Survivor

Chapter 6 - Life After Death?

Just a kind reminder that this fic uses themes of rape and violence, both of which are evident in this chapter. H.x 

After Severus had left, Hermione had settled herself on the sofa. She was dressed comfortably, no longer caring whether Snape saw her in her pajamas. Her hair was escaping the braid she had teased it into after bathing.

Earlier when she had been changing, Hermione had stood in the mirror in her underwear and stared at herself. There was a long pink scar that ran from the base of her neck, to her sternum. It was a cursed mark left by Antonin Dolohov in her fifth year. The old scar was now complimented by the word etched on her arm that weren't quite healed. Hermione had attempted to do some reading on cursed objects and their effects on the healing process of the body, but had found little to settle her. The skin was closed but the found continued to itch and weep as the scabs caught on her clothing. The bruising between her legs had disappeared but Hermione still felt pain every time she looked down there.

She couldn't shake the feeling that she had been destroyed. Her future had been lost among the myriad of other failed futures of people her age. Hermione had hoped she would be able to get into teaching. Possibly through an apprenticeship with one of her Hogwarts Professors. The idea of becoming an auror was not as appealing to her as it so clearly was to Ron and Harry. She didn't want to be in the limelight any longer than necessary.

She doubted she would even make it to an interview. They would look at her and see what she was. Dirty. Slutty. Everyone would look at her and see only shame. Shame on her. Shame on her family. Nothing would ever become of her because she was burdened with this guilt.

The night plagued her dreams. She replayed the events continuously in her mind, from varying perspectives. At first she was herself. Noting her failed attempts to fight back. Hermione knew deep down that she could have fought harder, dug further and summoned the energy. She could perform a small degree of wandless magic and yet that hadn't even crossed her mind. She had gone pliant and let those horrible men do whatever they wanted. Hermione had let them take away one of the things she solely believed she could base her worth on. Flashbacks of her mother having "the talk" with her was imprinted in her memory.

Then she had started dreaming from the point of view of her attackers. Hermione could feel their hunger, as they looked at her skinny naked body in the same way one might look at a warm slice of chocolate cake. She felt their arousal as they pinned her body to the ground. They each contained an almost primal urge to mate. To spread their seed and procreate. She felt like she couldn't escape from their perverse minds.

The final variation of Hermione's dream was from the point of view of Severus. The man who had stood with his back against the wall and pretended to disappear from existence. She watched, unable to move as her own perk little form was continuously entered and used by the brethren. There was one pinning her down, her arms above her head and her wand no where in sight. The others who were clearly waiting, watched with wide eyes and evil smirks.

Those were the hardest dreams to wake up from. Hermione would often vomit after those dreams and be unable to fall back to sleep.

Settling on the sofa with a book seemed too domestic. Even more so since her graceful host was currently being summoned by a truly despicable force. Hermione tried not to think of him. She knew she would worry herself into the oblivion. There was no chance of sleep tonight. It was futile.

A thunderclap was enough to make her startle. Although, it wasn't exactly a clap of thunder, it was the crack of apparition. The noise had come from the man who had suddenly materialized into the center of the living room and was currently bleeding over his own rug.

"Sweet Merlin." Hermione exclaimed, her book forgotten as she dashed over the to the lump of robes that had landed on the carpet. The mess rolled over and groaned, showing a ashen face that was splattered with blood. For the first time in all her years since knowing him, Hermione realized how old Snape looked. He had to be in his early forties? It didn't matter right now, she told herself, as she watched his form go stiff and his eyes roll backwards without warning.