Submitted for Round 3 of The International Wizarding School Championship.
School: Durmstrang
Year 5
Theme:Veritaserum
Main prompt: Drizzling - Rain [Weather]
Optional prompts: Dungeons [Setting], and Cauldron [Object].
Word count: 1,554
Author's note: This is set in an AU where Severus Snape survived the war plus a few twists here and there that you will discover shortly. The title is inspired by The Merchant of Venice's theme that the Truth will become public knowledge.
Major thanks to my classmates Claude Amelia Song and Litfreak89.
The Truth Will Out
Severus waved his wand the moment he entered his modest kitchen, silently opening the blinds, filling the kettle with water, and giving the issue fee to the post owl. With another swish, the kettle soared to the now lit burner as Severus whispered a small charm that promptly rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.
As his breakfast was being magically prepared around him, he shuffled through the morning post, noting nothing of importance.
He paused when he saw her handwriting, the annoying know-it-all crusader that had prompted his salvation from that cursed shack, flowing across a lavender envelope.
He knew that whatever it contained would be... troublesome, so, not desiring to ruin his breakfast, he placed it to the side to be read after.
Two bills later, his breakfast chimed as it landed before him: a sliced grapefruit, toast, and a cup of steaming earl grey.
With a flick of his fingers, the Daily Prophet unrolled and hovered before Severus while he indulged in his tea.
The indulgence was short-lived, however, as he observed Granger in a rather fetching pale rose-coloured set of teaching robes in a heated talk with Skeeter. Finally, reading the headline, he spewed his tea all over the front page.
In a blazing text, it read, Severus Snape Alive and Former Paramour of Hermione Granger?
I am going to crucify her was his main thought as his ill-mood was fanned into righteous anger as he read the article before him. The headline was topical, and the report did not disappoint, for it did expertly paint a sordid web of deceit betwixt himself and the female third of the blasted, bloody Golden Trio.
According to Skeeter's exclusive exposẻ, he and Hermione were secretly lovers. Surprisingly the blame for the immoral affair wasn't laid at his feet—like any sane person would expect—but upon Granger's shoulders. Apparently, he was the one that had been corrupted by Granger's cunning and feminine wills; a laughable concept if one really thought about it. Him, a branded Death Eater, corrupted? Ha! Skeeter had indeed gone mental if she believed that! His soul had long since been tarnished before Granger had sat under the Sorting Hat.
Finishing his cooled tea, he ripped open the missive from the witch in question. His morning had been ruined, so why not?
The unsigned invitation within had him blink. Join me in avenging our names, it simply read.
He hummed when he realised that his anger had ebbed away, leaving in its wake mild humour and disbelief. That was perhaps the shortest thing Hermione Granger had ever written and submitted.
The previous day.
Hermione frowned as she accepted her cup of coffee from the waitress and took a slip. It was official, Rita Skeeter could even spoil good coffee by her presence or imminent threat thereof.
Why Professor McGonagall, her mentor and her supervisor since Hermione took over Slughorn's post six months ago, wanted her to agree to Skeeter's interview proposal, she would never know.
Didn't she know that nothing, absolutely nothing, good came from a Skeeter article?
"It will help Hogwarts public image," McGonagall had argued, knowing full well that Hogwarts and its significantly reduced public opinion was the one sensitive topic that would sway her.
McGonagall really could channel her late mentor's manipulative nature scarily well.
At least the weather is right for this sham of an interview, Hermione mused as the ominous clouds that had slithered across the sky as she entered Diagon Alley began to lightly drizzle the cobblestones and bricks beyond her window booth in the chic coffeehouse.
A smirk grew as Hermione's usually analytical mind give way to whimsical mirth at an amusing image of a soaked Skeeter slowly dissolving, melting into a horrid array of coloured goo.
And Ronald had dared called her unimaginative last year when he had called off their wedding. If only he knew how creative and imaginative, she could be.
"My, whatever are you thinking about Miss Granger?"
Hermione froze, her cup touching her lips.
