Complexities
By Bambu
~o0o~
Chapter Four: Blight Removal
The pale grey hues of early morning began to cast uneven shadows within Hermione’s bedroom. Her brown eyes were open, fixed on the slender length of wood she’d come to rely upon for more than a decade. In some respects it had saved her virtue last night, and in others it had been her downfall. She’d been supremely arrogant thinking that she could confront any obstacle with intelligence, hard work and the use of her magic. While those worked in most cases, sometimes instinct played a part in your defenses. After surviving the Voldemort War she’d relaxed her guard, and look at the result. She could hear curmudgeonly Mad-Eye Moody’s gravelly voice shouting in her mind, ‘Constant Vigilance!’ She’d never know what he thought about her carelessness, he was one of the many who’d been lost in the final round of skirmishes leading to the end of the war.
But she’d allowed her instincts and the less-than-obvious early warning signs of the chastity charm to be overridden by the solicitous behaviour of a wizard she’d never quite felt comfortable with. He might have been on their side, but just because he’d been allied with the DA didn’t mean that he wasn’t flawed or dangerous. And she’d let her guard down, ignoring the signs, leaving her wand in her robes, assuming that she’d been safe. As if she hadn’t learned that lesson every single year she’d attended Hogwarts. Dumbledore had hired Quirrell for Circe’s sake! The only real safety was in relying on people you’d learned to trust by the loyalty of their actions over time.
How ironic, she thought, that without Voldemort’s placing a bounty on her virginity, and the successful collaboration with Pansy Weasley, née Parkinson, Hermione would most likely have been waking up in Smith’s bed, a slave to his whim. She was fortunate to have made a friend and mastered the chastity charm. It was akin to taking the Contraceptus Potion for birth control. But why, she wondered, had she not recognized the warning signs of Smith’s mal-intent? The answer was entirely too simple. She’d been so distracted by her thoughts of Draco Malfoy that Smith had been able to take advantage of her lapse.
Suddenly Hermione’s rather dispassionate examination of the previous night’s events was drowned out by the horrifying realization that had it not been for the chastity charm and Draco’s timely intervention, she would be under the Imperio’d control of Zacharias Smith. His sex toy… his plaything.
A massive shudder wracked her small frame and her stomach knotted. Overcome with nausea, Hermione threw off the covers and staggered to her en suite bath, barely reaching it in time. Hermione spent the next several minutes kneeling at the commode, her body racked with the dry heaves, tears streaming down her face. Small choking sobs, “Gods… oh gods… oh gods…” punctuated her convulsive bouts of nausea.
Then, strong arms wrapped around her in a comforting hug, and a cool cloth was wiping her mouth. A hushed voice was soothing her, “Shhh…. Shhh… It’s alright, ‘Mione. It’s not your fault.”
Nymphadora Tonks and Millicent Bulstrode had heard Hermione’s quiet cries from the sitting room where they’d been sleeping. As Aurors, it wasn’t their duty to assist the victims beyond the scope of their investigation, but, as women, they were unwilling to leave Hermione alone to deal with the morning after, and the self-recriminations that were sure to come. They’d rushed into the bath, Millicent had sunk to her knees, hugging the huddled witch, and Tonks had gotten the flannel and hushed Hermione’s distress.
Hermione, Tonks and, surprisingly, Millicent, as she asked Hermione to call her, spent the entire morning sequestered in Hermione’s chambers, eating breakfast, drinking tea and examining all aspects of the events of the previous evening. Hermione had known Tonks since her fifth year at Hogwarts and they were old friends. Letting her guard down around her wasn’t difficult. But the serendipity of the morning was that Millicent, the truculent Slytherin she’d wrestled with in their second year at school, was at once more and less than Hermione remembered. Among the many things they discussed was Hermione’s distress that she hadn’t paid attention to the chastity charm’s early signs of mal-intend. Tonks divulged the fact that until Draco’s visit to the DADA office, Smith hadn’t intended to press the physical aspects of his plans so precipitously. There wouldn’t have been more than a prickle of awareness before the previous night, and Hermione’s recognition of the danger was clouded by the ingestion of the Dark Potion.
The Aurors left Hermione as lunch was being served in the Great Hall. They’d come away with every gift Hermione’s ‘Secret Admirer’ had sent to her over the preceding two years, including the crystal rose and her calendar with its monthly red circles. Tonks had postponed the interviews with Snape and Draco, and all three women had come away from the morning feeling as if they would continue the friendship into the future.
