- and mean it -- I will tell you who it is for me," he said, almost too softly to hear. Then without further word or hesitation disappeared around the corner.
Bemused, but strangely, no longer feeling so near the edge, Draco turned and headed to toward the Slytherin dormitory. Professor Snape was right. He needed to reclaim his life. He sighed and wished it was as simple as that. So much had changed, nothing seemed to be the same. His father was dead -- that had been confirmed that night. And despite his world having been wrenched out from under him, Draco had felt an everlasting gratitude that his father had not been part of the attack on Hogwarts, still felt it.
He wanted to believe his father hadn't known about the attack. He wanted to believe his father wouldn't have approved something that would have so risked his only son's life. He ruthlessly crushed the sneaking suspicion that it was a fruitless wish. He'd learned details the last three weeks that made his stomach churn and bile rise in his throat, things that he had to believe his father was incapable of being part of.
His mother, on the other hand, had completely disappeared.
"Sensortia," Draco muttered, the Slytherin password coming to his tongue automatically. He stepped through the portrait hole and headed directly to his own room. His thought about mothers had reminded him, he had a task to perform, a note to write. Weasley had tried to help him, now it was his turn to return the favor. Quid pro quo. He was used to that. That was something he understood, and he, in no way, wished to be indebted to anyone else. His unrepayable debt to the two who had shadowed almost his entire school career was debt enough in his opinion.
He sat, pulling out quill, ink, and parchment, and before long he was busy writing.
Greetings Mrs. Weasley,
I'm fully aware that I am one of the last people you ever expected to hear from; however, I felt it was my duty to write to inform you of a matter that needs your immediate attention.
Your son, Ronald Weasley, stood beside me protecting a room of first and second year students, children unable to protect themselves. Of course, I'm certain you are already aware of this as it is pretty much common knowledge. What you may not be aware of, is the fact that, despite all this, he feels guilty that he was unable to save his sister.
Despite the fact that he had no idea where she was, despite the fact that he would have had to abandon the children to go find her, he believes he should have been able to protect her. He also believes, and I sincerely hope he is wrong, that you and your husband also blame him for Ginerva's death. It is tearing him apart, and it is my belief that, eventually, it will destroy him.
Draco hesitated before continuing, then sighed carefully wording his next request.
I would also appreciate your discretion in this matter as I'm not sure he would appreciate my bringing this to your attention. I have done so, because I believe it necessary, and would hate to think this course of action would hinder the very tentative truce we have established.
Sincerely yours,
Draco Octavian Malfoy
Draco quickly scanned the short note he'd written, scowling as he reached his signature. He really hated his middle name. Nothing for it, however, proper protocol was also ingrained in him as deeply as the need to breathe. Satisfied with everything else, he quickly rolled the scroll and headed toward the owlery. This one last thing completed, he could sleep, and hope that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow might be a that much easier.
It was odd, really, that he was willingly writing to a member of the Weasley family, and he was not sure what kind of precedent he was setting by doing so. It was simply the only thing he could think of to repay the debt owed.
**********
Chapter Five
**********
Professor Snape strode through the castle hallways, for the most part ignoring the chatter going on around him -- their plans for the upcoming winter break interested him not at all. Unfortunately, it was well after dinner and not yet curfew, and the children could not be berated for conversing -- of course, that wouldn't have stopped him if he'd managed to find any of them hiding in the shadows pretending they couldn't be seen. Frankly, it surprised him that he hadn't caught more students letting go of their rampant hormones in the last few weeks.
Striding into the library, he made his way immediately toward the restricted section with merely a quick nod to Madam Pince. It didn't take him long to find the book he needed, nor was it difficult, certainly not enough so to interfere with his rather circular thoughts.
The numbness had pretty much worn off, and everyone, one by one, was beginning to revive. Anyone who'd been through it before knew that surviving the atrocities they all had, led to reaffirming life in that most basic of ways. Teenagers, always far more susceptible to their hormones, were no exception to that fact of life. He frowned. Either he was losing his touch, they were getting better at hiding, or something else was seriously wrong.
Since he highly doubted he was losing his touch, and lust-blinded teenagers had the sense of moths when confronted with flames, he worried and began taking a closer, far more considering look around himself. It took him a week and an overheard conversation to figure out what was glaringly wrong -- and he lambasted himself for not seeing it sooner.
