Never Make Promises

Chapter 1

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JKR. Not Mine. No Money.

August was such a heavy time of year. Severus Snape had always felt this way, even before he'd been forced to contend with his disgust about beginning another ridiculous school year. While the rest of the Hogwarts staff hid behind their cheery anticipation of new classes and students, everyone knew they were just buying time. Voldemort had been rapidly amassing a dark and powerful army for the past three years, and with the fresh crop of seventh year Hogwarts Death Eaters who were bound to be initiated this fall, it was unlikely the Dark Lord would wait much longer to strike.

And Severus was exhausted.

As he gazed at his face in the mirror he hardly recognised the grim shadow of a man he saw staring back at him. Oh, he'd long ago resigned himself to the fact that he'd given up any youthful good looks he might have possessed, but he'd been unaware until this very moment just how far he'd deteriorated.

Lank, brittle hair without an ounce of its old gloss. Watery, dim eyes. Hooked nose made even larger by the sunken hollows of his cheeks. Mouth in an unfeeling flat line. Skin pulled tightly against his bones, a testament to nights spent awake with worry and agonizing fear, and days that were too full of pain for him to even consider eating.

And then there was the mark on his arm.

The physical pain alone would have been enough to immobilize most men—a dull throb that every so often raged into a blinding scarlet stab—but it was everything the black mark symbolized that pinned Severus Snape to his solitary kingdom of hate and guilt. All the crimes committed. The opportunities thrown away. The debts that could never be repaid. And worst of all, the simple fact that he'd had to admit he was wrong. As much as his conscience ate away at him, it was the supreme blow to his pride that still held the fiercest bite.

"Temper gets you into trouble. Pride keeps you there." The words rang like an anthem in his head—where had he heard them before?

Before he had time to recall the source, a familiar voice called to him from the potions classroom, "Severus, I've come to pick up the new batch of restorative draught. "

Poppy Pomfrey, the only person besides the headmaster who would have dared to arrive in his classroom unannounced and without knocking. Hastily jumping away from the mirror and straightening out his billowing robes, Snape strode out of his bathroom, through his sitting room, and up to the door that lead into the small workroom off of the potions classroom.

"Disobfirmo foris," Severus murmured to the closed door. Instantly he heard a click, and he opened the door and stepped into the workroom. He had charmed the door to be invisible to any but himself, so he was never bothered by visitors in his private quarters. Well, except for the occasional fireside appearance of Albus Dumbledore through the use of the Hogwarts' Floo Network. If the headmaster knew where the entrance to Snape's chambers was, he'd never let on. But given Albus' extensive knowledge of all things related to his school—behind closed doors or otherwise—Snape was inclined to believe that the older man was humouring him. Either way, he was pleased with the arrangement.

Stepping into the potions classroom, Severus barely had time to say, "Good morning, Poppy," before the older woman's hand flew to her mouth as she let out a surprised gasp at what he could only suppose was his unsightly appearance.

Poppy attempted to stifle her natural reaction to his pained expression, but she could tell by the scowl on his face that she'd checked herself a second too late.

"Yes, Poppy, I know I'm not a sight for healthy eyes, let alone sore ones, but is it really necessary to remind me of the fact in such a dramatic fashion?"

Snape's words were from the same wry stock he offered his students, and most of the other Hogwarts' staff, but they lacked their usual bite. If he possessed a soft spot for a single person on the planet, it was Poppy Pomfrey. She had seen him at his weakest and brought him back from the edge of the grave too many times for him to worry about keeping up appearances where she was concerned. But more than that, he admired her skill as a medi- witch, and her appreciation of potions that could heal the body and soothe an ache. The ignorant students she patched up time and time again might not appreciate her deft magical ability, but he'd had seen too many shoddy medi- witches to turn a blind eye to her formidable ability to diagnose and heal.

Most of all, he could see that Poppy never judged what she didn't understand. And he knew that was a rare thing, indeed.