As she watched the witches leave her sitting room, Hermione decided to follow one of Tonks’ suggestions, and she Floo’d Dumbledore, asking if he could help her acquire a Pensieve. She didn’t like the idea of a memory charm, but being able to distance herself from the immediacy of the assault was extremely appealing. She would be able to more easily come to terms with it, without emotionally crippling herself in the process. Hermione spent the remainder of the day sequestered in her chambers, alternately curled up in a fetal position or attempting to clean her body of the non-existent but mental stench of Smith’s forced attentions. By the late afternoon, she’d fallen into a deep sleep, and when she awoke, she felt refreshed in body if not in mind.
That night, Dumbledore came to her rooms to escort her to dinner in the Great Hall. “The only thing the students have been told is that Professor Smith attempted to attack you, but that Mr. Malfoy realized it and came to your rescue. None of the remaining details have been spread, and I promise you, Hermione, they won’t be.”
The relief she felt at not having to suffer the salacious scrutiny of the entire population of Hogwarts was an incredible relief. When they arrived at the Great Hall, Hermione was completely unprepared for the ovation the students gave her when she stepped onto the dais. Blushing, the DADA Apprentice allowed Dumbledore to escort her to her seat at the High Table.
From his position on the dais, Draco watched Hermione enter the Great Hall on Dumbledore’s arm. He looked for the signs of her ordeal and, aside from a shadow lurking in her eyes and a slightly tremulous manner she appeared to be materially unharmed. Good, he thought as he spontaneously joined the rest of his peers and the student body standing for her as she took her place at his side. She smiled at Draco in a way that set his heart pounding and his mind reeling. Merlin’s left testicle! What was he thinking? Draco ate his meal without realizing what was on his plate; he was far too busy coming to grips with his unexpected and rather unwelcome reaction to the witch seated next to him, even as he watched her like a Norwegian Ridgeback with a clutch of one.
Hermione, for all her courage under fire, had been knocked for a loop by the depth of Smith’s obsession and treachery. She sat at the staff table and ate a few bites, mostly just pushing her food around the plate. She excused herself early from the meal and left the Great Hall accompanied by the Potions Master. Try as she might, those who knew her well had been able to tell that she was skittish and uncertain. To those who had known her since she was a girl, they were reminded strongly of the insecure eleven-year-old child she had been. Long after she’d returned to her chambers, a grey-eyed wizard was thinking of a slender girl whose chin trembled the first time he’d called her that hated name.
Sunday morning, before Hermione was even dressed, pounding on her door heralded the arrival of her friends. Harry and Ron had returned to the castle, indeed only the third rising of the Dark Lord could have kept them away. She greeted them with hugs and tear-filled eyes. The three friends had seen and done a great number of horrendous things during battle, and even within the castle itself. They’d learned to tackle the aftermath together. Harry had needed the support more than his two friends during their school years, the onus of the final thrust of the war firmly upon his shoulders, but Ron and Hermione had experienced more than their fair share of nightmare-inducing confrontations.
After tea and toast in Hermione’s sitting room, the young Aurors accompanied her to the DADA office. Harry and Ron knew how difficult it would be for her to return to the location of the assault. The Dream Team encountered Snape and Draco lurking outside the DADA classroom – of course, Slytherins didn’t lurk, despite all evidence to the contrary – and Hermione’s heart soared at the thought that the two Slytherins were there for the same reason as Harry and Ron. The four wizards acknowledged one another without hexing or name-calling, and the young witch was intensely relieved to notice that they seemed to have found common ground. She just didn’t quite realize that she was Switzerland.
Stilling the trembling in her limbs, Hermione chewed on her bottom lip as she passed through the doorless portal to the DADA classroom, and resolutely took the circular steps to the Office. She gasped at her first sight of the room, while her escort crowded into the room behind her. Harry and Ron were equally startled by what they saw. It seemed that the two Slytherins, with a little help from the house-elves and a Transfigurations professor, had been quite busy during the past thirty-three hours. Not a single trace remained in the DADA office of Zacharias Smith’s occupation. His desk, coat rack, magical painting and any attendant paraphernalia – quills, parchment, ink, notes, curricula -- were gone. The walls had been coloured to match those of Hermione’s sitting room, and the space above the mantle was conspicuously empty. Hermione’s desk had been moved to a more prominent location, and in place of Smith’s desk were two comfortable armchairs with a small coffee table holding a large glass bowl of yellow, Muggle poppies, courtesy of Minerva McGonagall.
