A Fate Worse Than Death

by snarkypants


"Honey..." My husband nudged me, not so gently. I groaned. "There's someone on Floo for you."

I groaned again, rolling over.

"Aren't you on call this week?" he asked, his voice gravelly from sleep.

"Yes," I said, sighing. I pushed myself up to a sitting position. The face was waiting expectantly in the fire, evidently used to waiting for people to wake up to talk.

I staggered out of bed to stand before the fire. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm the nighttime social worker at St. Mungo's. We have a patient who needs to talk with you. She was brought in about twenty minutes ago."

"All right," I said, my own voice hoarse. "I'll be there in five minutes. Do you have any coffee ready?"

The face grinned wryly. "Always. Thanks. I'll let them know you're coming."

"You gotta go in?" my husband croaked from the bed.

"Yup," I said. "They never Floo during daylight hours," I groused. "It's always this 'middle of the night' crap." I dressed quickly in my casual robes and a pair of sneakers; I might be standing for a good long while. I raked a brush through my hair and twisted it into a slapdash chignon, jamming hairpins into the mass. I did a quick cleansing charm on my teeth; they didn't feel quite as mossy, but I didn't have a pleasant minty taste in my mouth, either.

"Careful, and come home soon," he said sleepily. I bent to kiss his night-whiskered cheek.

"Don't let her open her presents until I get home; it might be a few hours."

"O' course," he agreed and fell immediately back to sleep.

I tossed the powder into the fireplace and stepped into the green flames. "St. Mungo's," I said, and I began to whirl.



***




I emerged in St. Mungo's reception area, and was directed immediately to the social worker.

"I'm so glad you're here, ma'am," the worker said. She was young, probably just out of Hogwarts and barely finished with her short apprenticeship. "The patient was brought in just a little while ago, by one of her colleagues, and he's being extremely difficult." She screwed her face up as if she was close to tears. "He was one of my professors, and he's not a nice man."

"How is the patient?"

"About like you'd expect. She's shocky, quiet. Very stoic for now. We actually called you in to deal with him."

"Who's the S.A.M.E.?"

"Tucker."

"So she's in good hands, then," I said. "Right. Direct me first to the coffee, then to the colleague. Do you think he would like some coffee?"

"Probably not. He's bitter enough on a regular day," the social worker griped, then caught herself. "Actually, he'd probably appreciate the gesture."

I poured myself a cup of liquid vigilance, liberally sugared and creamed, and knocked back half the cup before preparing a twin cup to take to the professor.

I don't know what I was expecting, perhaps a white-haired man wearing corduroy robes with suede patches at the elbows, like some of my college professors. I hadn't gone to Hogwarts, so I wasn't familiar with the mode of dress of the British Wizarding academic, although I had seen my husband's pictures of himself and his friends in their school robes.

The man looked at me with ill-concealed disdain. He was dressed head to foot in rumpled and old-fashioned black robes. His greasy black hair hung long and lank about his sallow face; the style exacerbated the length and narrowness of his features and did nothing to improve his looks. He had a terribly long, hooky nose; he used it to some effect, I thought, as he looked down his nose at me. No beauty, this one, but I supposed his looks were irrelevant.

"Hello," I said, setting the coffees on a table before putting my hand out, American-style. "I'm Ellen Gubbins. I'm a counselor."

He paused before taking my hand. "Madam Gubbins," he said formally. "I'm Severus Snape."

This was Professor Snape? My husband had described Snape as having horns, hooves, and a tail so perhaps his description had been a bit biased. Mark's days at Hogwarts weren't particularly happy, at least in part because of this man, but I had to be dispassionate in my treatment of patients and patients'...friends? Loved ones?

"Do you care for coffee? I brought you a cup," I said.

"No, thank you," he said. "I want to know what is being done for Professor Granger." He looked at me, straight through me, actually.

"All right," I said neutrally. "Let's take a seat, shall we?" Due to the lateness--or extreme earliness, I hadn't yet decided--of the hour, we were nearly alone in this waiting room. The only other person was an Auror who stood by the door, looking simultaneously bored and watchful. I knew this Auror; I had worked on another sexual assault case with him just five months ago. He and Mark went through the Auror Academy together. He raised a hand in silent salute, and continued his vigil.

I sat on an armchair that was perpendicular to a worn sofa. Snape sat on the sofa.