Book found, ready to step back into the library proper, he stopped. He watched, hidden within the stacks of the restricted section as Ronald Weasley entered the library, heading straight toward Draco Malfoy. That friendship, out of all the unexpected ones that had sprung up out of adversity, surprised him the most. Even Potter, though clearly not as accepting as Weasley -- a sentiment quite obviously shared equally by Malfoy -- had all but dropped the outright hostilities.
"Hey, Draco, you decided who you're going to the Yule ball with?" he asked, dropping artlessly into a chair next to Malfoy.
Malfoy shook his head, not bothering to look up from the book he was supposedly reading. "I'll probably just show up alone, leave early."
"Why?" Weasley asked, incredulous. "You could have your pick and you know it."
Sighing, Malfoy finally looked up from his book. "Have you really taken a look around you as to what there is to pick from?"
Weasley sent him a funny look and shrugged. "There's plenty of girls around. What about Blaise?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "She's been hooked up since the end of 5th year with a guy from Durmstrang."
"Oh, I didn't know that."
"And before you ask, most of the 6th and 7th year Slytherins ended up leaving, in case you've forgotten. The few that remained, well, of them all, Blaise is the only girl to survive. And I'm sure as hell not taking a 5th year!"
"Errrg, no, I'd guess not. Well, why does your date have to be Slytherin? I realize," Weasley continued, a crooked grin accentuating his point, "you'd probably rather become a recluse than go with a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff, but what about a Ravenclaw girl?"
Malfoy laughed humorlessly. "You really haven't taken a good look around have you?" he asked, then shook his head. "No, don't answer that. Of the Ravenclaw 6th and 7th years, the only four I'd want to be seen anywhere with are all involved in long term relationships. Ravenclaw, as a house, made it out better than either yours or mine, but they lost a lot of people too."
Weasley began to look pensive. "You're right Draco, I hadn't been looking. Gods, I'm beginning to think this war may have destroyed the wizarding world. We're just the walking dead, ya know?"
Malfoy nodded. "Yes, I do. Unlike you, I started checking things out about a week ago. When it dawned on me how bad things were here, I started looking at the other schools. I know lineage and such don't really mean a lot to you, but they still do to me. I'm the last living Malfoy, which means it's my responsibility to carry on the name."
"Never thought of it that way," Weasley admitted.
"Of course not. You Weasleys are something of an oddity--"
Weasley automatically started to bristle.
"Oh, calm down. I wasn't trying to be insulting. I have much better material if that's what I wanted to do. What I meant was, pureblood families tend to have only one or two children. In fact, most only end up having one for one reason or another. I know my folks lost one before me, and two after."
"Ouch!"
Malfoy nodded slowly. "Yeah, my mom was a mess for the last one. Medi-witch told her she probably wouldn't survive if she tried again, so they stopped trying. The Parkinsons had two kids, but Pansy was the only one to make it to school age. Her brother died when he was two, some kind of congenital defect or something. I never got the full story. There are stories like that from all the families."
Severus retreated further into the stacks to think. What Malfoy had said was rather alarming. He had never really given it much thought. Once he'd grown accustomed to the idea that most people did not find him physically attractive, he'd given up on ever finding a wife. He, after all, had a brother, an older brother in fact, that could ably carry on the family name. That released him -- Thank Circe! -- from the obligation Malfoy was under.
He did wonder whether the boy had found anyone he considered 'suitable'. Frowning, he decided to do some research of his own. He hoped that Malfoy was simply bemoaning the immediate lack of someone in his precise age range. A couple years down the line, those 5th years he was shunning would no longer look so young to him. Severus well knew from experience that give it time, say 6 to 7 years, and anyone already in school now would stop seeming 'too young'.
His course determined, Severus stepped forward, intent on slipping out of the library unnoticed. Malfoy's next words stopped him cold.
"It's worse than that, Ron. So many of the pureblood lines were either wiped out completely in this, or nearly so. I've heard all the jokes about in-breeding among purebloods, and to a certain extent it's true. Unfortunately, now it's going to be worse than ever. The Parkinson line is completely gone, as is the Black line, the Mallin line, and the Arbani line. I don't know about the Bulstrodes, but sorry, I pity the poor guy that ends up marrying anyone related to Millicent. Thankfully, I don't have to even consider them. The Bulstrodes are too closely related to the Malfoys."
"Can't say I disagree with you there, Draco," Weasley replied with a shudder.