Touched beyond measure by the thoughtfulness of her friends, Hermione’s eyes glittered with emotion as she turned to face them, her throat tight. “Thank you for everything. I can’t quite tell you what this means to me. I dreaded this… coming here. And now I won’t have to.”
Hermione hugged Snape first, closely, much to his consternation. He awkwardly patted her on the back, unused to such an open display of affection. “If I had known that you would be so effusive in your gratitude, I might have declined the invitation to assist.” His deep, warm tone belied the bite of his words, and Hermione ignored them.
She turned to thank Draco, who had been very quiet since they’d walked in the door. He was uncomfortably aware that he didn’t have the balm of friendship to ease the unfamiliarity of her gratitude, and for a long moment they looked at one another, reassessing the blurring lines of their dynamics. Hermione understood from Snape’s comment that Draco had been an integral part in the alteration of her office, if not the driving force, and she was deeply touched by his compassion, as seemingly out of character as it was. Without giving it the second thought, she grabbed her once-hated nemesis in a hug that was as heartfelt as the one she’d given Snape. Her voice broke a little, “Thank you… Draco. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell you… to express how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”
Draco returned her hug with whipcord tightness, his instincts urging him to hold her, to soothe her, to ease her pain. For several long moments, Hermione clung to Draco as firmly as he held her. And then, realizing just where they were, who they were, and in whose company they were keeping, the two let go and stepped away from each other, avoiding meeting each other’s eyes. Hermione moved to investigate the differences in the room and to touch everything, making it hers. Draco watched. His grey eyes following her every movement, his heart thudding in his chest each time she smiled at him. His idea had been a good one.
Draco had left the meeting with Tonks and Millicent the day before with excess anger still pulsing in his veins. He hadn’t had an opportunity to expend it, and certainly wouldn’t have the opportunity to turn it squarely upon the wizard to whom it was directed. Smith was gone. If it had been up to Draco, Smith would have suffered more than just a knock on the head – or seventy-nine knocks on the head -- as he’d been removed from the castle. But that opportunity was gone, had never really been a viable option. Draco had wanted, needed, to do something to vent his desire to crush something. And that’s when he’d had the idea. He could eradicate any remaining taint left by the execrable excuse for a wizard.
Initially, the Malfoy heir had stormed to the Faculty Tower, intent upon destroying anything Smith had left in the castle. Instead, he’d found a small army of house-elves efficiently packing up the ex-DADA instructor’s things. Draco had rather enjoyed the fact that his old house-elf Dobby was directing the small crew.
“No, Winky, you is not keeping nothing thing that belonged to the horrible, mean, awful, cruel, wizard that hurt Harry Potter’s fuzzy-Granger. Professor Dumbledore is telling Dobby that everything must go.”
It seemed that the Headmaster had already had the same idea as Draco. In which case, Draco’s next stop had been the DADA office. Smith’s taint there would be far more damaging to Hermione than his chambers – somewhere Draco knew that she’d never been. He’d rapidly traversed the castle, his long legs covering the distance in short order. Upon his arrival at the DADA classroom, however, he’d found that once again he’d been preempted. Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall had been engaged in a verbal sparring competition to see who had the right to clean out the DADA office.
With a smirk worthy of his forebears, and taking a page from Dumbledore’s book, Draco had crossed the classroom, bypassing his embattled colleagues and climbed the steps to the DADA office. The very first thing he’d done was to control his urge to Reducto the transfigured desk. Alternatively, he’d shrunk the massive piece of furniture and levitated it to the front of the DADA classroom. It was possible that it might be needed for Smith’s trial. When the coat rack followed the same path as the desk, McGonagall and Snape had ceased arguing, and scrambled up the stairs and into the office. For the remainder of the day, the three had worked in amicable harmony to make Hermione’s return as easy as possible.
Draco could tell that it had been easier than she’d expected as he watched the distressed lines of anxiety on Hermione’s face being replaced with relieved delight, which was a reward by itself. Sharing the smallish office with Harry and Ron was more enjoyable than he’d expected. He was rather chuffed with the success of his plan.
The remainder of Sunday morning was spent imbuing the DADA office with a new, happy memory. All four wizards were on their best behaviour as the house-elves sent up a breakfast of croissants, clotted cream, strawberry jam, and savory rashers and bangers. They washed it down with the beverage of their choice, sang Ron a belated happy birthday – to which Snape’s rich baritone and Draco’s pitch-perfect tenor harmonized with the others as if they’d had years of practice singing together -- and then the Slytherins had bid the Gryffindors a good day.