"Professor Granger is being treated by Mediwitch Tucker. She is a certified S.A.M.E., which stands for Sexual Assault Mediwitch Examiner. She is taking samples from Professor Granger...may I call her by her first name?"

Snape looked at me long and hard. "No," he said rather rudely.

I was taken aback, but not upset. "Very well. The Mediwitch is taking saliva and hair samples from the Professor's body; these will be used during any legal proceedings to identify the attacker. She will also treat the Professor's injuries and administer an emergency contraceptive charm."

He looked sharply at me. "Do you think she..." he began, and stopped himself.

"It's merely a precaution," I said. "Her period will probably begin tomorrow morning, so she will need some sanitary napkins. We will provide a few for her to take with her, but someone will need to collect a box of pads from an apothecary; she shouldn't use tampons." I was unsurprised to see him pull a notebook and a travel quill from his robes and write down the instructions; he seemed rather methodical, and this was something he could actually accomplish.

He put the notebook and quill on a side table and looked at me. "Gubbins...I had some Gubbinses in my class several years ago..."

"It was my husband. And his brother and sister."

"Which one is your husband?"

"Mark," I said.

"Ah. He became an Auror, didn't he? Ravenclaw, early Eighties; he took an Excellent in his Potions NEWT." I raised my eyebrows, impressed at his memory. "But you weren't a student of mine," he said.

"No, sir. I went to high school in the States."

"I've never had an American student before."

I grinned. "And you're probably content with that."

The corner of his mouth jumped. "As you say, Madam Gubbins."

"What does Professor Granger teach?" I asked, trying to steer conversation back to the patient.

"She teaches Arithmancy...Madam Gubbins?"

"Yes, sir?"

"May I rely on your discretion...?"

"Everything you say to me is completely confidential, Professor. I am bound by a variant of the Fidelius charm to speak about the incident only to those who are directly involved or are members of the legal team." I paused and took a sip of my coffee. "I won't discuss anything with your students or former students, either, regardless of my relationship to them."

He relaxed fractionally. "Thank you. Madam Gubbins...I am here not only as Professor Granger's colleague, but also as...that is..." He clenched his jaw. "We are lovers."

I gave a slight, encouraging smile and nodded. A lot of crisis counseling revolves around that smile and nod, as if nothing one is being told is shocking; he had, in fact, not said anything particularly shocking yet, but if and when he did, my smile and nod would be familiar.

He looked at me, perhaps expecting a stronger reaction. When none was forthcoming, he continued. "It is not widely known."

"It will only become known if you and Professor Granger choose for it to be known, sir."

He looked uncomfortable; would he have preferred it if I were threatening him?

"I wasn't there for her," he said, looking at his hands.

Ah. I nodded again.

"They took her..." he began, and broke off as the dual meanings of the sentence hit home. He cleared his throat. "They kidnapped her."

I didn't have to ask who "they" were; the Death Eaters were the only "they" committing this type of crime - kidnapping and sexual assault - in the Wizarding World these days.

"They targeted her because of her friendship with Harry Potter," he said, venom slicing through the name.

Ah. I knew who the patient was, then. Professor Hermione Granger; a Muggleborn witch, like myself, only about ten years younger. And famous. This explained the Professor's reticence at revealing their relationship. He was easily twenty years her senior, and she had been his student. Smile slightly, nod.

"You must know that I don't think much of your profession," he spat out, glaring at me. "What bloody use is it to sit around, whinging and wringing our hands and gazing at our navels when there must be something useful to do?"

"Professor, you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to; I'm content to sit here and wait with you until Professor Granger's examination is completed," I replied equably.

"What good will it do her to talk to you?"

"Probably none, at first. Then, as she begins to assimilate the assault-"

"Assimilate it! You should Obliviate her, so she doesn't remember it at all. Assimilate!" His face was white with shock and fury, and his mouth trembled with the force of his emotion.

The Auror came to attention quickly, ready to help if Snape should attack. I caught his eye and signaled that I was fine; Snape might shout at me, but I didn't think he would harm me. His rage was directed elsewhere.

"Professor, you know as well as I that overuse of Obliviates and Pensieves is every bit as damaging to the patient as the assault can be. Will you Obliviate her every time she goes to court? Will you take every bad memory she's ever had, put it in a Pensieve, and smash it? Moreover, where do you stop? Do you make her forget the loss of her grandparents? Do you make her forget the fight you had yesterday morning? That, too, is a form of rape."