She, the beetle, had apparently conquered the threat of death by water just as she had overcome the risk of exposure as an unlicensed Animagus by penning a self-exposẻ boasting how she had contributed to the war effort by secretly becoming one. Utter nonsense, of course, but it not only allowed her to pay a small pittance instead of heavier sentencing fees but increased sales in the Prophet, thus eliminating the one bit of protection Hermione had against the rumour-spouting cow.
"It's Professor Granger," she corrected in lieu of a greeting, not surprised when Skeeter waved her correction aside as she set up her infamous dictating quill paired with its stenography pad. "And I only have twenty minutes for this interview."
"That'll be more than enough time, I'm sure." Skeeter saccharinely assured her.
Hermione had a sinking feeling that something wasn't right, but ten minutes in and still everything appeared to be proceeding like any ordinary interview would go, focusing on either mundane or trivial matters, like her recent mastery in potions and her assignment as the new potion mistress at Hogwarts, etc.
Hermione found herself answering naturally and freely, something that should have alerted her to the impending disaster, but as the expression goes, hindsight is twenty-twenty.
"Now, Professor, what was your relationship with the late Professor Snape?"
"Ours was purely of a student-teacher dynamic. Of course, I had secretly wished for a little more-something more friendly-but being the curt and strict man he is, that did not happen, and sadly, will not happen." Hermione inwardly screamed. What was she saying? Had she finally gone mental-she had to have been drugged, and judging by her actions, it could only be veritaserum.
"Yes, he was a very obtuse wizard," she paused, her beetle-like eyes pinning Hermione in place. She hadn't missed Hermione's reference of Snape in the present tense. "how did he ever survive that fierce attack by You-Know-Who's snake?"
And so, in a matter of minutes, Hermione expanded on how she had administered basic first aid on Snape before casting a Patronus to fetch Madam Pomfrey's help. From there, Snape was sent off in the second shipment of wounded to St Mungos where he was mistakenly identified with another less fortunate soul. The confusion wasn't ever acknowledged, however, and Severus simply kept to his new identity of the former Austrian wizard who had died in his stead.
All of this Hermione had discovered during the famous trail of Snape and seeing as idiots were calling for his imprisonment or worse, burning his body to ash, she wisely kept silent. .
She hadn't even confided in Harry in fear that he would undoubtedly reveal Snape's new identity.
The irony was not lost on Hermione as she fought the magical impulse driving her traitor of a mouth to reveal all.
"I want a two-foot essay on your next potion. It's origins, prominent ingredients, uses, and when its contradicted by Monday," Hermione reminded her class just seconds before the bell rang, signalling the end of Potions. "You may leave."
The next few moments comprised of her examining the vails of potions (or for some cases, liquid sludge), vanishing remnants of various ingredients left behind on top student desks, and finally, delegating the task of scrubbing that day's caldrons to the rack of brushes.
Hermione stiffened when she felt his presence. She couldn't see him; he could drape shadows around him like his once rigidly formal teaching robes, not here in the midst of the myriad of shadows that composed the dungeons.
She hadn't heard him enter either, but this was the Severus Snape, double spy extraordinaire. He didn't make noise unless he wanted to: ever the dark sentinel that had captivated many of her teenage dreams and nightmares.
"I am sorry, sir."
Silence.
"I know you are here, Severus."
Ah, yes, that did the trick.
He strode out of the shadows near the selves of assorted cauldrons nestled next to the case of superfluous potion texts that Slughorn had gifted her with upon his retirement.
"When did I ever grant you the privilege of calling me by my given name, Professor?"
Hermione straightened. "Never but seeing as we're both adults," she ignored his sneer, a harder feat than one might think, "there is no reason why I cannot call you Severus."
He crossed his arms. The chit had grown and matured, her full feminine curves testified to that, but she was still his junior. She would show him respect, if not now then later.
But he really did not want to dally here, too many depressing and frustrating memories lamented here within the walls of this ancient castle for him to ponder long.
"Since I am here only to hear your proposal on how you plan on reaping our revenge on that woman, I shall tolerate your silly urges of familiarity you insist upon."
"Thank you, Severus. Have a seat and I'll fill you in on my plan."
Okay, that wasn't the overwhelming and promising response she had foolishly envisioned, but it was something she could work with.
Hermione Granger was adaptable.
Especially when they both wanted to crush the rotten, unethical beetle under their heels.
Fini