“Weasley, Potter… if I ever hear it said that I sang to a Gryffindor, I’ll know where to start looking.” Snape’s drawl was rich with promise, and his former students laughed even as they recognized the underlying seriousness of the threat.
The Aurors bid Draco farewell – it was more stilted than the oddly affectionate goodbye to the ex-spy, as the détente between the former enemies was barely forty-eight hours old.
“Malfoy.”
“Potter…. Weasley.”
“Fer… Malfoy.”
Harry and Ron had spent the remainder of the day in the DADA office helping Hermione prepare for the upcoming week’s worth of DADA classes. She would be teaching the entire course-load of classes until Dumbledore could find a replacement for Smith.
“I guess Smith really did mean it when he offered to let you teach…” Ron’s rather sly comment broke one of the lulls in the afternoon. He’d seen Hermione’s eyes begin to gloss over and recognized the look. He’d gone through the same thing after Bellatrix Lestrange had broken through the wards of his flat and he’d been forced to kill her in self-defense. Harry and Hermione had stayed with him for a week afterward to help him handle the residual shock, fear, anger, triumph and self-loathing that often comes with being a victor.
“Ronald!” Hermione’s tone was a little strident, but the affection in her warm brown eyes was unmistakable. She knew what he was doing and loved him for it.
“What?!” Guileless blue eyes looked back at her… utterly innocent.
She would have been fooled if the dimple in his cheek wasn’t present, it was always a telltale. Instead, she tickled him, and her momentary distress passed in shared laughter that seemed to soak into the walls and lighten the entire atmosphere of the room.
The trio returned to their task of setting the Fourth Year curriculum for the remainder of the term. Hermione’s notes had been extensive from her own school years, but Harry and Ron’s input was invaluable.
As seemingly easy as the day was, Hermione’s night was disrupted by garish nightmares. Exhausted, she’d dropped into a deep sleep almost immediately, and then her sleep pattern changed and she began to dream. At first the dream was merely unsettling, her eyelids twitching in her sleep, her body shifting uncomfortably under her duvet, and her brain conjuring a hazy mass of amorphous limbs, sounds and smells. Then three words catapulted merely disturbing into the realm of horror. ‘Come here, Hermione.’ She thrashed in her bed, tangled in the covers, fighting to get free. The constraints of down-filled cotton only served to remind her of the helplessness she’d felt when her body had been under the influence of Liquid Imperio. Finally freeing her arms, she jerked upright in her bed, her heart pounding, her body shaking, gasping for breath. Struggling to regain her composure, Hermione dropped her face in her hands and cried. She did not return to sleep that night.
Despite the fact that her chambers were triple-warded and she knew that she was safe, Hermione’s psyche had been violated. Until dawn, she sat on her bed, knees tucked to her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins, rocking and coming to terms with what had happened. She strongly debated asking Madam Pomfrey for a memory charm, but decided that there was no way on earth that she wanted her memory impaired, certainly not before she had a chance to testify against the bastard who’d been her former colleague. With only a few hours sleep, she still faced the week filled with a determination to relegate the attack to the same place she kept her war memories, as tightly warded in her mind as possible.
Over the next few weeks, Hermione and the Potions Master became closer friends than they’d been before. Snape had a great deal of empathetic advice, having had some experience with handling ugly memories. It was Snape who helped Hermione adapt the early warning aspects of the chastity charm. And it was he who accompanied Hermione on her trip to Diagon Alley to purchase two, large foe-glasses, one each for her chambers and the DADA office. The adversarial identifying reflectors served to reinforce Hermione’s rebuilding sense of security.
Dumbledore raised a brow the first time he entered the DADA office, after Smith’s perfidy, and saw the large mirrored foe-glass hanging above the mantle. He apologized to Hermione for the need. Seeing the dejected slant of the old wizard’s shoulders, Hermione realized that the Headmaster had been as betrayed as she by Smith’s treachery. It was just that Dumbledore’s pain wasn’t as obvious. Immediately ordering tea, the tenacious witch invited Dumbledore to join her, and they sat companionably in the refurbished office, creating newer, happier memories to override the horror of what had happened in the room.
Hermione threw herself into teaching the DADA classes. She took over the entire curriculum, and was immensely relieved to have something to occupy her mind. Her sleep continued to be plagued by nightmares, and she held off on committing her memory to a Pensieve. She wanted to keep it fresh in her mind for the upcoming trail. She was outwardly contained and composed, but bouts of insecurity and self-recriminations tended to overwhelm her late at night or when she was very tired.