His hands clenched into fists, and I knew he wanted to hit...something. I unobtrusively charmed a pillow from the sofa into a sandbag. I had learned to do this charm wandlessly; waving one's wand during a counseling session could frighten one's patients. I picked it up--it weighed as much as my toddler daughter weighed, and was nearly as large--and handed it to him.

"Hit this," I said. "It'll make you feel better."

Sandbags are great for punching, because they make a satisfying sound when you hit them, and they feel solid but have some give to them. His fists might become sore from punching a sandbag, but he wouldn't injure himself.

He was angry enough that he grabbed the bag from my hands, set it on the couch, and hit it, hard. He punched the bag three or four more times before he stopped himself, breathing heavily, and he pushed his hair out of his eyes.

He appeared to shrink against the back of the sofa. "I apologize for my outburst, madam," he said bleakly.

"It's quite all right, Professor," I said, giving him the smile and nod. "Your anger and fear are reasonable."

"Fear? What am I afraid of?"

"Perhaps you're afraid that the woman you love has been irrevocably damaged or changed." He wouldn't look at me. "She has been changed, Professor, but not damaged. Not yet."

"How can you say that?" His tone was scathing. "Of course she's damaged."

"So would you replace her, then?" His face turned white again. "Of course, you wouldn't. You love her. She's been wounded, but wounds can be healed, with love and patience and understanding. If the wounds don't heal, then she will be damaged."

"These are just words, madam. Semantics."

"You're right, they are," I said evenly. "And it's just words when people say that victims of sexual assault are 'tarnished' or 'ruined.'" He glared at me. "People of my mother's generation used to say that. They also used to call sexual assault a 'fate worse than death.' Do you think that Professor Granger would be better off dead?"

"Gods, no," he said, his voice choked.

"I don't, either." Smile, nod. "That's a beginning."



***




The Auror had gone to the staff lounge to get a cup of coffee. More likely, he had gone in hopes of flirting with a Mediwitch, if memory served. Sexual assault examinations take a long time.

As if reading my thoughts, Snape asked, "What's taking them so long?"

"Mediwitch Tucker has to take samples of any fluids on Professor Granger's body. She also has to pull several hairs, so the scientists won't confuse her hairs with those of the attacker."

"Will they need any of my hairs?"

"It would probably be a good idea for them to get blood, hair, saliva and semen samples from you, yes. Particularly if you were recently intimate."

He merely nodded.

"And then she will use a special instrument to take pictures of any internal injuries."

He winced. "Is it painful?"

"It's uncomfortable, but tolerable. From what you've told me of Professor Granger, she's very strong and very brave."

He ducked his head, but not before I saw his eyes gloss over with tears. "Yes, she is," he said softly.

"Mediwitch Tucker will warn her of anything that will be painful, and she will tell her how long the pain will last."

He looked directly at me, suddenly not caring whether I could see the raw pain on his face or the tears in his eyes. "Will you do that? Warn her of things that will be painful, and tell her how long the pain will last?"

I sighed. "I wish I could. I don't know how long it will last. The longer she fights feeling the pain, the longer it will last, I know that much."

"What should I do for her?" he asked. He appeared to be past his rage, for now, but he was working hard to keep it in check; a muscle worked steadily in his jaw, attesting to this.

"Support her. Do what she wants you to do. Help her do what she wants to do. Allow her to talk if she wants to. Don't force her to talk if she doesn't."

"That's it? You don't have any better advice for me than that?" he snapped.

"Mostly it depends upon her. Some people, like me, crack jokes, terrible ones, after a crisis. Some get very chatty and won't shut up. Some stick their noses into a book. Some hit things. Some cry." I shrugged. "Take your cues from her. If she cracks jokes, don't tell her she shouldn't joke about it. If she gets chatty, listen. If she wants to read, let her. If she wants something to hit, charm a sandbag for her. I'm sure you'll know what to do if she cries."

"What if she goes into her rooms and doesn't come out for weeks? What then? Should I just let her starve herself?"

"You're an intelligent man, Professor; if she shuts herself away for long enough to starve, break the door in. If you think she might harm herself, take her to hospital." I grimaced. "There are too many variables involved for me to say with any certainty what could happen, particularly since I haven't even met her. I will give you my Floo address so I, or my staff, can help either of you at any time, day or night."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looking into the distance. "This shouldn't have happened to her," he muttered.