Severus, himself, couldn't disagree either, that girl would have been better off if she'd been a boy.
"I'm the only Malfoy left. Professor Snape is also the last of his line."
Severus' heart clenched. He hadn't known that. He'd thought his brother had stayed out of the conflict, preferring to take a wait and see approach.
"The Crabbes and Goyles -- well, I think there's technically one of each of those still around, but they're both in Azkaban for life -- and only one of them is female. She's like almost 90, I think."
"I could list off several other families like that with only one or two living members left. Only a handful of families, the Weasleys included, have more than that. Unfortunately, the current batch is all male.
As Weasley winced, Malfoy mimicked the movement. "Sorry," he said, actually sounding like he meant it.
Weasley nodded, then managed a half grin. "Unfortunately?"
Malfoy laughed then. "I'm not going to live that down, am I?"
Weasley shook his head vigorously. "Huh uh! Not a bloody chance."
Severus almost laughed. The Malfoy family's longstanding derision of the Weasley clan was a cornerstone of wizarding culture. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that if Malfoy had been serious in his comment about the lack of female Weasleys in the current generation, then the boy's alarming analysis of the state of the pureblood lines took on a whole new level of meaning. Befriending Ronald Weasley was on a whole different scale than seriously considering marrying into the family -- from a Malfoy perspective.
"Damn, Draco!" Weasley exclaimed suddenly. "If you're right, there's not going to be any such thing as a pureblood in a couple generations."
"It's certainly not looking good for the Malfoy line, that's for sure. Of the purebloods left, there are, count them if you like -- I did -- forty females within 10 years of my age. Ten of the older ones are married already. We've discussed the 6th and 7th year Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Of the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, there are only five purebloods, the rest all have direct muggle relations as close as three generations back. All but one of those five are currently taken.
"Now, I realize that school time romances don't necessarily last, and that any one of the girls here might end up available in the future, but if they're all smart, and actually care about lineage at all, they're not going to give up on those relationships with any sort of ease. Now, that leaves 18. Nine of those, are a full 10 years younger than am I . . . not even in school yet. They'll most likely hook up with someone far closer to their own age -- when they're old enough. That leaves one Gryffindor my age -- who has a date for the yule ball, by the way -- a whopping four women older than I am, one that's eight years older, one that's nine years older, and one that's ten years older. They'll most likely go for men their age or older. And last but not least, five that are younger than I am, but close enough to my age that age shouldn't make a difference . . . in a few years."
Weasley frowned, not that he hadn't been throughout most of Malfoy's recitation, but it deepened. "Why do you care so much, Draco? You've got no one to answer to anymore. I," he hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with what he was going to say, "won't ask why you haven't mentioned muggle-borns. This whole discussion was about lineage, but does it really matter to you so much? Why completely disregard the girls that have muggle great-grandparents?"
Malfoy jumped out of his seat. "You don't understand!" he shouted, wincing as he received the standard warning glare from Madam Pince. "You said I don't have anyone to answer to?"
Weasley nodded.
"I sure as hell do! I'm the last Malfoy! I have a responsibility--"
"To yourself, Draco. Even if you marry a non-pureblood, you'll still carry on the family name."
"Merlin! I knew you wouldn't understand," Malfoy hissed, dropping back into his chair sullenly.
"You're right, I don't."
Malfoy leapt up again, storming toward the library exit.
"Wait, Draco."
Malfoy stopped, sighed, and looked over his shoulder. "Why? So we can yell at each other some more?" he asked, sounding defeated. "Ron, yes, I've mellowed, but I've not changed completely. I'm still the same person I was before. I have found you -- yes, to my very great surprise -- to be a very good and supportive friend, but I have always cared about lineage. If there are no purebloods left, what's to stop the eventual decline in number of witches and wizards born? Eventually the rate of birth of squibs will rise. I didn't believe in what Voldemort was doing, but I always have, and always will, believe in the necessity of maintaining the pureblood family lines."
"That's never going to be something we agree on, Draco, I realize that. I'm not stupid enough to think that just because we managed to become friends, that will suddenly change. But, I'd like the same chance I just gave you."
Malfoy's eyes flared in surprise. "Quid pro quo?" he asked, turning fully around to face Weasley once more.
Weasley shrugged. "Something like that. I just want a chance to freely say my piece too. That's what friends do, Draco."