Subtle changes took place within the castle. The seating at the staff table was altered so that Hermione was placed between Snape and McGonagall, ferocious and lethal guardians in personified form of the mascots of their Houses. Ron and Harry visited more often than even friendship or an investigation warranted, but they had been terribly shaken by the possibility of losing their oldest and dearest friend. Hermione bore their fussing with an equanimity that spoke of years of tolerance for their foibles. McGonagall and Poppy, the only women on the staff to know the details of Smith’s attack, did Hermione a great service, and treated her no differently than they had in the past. McGonagall had offered to ‘talk’ if ever Hermione felt the need, and then had briskly asked how Hermoine’s lesson plans were coming along. Dumbledore still hadn’t found a replacement for Smith.
Draco and Hermione entered into a period of self-consciousness in each other’s presence, more so than at any point during their long history. They were scrupulously polite to one another when their paths crossed. There were no taunts, no offhand comments about anything more than a seemingly polite inquiry into one’s health or the weather. They only met at meals, staff meetings, and school-wide events, however, both were reluctant to explore in any material way what had happened the night Hermione was assaulted. Neither could explain, and didn’t really examine closely, their reactions that weekend. But something in their relationship had changed irrevocably.
Hermione had always been willing to forgive and forget where Draco was concerned, to attempt to move their childhood rivalry into a more adult relationship, but he’d always rebuffed her efforts in the most unmistakable manner. She knew, rather than remembered that it was Draco who’d come to her rescue. She had no first-hand knowledge of his making a scene in the Great Hall, rushing off to rescue the damsel in distress like some sort of romance novel hero, or the visual evidence of the depth of his distress. His tenderness had been baffling enough to comprehend without the rest of his uncharacteristic actions to confuse her. But she’d been told about them and, coupled with what she remembered, she was perplexed indeed.
Draco was, in turns, bedazzled, befuddled and bemused. He resorted to watching Hermione at every opportunity. He watched how the lengthening caplet of curls on her head bobbed when she was animated about some topic of conversation. He watched how she still bit her lip when she was pensive. He watched how, after a few weeks, Hermione would touch Snape’s arm when making a point at the High Table. He watched how her eyes sparkled with laughter when she spoke with Harry and Ron on the weekends. And, he watched her eyes grow thoughtful whenever she looked at him, their honeyed-brown irises widening, and a soft, tender sort of expression would cross her face for a fleeting moment… and then it was gone. Most of all, Draco wondered why his heart ached and he felt bereft.
Albus Dumbledore wielded his clout, arranging for the Wizengamot to try Zacharias Smith’s case during the Easter holidays, and essentially coerced an agreement from the members that they would be under a compulsion spell not to disclose the testimony. Sexual assault cases were relatively rare in the wizarding world, witches were more able to defend themselves and retaliate with some impunity than women were in the Muggle world, but they did happen and their hearings were usually held in closed forum.
As the date for the trial approached, Draco wasn’t the only member of the staff to notice Hermione’s increasingly strained appearance and rapidly dwindling. Hermione stiffened her spine and got through her days with fortitude and grim determination, but she was hardly sleeping at night, jolting awake every time the nightmare-conjured voice of Zacharias Smith said ‘Come here, Hermione.’
It was with great relief that she saw the students on the Hogwarts Express for the Easter break, and when she returned to the castle Hermione sought out Madam Pomfrey for some Dreamless Sleep. She hadn’t wanted to resort to its use during Term time in case she was needed during the night.
On the first Monday of the holidays, Snape, Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey, Draco, and Hermione appeared at the Ministry of Magic to present their testimony before the Wizengamot. As a witness, Dumbledore had recused himself as Chief Warlock, and declined to be seated with his peers on the judiciary panel, a fact which weighed heavily in his favor, and transitively in Hermione’s. The full Wizengamot was present for the case. Sexual and psychological assault and the use of Unforgivables – curses, potions, or charms – were taken very seriously in the high court. The presiding Interrogator was Amelia Bones, who was known to be objective and fair. She had appointed Griselda Marchbanks, an elder member of the Wizengamot, as the prosecuting Interrogator. Smith had declined a defense, preferring to speak on his own behalf; however, Tiberius Ogden had been appointed by Madam Bones in case the accused should change his mind.