"No, it shouldn't," I agreed.

"She doesn't deserve this. She shouldn't have to pay for my sins," he said ambiguously.

That caught my attention, but it wasn't my job to learn about him. It wasn't even my job to learn about her or the assault. I wasn't an investigator, I was a counselor. "You didn't cause this, and neither did she, Professor."

He raised his head and glared at me. "And what do you know about it, Counselor?"

Suddenly I felt very tired. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. "Nothing. I know nothing at all about anything, Professor."


***



I was bumped awake some time later. A quick glance at my watch told me that my eyes had been closed for about ten minutes. Auror Graves was nudging my foot with his own; he handed me a fresh cup of coffee.

"Oh, gods, I'm sorry," I said, blushing. "Where's Professor Snape?"

Graves motioned with his chin towards the window, where Snape stood. The Auror sat down on the couch. "He's right tore up about it, i'n't he? Well, any decent bloke'd be, but I didn't expect to see it in him."

"Was he your Potions Professor?" I asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.

"Oh, yeah, he was," Graves said, grinning. "For all the good it did either of us. Barely made the Auror Academy, what with my Potions NEWTs. Had to get special authorization and all." He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced; the brew was extremely stout and tasted strongly of ashes. "We're not all ruddy geniuses like your Marky." His tone was affectionate rather than scathing; he and Mark were friends.

We sat, companionably silent, watching Snape watching the street through the window. I sipped gingerly at my coffee.

"Why do you do this, El? Doesn't it bring it all back?" The question was low, private.

"Why did you want to be an Auror?"

"'To Protect And To Serve,'" he said bombastically, grinning.

"Me, too," I said jauntily, matching his grin.

"You're doing a good thing," he said quietly. "I remember how Mark was, back when...I remember. He didn't have anyone to talk to. He just tried to beat the shit out of everything that moved, because he wasn't there...Almost got himself kicked out of the Academy."

I cleared my throat. "I know."

He chuckled sourly. "Yeah, of course you know." He looked at me squarely. "You're doing a good thing, Ellen."

"Thanks, Graves," I said hoarsely.

"Ah, here comes Mediwitch Tucker now," he said, standing.

Snape had whirled at the sound of the door.

Mediwitch Tucker led Hermione Granger into the waiting room. Professor Granger was wearing a set of ill-fitting robes that dragged the floor, and a pair of flip-flops; her own clothes had been surrendered as evidence. She walked slowly and carefully, but for all her slow progress, there was a dignity about her that made me want to smile.

She walked right into Snape's arms, and he enfolded her as if she were made of spun glass. He buried his face in her hair, and she stroked his back, comforting him. That did make me smile, albeit sadly, tears prickling in my eyes; how many times had I seen that before?

My gaze met that of the Mediwitch, and she shook her head minutely and closed her eyes. A bad one, then. I nodded. They were all bad, but this case had shaken the experienced Mediwitch.

I approached the pair, who were embracing and murmuring to each other.

"Excuse me, Professor Granger, I'm Ellen Gubbins; I'm a counselor with the Ministry's sexual assault outreach office. I've been talking to Professor Snape for a while this morning, and I wanted to let you know that I'm available."

Granger turned her brown eyes up toward me, and her mouth assumed a tight, polite smile. "Thank you. The Mediwitch told me that you'd be here. I think making an appointment with you would be a good idea," she said. Her voice was ragged, but whether from screaming, crying or fatigue, or all three, I didn't know.

"I have appointments open from 8 a.m. until 11 a.m. tomorrow; just call my office this afternoon and tell them when you'd like to come in." I handed her a card. "This card is a Portkey for my office, and it'll be activated when you set a time."

"Thank you, Madam Gubbins," she said. "I think eight will be a good time."

I pulled out my wand and tapped the card. "I'll see you then. If you need to speak to anyone in the meantime, my Floo connection is also on the card; I'll be happy to talk to you day or night." I looked at Professor Snape. "That goes for you as well, Professor."

He raised his head and looked at me. "Thank you, Madam Gubbins."

Granger thanked the Mediwitch and asked the Auror if he needed them further; he didn't, and offered to escort them to the Floo.

I watched them walk out of the waiting room, towards the semi-private Floo connection that was attached to this wing of the hospital. A moment or two later, Graves returned.