Eyes closing briefly, Draco took a deep breath then walked back to his chair. "Okay, I'm listening."
Weasley grinned. "Now, I haven't done all the research you have."
Malfoy snorted, which nicely covered the echoing one from Severus. Considering the fact that Weasley hadn't given this topic any serious thought until Malfoy brought it up, that was pretty much an overly obvious statement.
"But, I don't think you've done proper research either."
Malfoy protested automatically, but Weasley glared. "You said you were listening."
With a frown, Malfoy subsided, but Severus could easily see the lingering indignation at the accusation of incomplete research. Severus understood that sentiment quite well, and he unconsciously stepped forward, intent on hearing Weasley's reasoning behind the unintended insult.
"Professor Snape!" Weasley exclaimed, suddenly jumping up.
Merlin take it! He hadn't planned on being seen. Now he had a choice. He was truly interested in what Weasley had to say, unfortunately, to say so would be far enough out of character that the poor boy would probably not be able to speak. He glided forward, stopping near the two boys, trying to decide just how best to proceed.
Malfoy, surprising him, invited him to join them. "Weasley here, was about to tell me why he thought some research I've done was . . . not as complete as it should be for proper results."
"Indeed?" Severus asked noncommittally, looking from one boy to the other, and looking thoroughly amused. "What, exactly were you researching?"
The gleam in Malfoy's eye told him the boy knew he'd been listening; though, it didn't convey whether he'd just figured it out, or whether he'd known all along. If Severus had been a betting man, however, he'd bet that it had been obvious from his approach -- if he hadn't been actively interested in their conversation already, he wouldn't have stopped at all. Malfoy was simply being observant -- something he'd become quite good at over the years he'd spent in Slytherin house.
"The decided lack of marriage prospects that are both pureblood and not considered close family relatives."
"I see," Severus replied, trying not to smirk. Though he'd known the topic before being discovered, hearing it put exactly that way, as a topic between a Weasley and a Malfoy, was quite . . . humorous. Certainly it wasn't a conversation he would have expected the two of them to have . . . ever -- not before today anyway. He turned to face Weasley. "Please do go on, Mr. Weasley, I'm sure what you have to say is quite fascinating, particularly in regard to this subject."
**********
Chapter Six
**********
Weasley reddened, and gaped a couple of times before he found his voice. Watching it amused Severus. He was surprised to see it end rather quickly, however, as Weasley squared his shoulder and turned to face Malfoy, virtually ignoring Severus. At least, that's what the boy tried to do.
"Actually," he began, "that wasn't quite the topic I was going to refute."
"It wasn't?" Malfoy asked in surprise.
The words echoed in Severus' thoughts. That was certainly the impression he had received. Damn! Maybe he was now stuck in a conversation he had absolutely no interest in.
"No, it wasn't. You made a comment, about squibs, in relation to non-purebloods."
I stand corrected. This could be very interesting.
"And?" Malfoy retorted defensively. "It's obvious isn't it? Introduce muggle blood into the line and you're going to end up with a higher ratio of children who are squibs to those who are magical."
"Have you actually researched the numbers?" Weasley pressed. "Or is this an assumption?"
Malfoy blinked.
Severus ignored the boy's response, surprised by his own. He didn't know whether Malfoy had actually taken the time to research the numbers or not, but he certainly hadn't. It was the obvious connection to make, after all. And right now, he felt highly stupid to have made that assumption. Correct or not, wasn't relevant. The point being, a logical person did not stand by a perspective that was made on an assumption. Extensive research, with facts to back up your assertions, that's what learned people did.
He kept his mouth shut, needing -- for a change -- to keep his own ignorance quiet. It wasn't often Severus found himself in a position like this, and he discovered he really didn't like it. He turned to look at Malfoy pointedly, his expression asking very directly whether what Weasley claimed was true.
Malfoy shifted under that intense gaze, flicking his eyes back to Weasley. With a sigh, he finally shook his head. "No, I didn't think it was necessary. It seemed -- and still does -- so obvious."
"Hmmm," Snape murmured disapprovingly, instantly slipping back into 'professor' mode. "Perhaps you should research it, Mr. Malfoy. Your views on this subject are quite well known, having been so . . . vehemently attested to in the past. It would be . . . embarrassing to have an opponent be able to provide documentation to the contrary, would it not?"
Mouth agape for a fraction of a second, Malfoy suddenly sat up straight. "You don't really believe that's possible, do you Professor?"