Despite her agitation, Hermione walked into Courtroom Eight flanked by Severus Snape and Harry Potter, followed closely by Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy. As a sunflower tracks the progress of the sun, the faces of the plum-robed judiciary swiveled unerringly in her direction when she entered. She held her chin high, her spine straight, and her fists clenched as she caught sight of the already-seated prisoner in the expanse of space ringed by the semi-circular judicial risers. Zacharias Smith presented his unremarkable, mild-mannered façade in his dun-coloured prisoner’s robes, but his eyes glowed with predatory fire when he first saw the object of his obsession, and they followed her every movement.
Hermione had been offered the chance to give her testimony in private, but having straddled both Muggle and Wizarding worlds, Hermione drew upon the courage that had seen her face the most powerful Dark Wizard the Wizarding world had known, and chose to face her attacker rather than be further victimized by his delusions. She took her seat in the first row reserved for witnesses, flanked by Snape and Harry. Dumbledore and Pomfrey were seated next to Harry, and behind Hermione, staggered at shoulder width sat Draco and Ron. The four previously antagonistic wizards were of one mind for the day’s events, convicting Smith and protecting Hermione. To that end, they’d agreed – without having to discuss it -- to form a phalanx around Hermione, buffering her from the unwonted attentions of Rita Skeeter clones. Even after the unscrupulous reporter’s demise during the war, there had been any number of scandal-mongers willing, nay, panting, to take her place.
The trial proceeded swiftly under the direction of Madam Bones. A victim’s testimony wasn’t called until after the Pensieved testimony of the Aurors and attendant medical personnel. Poppy Pomfrey was precise, clinical and thorough. Gasps of shocked outrage were heard from a number of the witches sitting in judgment as, one after the other, Nymphadora Tonks, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Millicent Bulstrode had their memories amplified and projected for the chamber to view. Albus Dumbledore spoke next, and was adamant in expressing his opinion that had Mr. Malfoy not intervened in a timely fashion, Miss Granger would have been subjugated to Mr. Smith’s whim and they would have lost one of the rising stars of their world. His testimony carried a heavy weight.
Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape, twins in the formal black robes of Wizarding aristocracy, gave their testimony in the clipped, patrician tones for which they were famous. Even with the leavening of Snape and Draco’s war histories and the currently unpopular state of the Malfoy Estate, their testimony was valuable. When Draco described Hermione’s condition at the time he first entered the DADA office, his grey eyes had turned toward the prisoner and the frigid loathing on his handsome face was condemning.
Throughout the ordeal, Hermione sat rigidly, her hands subconsciously smoothing the skirt of her muted burgundy robes. Without the corona of what had been her trademark bushy hair, Hermione’s features were delicate and her face was very pale. But when it was her turn to testify, she stood straight and spoke without a tremor in her voice, and if her knuckles were bloodless from the strength of the force she was exerting in clasping her hands together, then no one was tactless enough to remark on it. That Harry Potter put his arm around her shoulder when she was reseated didn’t go without notice.
The prisoner was administered three drops of Veritaserum and spoke haltingly, but truthfully, in his own defense. Smith never spoke directly to his adjudicators, but to Hermione the entire time, as if asking for her understanding. He said that he never wanted to harm Hermione, didn’t want to, even now. She was too forgiving, too willing to befriend those who would seek to manipulate her, to hurt her. He loved her too much to allow that to happen. What he’d done was in an effort to protect her. Smith’s was an impassioned plea, and he was utterly honest. It was terrifying and compelling.
Draco watched the waffling faces of the wizards filling the auditorium, saw the wavering certainty replacing revulsion, and quickly calculated that the men outnumbered the women. The witches seated on the tribunal were, without exception, obviously repelled by the testimony of the delusional wizard. Draco hadn’t been mis-sorted into Slytherin by the Sorting Hat, and decided to tilt the scales of justice in Hermione’s favor. He deliberately, and with a great show of apparent familiarity, leaned over her shoulder to talk to her. His pale, white-blond hair spilled forward obscuring part of Hermione’s face from Smith’s view, and drawing the prisoner’s attention. Draco said very quietly to her, “It’ll be over soon.”
As he leaned back, Draco looked into Smith’s fanatical eyes, getting his full attention. Draco then let the Malfoy smirk cross his features as he rested one hand on Hermione’s shoulder and squeezed reassuringly.
To Smith it was a sign of possession, and as surely as Draco’s presence had spurred his actions that first Friday in March, they acted as a catalyst once more. Smith lost it. His face turned ruddy with anger and spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted, “Get your filthy hands off her, Malfoy! She’s mine. Wizards like you… you and Snape. Death Eaters!” He spat on the floor of the courtroom. His obsession, at long last, had an audience of more than one. “You don’t have the right to touch something so pure!”