"I'll show you to the Floo, as well, Ellen," he said. "Mark'd kick my arse if I didn't look after his missus properly." I followed him to the fireplace, tired and ready to go home.


***



As soon as I'd stopped spinning and stepped out of the fireplace, I was attacked by a tiny sprite with pecan-colored curls. "Mummy!" she shrieked, and latched on to my leg.

"Hello, angel," I said, scooping her up and holding her tightly. I pressed kisses to her brow, breathing in the sweetness of my child. I held her and rocked her as I had when she was a baby, before she could carry herself on her own two legs, out into a scary and uncertain world. I held her and rocked her and smelled her and kissed her until she began to squirm.

"Down, Mummy," she said imperiously. I put her down, and she bounced around for a minute, just to be sure that she could, and then she turned to me. "Mummy? Guess what?" she asked breathlessly.

"What?" I responded, equally breathlessly and wide-eyed.

"Today's m'birfday!" she shrieked, and jumped up and down excitedly.

"It is?" I answered, as if it were a huge surprise, as if I hadn't been the one to push-push-push-oh-gods-push! all eight-pounds-three-ounces of her out of my body three years ago this morning.

"Uh-huh," she said with a decisive nod, and the slightly superior air of someone who knew a secret. "Papa said he'd make special brekkies, but I don' like eggies. You make pang-cakes!"

My daughter's idea of a 'proper English breakfast' had long since been corrupted by the sticky-sweet lure of maple syrup. Mark had yet to forgive me.

"Sure, baby. I'll make pancakes."

She turned tail and ran to the kitchen. "Papa! Mummy's home and she's making pang-cakes!"

Mark emerged from the kitchen with a beaker of coffee in one hand and a rueful expression on his face. "Again with the 'pang-cakes,'" he said, sighing, and came forward to kiss me. I put my arms around him, and kissed him soundly. "Everything go well?" he asked, like he always did when I went on calls to St. Mungo's; with his eyes he asked much more: Are you all right?

I looked up at his loved, handsome face, his thinning hair. Everything that made him mine. I looked at our little girl, skipping madly in the hallway. "Yeah, it went fine. Graves says 'hi,' by the way." I kissed him again, and he pressed the mug of coffee into my hands. "Thanks, babe."

"Mummy, pang-cakes!" The birthday girl's voice rose insistently.

Mark kissed my forehead. "You've made a Yank out of my daughter, and I resent the hell out of it," he said with a chuckle, before he smacked me on the backside. "Go make your 'pang-cakes,' then."

"Mum-my!"

I made pang-cakes.

---

A/N: I wrote this because I wanted to make a few points about sexual assault and rapefics:

(1) Sexual assault is not sexy. It is traumatic, and not only for the survivor.

(2) There are much better ways of getting two reluctant characters into bed with each other than Imperius-ing one to sexually assault the other. Be creative.

(3) One can be a survivor, not merely a victim, of sexual assault. One need not be damaged. I use the word "wounded" deliberately. They say "wounded" when a soldier is struck with a bullet. "Injured" can happen if you fall out of a tree. "Wounded" means that someone deliberately caused harm.

(4) There are aftereffects of sexual assault, beyond the standard a.) Hermione gets pregnant and keeps the baby or b.) Hermione becomes suicidal and/or a self-mutilator. Some of the positive aftereffects can be that the survivor becomes a crisis counselor, that the survivor triumphs in court against her/his attacker, that the survivor gets married and has children and raises them to be strong and brave.

(5) I am not a survivor of sexual assault or domestic violence, but I spent seven years working at a battered women's shelter/rape crisis center. I worked with women (and a few men) who were survivors and worked to help other victims become survivors. I've seen it happen. I've seen those new survivors go on to help others. Out of some of life's bleakest moments can come a sense of purpose and mission.

(6) A survivor is encouraged to forgive her/his attacker, not for the benefit of the attacker, who should be behind bars, but for one's own peace of mind. The idea that Hermione would forgive the unknown Death Eater who assaulted her is understandable. That she should consider shacking up with him and having babies is not.

(7) Sexual assault is not about the sexual act, but instead about power and control, using a penis as a weapon.

And I don't mean non-con games between consenting partners ("your lips say 'no, no, no!' but your eyes say 'yes, yes, yes!'"). There's a place for that in erotica.

Okay. So these authors' notes are longer than the actual story.

Thanks to my flist at live journal for looking this over and giving some feedback.