Severus merely arched a disdainful eyebrow. "Surely, you do not expect me to answer that, Mr. Malfoy. Do the work yourself. I look forward to seeing your complete results. In fact, I'm going to make it a project for you and Mr. Weasley."
"ME?!" Weasley exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, you, Mr. Weasley. You are the one who brought it up, are you not? Who better a partner? I expect to see significant progress in a week's time. The entirety of your compiled and sorted data will be due at the end of winter break."
Both boys groaned -- loudly -- at the idea of such a huge undertaking over what was supposed to be a holiday. They would already have the standard holiday work from all their classes.
"You will have precisely two weeks after school resumes to hand in your essays on the collected data."
"How long does it have to be?" Malfoy asked, shoulders slumped in defeat.
Snape smirked. "As long as it needs to be to be complete. I expect you to thoroughly document the birth rate from all five groups; squib births, witch and wizard births -- including relative ability levels of said births, muggle births, etc. for the past 200 years. Of course, the muggle data will be more difficult to collect in full . . . especially beyond a hundred years ago. Clearly, I cannot expect you to gather information that hasn't been actually stored anywhere, so I will be more . . . lenient on less fully realized data for the muggle side of the equation. You're not trying to ascertain the whys and wherefors of muggleborn births specifically, after all.
"Also, I expect a side essay from each of you of at least one meter length, espousing the theories that can be arrived at from the data you will have provided by then. Oh, and do remember that if your theories do not match the data you gather," he said, grinning smugly from one boy to the other, "you will fail this project. Personal biases do not belong in proper research."
"But, Sir!" both protested, Malfoy continuing alone. "That's a master's thesis you're asking for!"
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Malfoy. It is actually only a rather ambitious 7th year project. If I were asking a Master's project of you, I would require data correlated on the last 300 years minimum, and would suggest 500 for higher accuracy. I would also add that you would be required to hypothesize the future number of births based on current pairings, the relative frequency of squibs in female children vs male children, and whether or not there is any correlation there in regard to each of the five classes. Additionally, I would require the essay to be at least three meters for a basic low-level passing grade. Of course, if either of you were actually up to doing master's grade work, I wouldn't have needed to explain any of that."
Both boys gaped at him.
Weasley jumped up. "That won't be necessary, Professor. We're quite happy with the original assignment," he said hastily, as if he feared to actually receive a master's thesis assignment. "Aren't we, Draco?"
Rolling his eyes, Malfoy nodded, his voice slightly sour as he spoke. "Yes, quite happy," he replied.
"Good," Snape nodded firmly. Then smirking, continued. "Since this is such an ambitious undertaking, it certainly qualifies as a double 7th year project. I believe the subject matter qualifies as a project for both History of Magic and Muggle studies. I will speak to the Professors of both subjects for their assent in the matter."
"Thank you, Professor," both replied weakly, relief showing clearly on both faces. Obviously, they'd thought it was going to be extra work.
Truth be told, he'd considered it, but acknowledged the fact that even with two of them, finishing the project was going to take considerable time and effort -- time they wouldn't have if adjustments weren't made. He was interested enough in the results to go to the trouble of actually making that adjustment, and he was pretty sure that the headmaster and the muggle studies professor would also. Binns, probably wouldn't care, but then, he was a ghost, of course he wouldn't -- though Snape was reasonably certain the professor would agree it would make a suitable project.
Nodding one last time to the two boys, Severus headed toward the exit. He half turned just as he reached it as if he'd just thought of a new tidbit. "Don't forget the possibility of a magical ancestor when you figure your data on muggleborns." Holding back the real smile at the gobsmacked look of horror the two boys exchanged, Severus quickly left.
That ought to keep the two of them out of trouble over the holidays, he thought in satisfaction. Quite in addition to getting the information I want. He was worried about both of them, but Malfoy particularly. Weasley had lost his sister yes, but Malfoy had pretty much lost his entire world. This would be the first holidays After. Now, however, Malfoy would not suddenly find himself bereft of his surprising friend at a time when he needed the other boy most -- and he wouldn't even have to ask.
Severus smirked as he suddenly realized the rather interesting predicament he'd put the two of them in. Either they both stayed here for the break, or they both ended up at the burrow. Laughing, he was pretty sure he knew which way that decision would go, but considering all the recent surprises, he wasn't willing to lay any galleons on it.