Smith was on his feet, his face contorted with rage and desperation. He ignored Madam Bones’ sharp command to be seated and collect himself. Smith’s control, which had been held together by transparent strands of gossamer, was attenuated to breakpoint. Months of contorted nightmares about Hermione’s corruption at the hands of these very wizards was threatening to snap his last link to sanity. “I’ll kill you, if you touch her again! I’ve earned her. I had it all planned. After a few months, I would have tapered off the dosage, and our lives would be perfect… together, just like we were meant to be.”
Smith watched Hermione, ignoring his surroundings. Her face was implacable, set into stern lines of uncompromising judgment. And then, Severus Snape leaned toward Hermione and took one of her small hands in his, wrapping his long fingers around her icy digits. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. Never once did the Potions Master of Hogwarts look at Smith. He didn’t need to. Smith had seen the possessive display by Draco, and now watched, in utter repugnance and loathing, as the reviled bat of the dungeons touched his witch. The attenuated gossamer strands of sanity snapped, and Smith lunged across the room, screaming with inarticulate rage, prepared to rend Snape limb-from-limb.
Simultaneous shouts of “Stupefy,” and twin jets of red light slammed into the rampaging body of Zacharias Smith, dropping him in his tracks.
Ron and Harry had picked up on the deliberate goading by their formerly hated schoolmate and professor, and had been prepared for Smith to condemn himself. They were a bit startled by the vehemence of Smith’s explosive reaction, but it had been incredibly satisfying to inflict a little punishment on the wizard… all perfectly above board and legal. The partners stepped from the risers to handle the prisoner until such time as the verdict was rendered.
Hermione was sheet white and trembling from shock. Without a second thought, Draco usurped Harry’s seat next to hers, pulling her into the protective circle of his arm. He refused to question his actions, especially in the face of so many of her friends, but her unresisting form -- indeed she was burrowing her face into his chest – twisted his heart in a curiously painful, yet pleasurable way.
Hermione’s brain wasn’t processing more than the image of Smith’s face, contorted with rage and madness, and she pressed into the Draco’s solid and entirely comforting body. She breathed in deeply, shuddering and attempting to still her reaction to Smith’s violent response. Somehow Smith’s reaction was an entirely different circumstance than those found in the heat of battle. This madness had been focused solely on her. As she inhaled, her senses were filled with the indefinable scent of Draco, and the witch’s mind remembered the peppery, clove smell from waking up in her bedroom after Smith’s initial assault. She’d been and had felt safe then. Hermione allowed that memory and the strength of his arms encircling her now to lull her into a sense of security. Trembling with the excess adrenaline spurred by her panic, the brains of the Dream Team kept her eyes closed and her face buried in Draco’s chest.
While Hermione struggled with the overload of nerves, Snape snapped directions at Pomfrey, who always carried a compendium of miniaturized remedies with her. The mediwitch instantly produced a small blue vial of the Draught of Peace and handed it to Snape. He Accio’d a glass from the Interrogators’ table, and quickly measured a small dosage into it, conjuring an appropriate diluting amount of water. Then, kneeling in front of Hermione, he handed her the glass. When she refused to acknowledge its existence – her burrowing had taken on the sounds of sniffles and her hands were clutching the front of Draco’s vest as if they would never let go – Snape said in his immeasurably comforting fashion, “Drink it, you silly girl. Now is not the time for hysterics. When we return to Hogwarts you may regale the Great Hall with your performance, but not now.”
Stung by his words, but responding to decades’ worth of conditioning, Hermione straightened her spine, lifted her head, took the proffered glass, and glared at Snape. The corner of the Potions Master’s mouth twitched in amusement. Draco chuckled at the successful gambit, and Hermione could feel it resonate through his chest. She drank the potion, and turned her tear-blurred censure toward the grey-eyed wizard.
“What?” He asked, all faux innocence, even as he tightened his embrace for a final moment.
Despite her annoyance at having been manipulated, Hermione recognized the value of regaining her wits in such a place, and, with a sense of loss, she pulled out of Draco’s arms to resume her seat. Snape settled into place beside her and they returned their attention to the commotion in the courtroom.
The trial was over.
In record time, the Wizengamot issued its verdict of guilty. Harry and Ron remanded the prisoner into the custody of the guards of Azkaban, where Smith would be placed under mediwizard-watch. He was deemed unstable and dangerous, and would live the remainder of his life in custody for sexual assault and the deliberate use of an Unforgivable Potion in order to control and manipulate a witch.
A subdued, but wholly relieved Hermione and her escort returned to Hogwarts and a small tea that Minerva McGonagall had arranged in the staff room. Of course by tea, the Deputy Headmistress had meant a full meal, and the participants in the trial were kept so busy telling the small cadre of colleagues the events of the day, that Hermione and Draco had no time to think about their instinctive reactions and responses to one another.
During the next three days, Hermione kept to her chambers, fitfully sleeping, reading and eating bites of the endless trays of food the house-elves continually sent her in an attempt to entice her into eating a full meal. It had been so long since she’d been hungry that her stomach had shrunk, but she was making a valiant effort at regaining her equilibrium. Zacharias Smith was behind bars, and she was safe from his predations.
The weeks between his assault and the trial had been difficult. Hermione had spent hours attempting to remember every nuance in Smith’s gestures, his demeanor, and realized that he’d been very, very careful. He’d given himself away on only a few occasions, and, in retrospect, the argument they’d had over Snape early in the term and his continuing need to listen in on her conversations were ominous. His actions had signaled his intentions, and she vowed to be more cautious in the future. Hermione had questioned her own instinctive reactions to the wizard. While they’d been in school, she hadn’t really liked him, but had talked herself into accepting his participation in Dumbledore’s Army. They’d needed every able-bodied witch or wizard in those days.
After days spent thinking about the concept of trust and instinct, Hermione had realized that part of the reason she’d given Smith the second, even third chance, had been because of her entirely off-base instinctive distrust of Severus Snape when she was a child. Her unfounded accusations of her professor from her first year had always made her feel a little ashamed.
Snape had proved trustworthy by his unstinting and self-sacrificing actions in protecting Hermione and her friends, year-after-year. He’d earned her trust, and after a number of years she’d earned his in return. Snape’s friendship was something she cherished. If Hermione was honest with herself, she’d overcompensated for her instinctive distrust of Zacharias Smith by giving him the benefit of the doubt simply because, in deed, Severus Snape had proved trustworthy. The question was had Smith deserved her trust? Obviously not. What had he done to allow her to override her doubt? He had been a self-avowed hero and survivor of the Graduation Day Battle. But had he really been a hero? The answer to that question had taken the young DADA Apprentice days of soul searching.
Objectively, Hermione attempted to remember Smith’s heroics during
the
Hermione shuddered as she realized that in Smith’s case her instincts had been spot on. Her new question was whether she could she really trust her own instincts? She’d been completely off-base in Snape’s case, but accurate in Smith’s. Had she ever been wrong about anyone else? What about Draco? He was a conundrum. He’d hurt her, frustrated her… saved her, offered her his support when it was most needed. What was that? What did it mean? She was confused and decided that she couldn’t contemplate her feelings about Draco Malfoy while she was still dealing with the residual effects of Smith’s aborted plan.
Thus, on a rather cheery Thursday morning during Easter break, Hermione stared at the hand-hewn, rune-etched bowl on her desk. She hadn’t taken advantage of it as yet. Dumbledore had acquired the Pensieve for her in Diagon Alley, but she’d wanted to keep her memories undiluted leading up to the trial. The recurring nightmares of the moments in the DADA office had destroyed her sleep patterns, but now that the trial was over, Hermione really could put the events behind her. She’d plumbed Snape’s understanding of pensieve craftsmanship, and knew to be selective about which memories to choose. He’d explained that removing the slender, silvery strands of memory took concentration, but once they were removed they could be viewed objectively, without the attendant emotional backlash. Hermione was greatly looking forward to removing the most damaging of the memories, while retaining enough to serve as a warning reminder.
Hermione had warded her chambers for privacy earlier that morning. She didn’t want to be disturbed. Settling into her seat, the curly-haired witch proceeded to remove the majority of the terror-inducing moments of Zacharias Smith’s attempts to subvert her to his will, and place them into the stone concavity in front of her. With her wand tip, Hermione touched her temple and pulled whitish, silvery strands of writhing memory from her mind, carefully depositing them into the formerly empty vessel. They swirled ceaselessly, a cloudy liquid silver, and Hermione felt a great weight lift from her soul.
She kept the memories of waking up in her chambers to find Draco standing beside her bed, fingering her hair. It had been so out of character and so touching that Hermione clung to that memory as if it was something to be treasured. As indeed it was. It was as precious as the moments of his gallantry during the Wizengamot. Hermione refused to dwell on the reasons for Draco’s kindness, but her heart held tightly to the warmth that he’d invoked.
~o0o~