One problem solved, he thought as he made his way toward his office. It would certainly be nice if all the remaining problems could be solved so easily. His good mood lasted approximately four and a half minutes all of ten seconds after reaching his destination.
Leaning against the wall next to his office door was none other than Harry Potter. And while he no longer maintained the absolutely loathing with which he'd viewed the boy for so long, neither was he, in any way, shape or form, Severus' favorite person. He sincerely doubted they would ever do more than tolerate each other.
"Mr. Potter," he greeted drily, "to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" he continued, the dry quality of his voice turning quite sour by the time he finished.
Potter straightened immediately at his approach, and though wincing at the obvious sarcasm, faced him squarely. "I need your help, Professor," he said clearly. "I believe you're the only one, other than the headmaster who can help me."
Eyebrow up sharply, but intrigued despite his own desire to have nothing to do with Potter outside of class, he nodded once. Something that would drive the Potter boy to come to him for help was bound to be . . . interesting. Efficiently removing the wards on his office, he waved the boy inside the room before him. Wondering at the ease with which the boy had asked for help from probably his least favorite person still living . . . apparent ease, he amended silently as he watched Potter sink into a chair, Severus followed silently. The boy sat stiffly straight, his posture as rigid as Severus had ever seen it.
Frowning slightly, Severus swept around his desk, dropping gracefully into the chair behind it. "So, Mr. Potter, what can I help you with?" he asked, intrigued enough that his voice lacked its normal sting. Giving a purely mental wince of his own, he berated himself. All this . . . interest . . . in student activities was making him soft, he decided firmly, resolving to step back and recollect himself as soon as possible.
"Professor," Potter blurted, "either Hermione is still alive, or I'm going completely crazy."
Granger; so much potential lost!
"Well," Severus replied carefully, completing ignoring his own reaction to this subject being brought up again, well aware this was well beyond touchy enough to avoid using his normal approach. "I'm sure you're quite well aware of my position on the likelihood of Miss Granger's survival."
"Yes, yes," Potter interrupted, much to Severus' surprise, waving him off in irritation. Potter jumped up from his seat immediately after to begin pacing in agitation. "The problem is, I obviously can't talk to Ron about this, because, sore point. Major sore point. The headmaster might be able to help, but I'm not really sure I trust him to."
Severus' eyebrow shot up for the umpteenth time. This time, however, he felt his jaw going the other way, and hastily stopped its progress. "You are aware, are you not," he asked as drily as he could considering the shock he was experiencing, "that you just implied that you do trust me?"
Slumping visibly, Potter stopped pacing, but didn't look at him for several moments of silence. When Potter did turn to face him, the look of despair in the boy's face as their eyes locked, shook him . . . deeply. "I trust you more than I trust him," was the whispered reply.
"Why-ever for?!" Severus exclaimed incredulously, shooting up from his chair to glare at the insolent child in front of him.
Still without so much as a blink, Potter slowly approached him. "Because both of you are sneaky bastards, but at least you're honest about it."
Severus Snape felt the laugh build, tried, but couldn't stop it. The short, loud, belly laugh exploded from him completely contrary to his wishes.
Potter stepped back in startlement.
Clearing his throat, Severus sat down carefully. "You have a point, Potter," he said carefully, very wary of his own reactions at this point. "Sit. Tell me what you think I can do to help you. I cannot guarantee I'll be any good at it, however. I am most definitely not the headmaster, nor am I Minerva McGonagall. You would be wise to take that into consideration before continuing."
Potter gamely stepped forward; though, the boy was back to eyeing him warily. "I've been having these dreams," he said softly, closing his eyes. "They're different from the ones I used to get because of Voldemort, but they're also way different from the 'normal' dreams I have. I don't really know how to explain it, really. They just feel like they're more than just dreams."
Eyes narrowing, Severus leaned forward. "What are you dreaming about, specifically."
"Hermione, 'specifically', " Potter replied evenly. "Sometimes I see things that probably happened to her. She's screaming stupid things about her childhood while Mr. Malfoy tortures her. Other times I see--" Potter gulped, paling. "Other times I see Malfoy pulling away from her, she's on the ground, she--"
"I get the picture, Mr. Potter, you do not need to continue that description."
"Thank you," Potter replied faintly. "Yet other times, I see Malfoy running toward flares of magical energy, and then watch as Hermione crawls slowly in the opposite direction."