Poppy managed to compose herself—excepting the few unshed tears that glistened in her sharp eyes—and said, "I'm sorry, Severus. It's just that—this past year has been so hard on all of us. But you—you're—Severus, how bad is it?"

He sighed as he turned from her, unable to give her the answer she wanted while looking her in the face. Poppy leaned against the large, hardwood desk at the front of the room while watching him gather the potions she'd come to collect. He moved decisively and gracefully, if not a little stiffly and with obvious pain punctuating his every action. It occurred to her that he must either be a creature composed entirely of habit, or one composed entirely of carefully-thought-out actions, because although it was clear he was wasting away, he spoke, moved and appeared exactly as he always did, right down to the small buttons on the sides of his black boots. As he spoke, his hands ran over the multicolored bottles in the cabinet; long, careful fingers identifying each one's contents by familiar feel.

"As you know, previous to this summer, I was summoned only periodically. There was no strict schedule, and mostly the reasons for my being called ran from fairly harmless revels at the Malfoy estate to the more insidious interrogations—but even then, the torture was slight and usually only inflicted upon me. But now...I knew Voldemort was gaining power, regaining strength, but I had no idea it would all happen so quickly. As soon as school let out for the summer holidays, I began to be called weekly. The questioning—the pain—was much more intense, and more were subjected to it," he paused to give a bitter, twisted smile, "I suppose my pain alone has ceased to be sufficient entertainment for him. In any case, the meetings have gotten a great deal larger. More and more death eaters every time. Some I recognize, some are new to me..."

Here, Poppy interrupted him indignantly, coming to remove the box of bottles he'd collected from his arms, "Severus! This has been happening all summer, and you've only just now informed me? Why haven't you let me treat you? !"

He snorted, "You know as well as I do that there is no known method of relieving the pain cause by the cruciatus curse."

Poppy's breath caught in her throat, "The cru—he's back to using the unforgiveables on you?"

She willed herself to believe that what she was hearing was untrue, although her eyes told her otherwise. This would explain the drastic changes in him, why he'd lived like a recluse in his own quarters this holiday, rarely even attending meals. She was used to healing the wounds, burns, and broken limbs he often returned with, but the cruciatus was something she was completely helpless against.

"It would appear so," came the sneering reply.

"The damned beast!" A long pause. "You still should have told me," was the only weak reply she had to offer.

Severus sighed deeply, running a hand through his already matted hair as he brushed past her. Suddenly, Poppy asked, "Does the headmaster know?"

Snape shot her a patented 'what-do-you-think?' smirk.

"Severus, he really ought to be informed of this."

The man in front of her exploded, "Why!? Why in Merlin's name should I tell Albus about this? It's just as well that I deal with it on my own, which, might I add, I have been the entire summer, without forcing the headmaster to take on yet another impossible task. It's not as if anyone expected me to live, undetected, even this long. What could he possibly do? What could he say besides, 'Do, be careful, Severus.'"

"He might say 'Do drop this nonsensical martyr act, Severus," boomed a familiar masculine voice from the doorway of the classroom.

Snape wheeled around and flinched at the stab of pain brought on by the sudden motion, "Christ, Albus! Do you always have to sneak up like that?"

He sank down wearily into his desk chair, eyeing the witch and wizard standing before him, looking like two stubborn students he'd forced to remain after class, "How much did you hear?"

Albus Dumbledore artfully transfigured two fountain pens into armchairs for himself and Poppy, and motioned for her to take a seat. "Since there is little likelihood of getting an invite to your sitting room this morning," he explained, a good-natured twinkle in his eye despite his somber expression.

"I heard enough that you do not have to explain your situation more than once. I must say, Severus, that I am deeply troubled by this."

"Ah, yes. Albus, Voldemort could be steeping tea in my workroom, and your response would be to proclaim yourself 'deeply troubled'," the moment the words left his mouth, Snape regretted them.

Sensing she was not needed for the eminent discussion, Poppy pushed back her chair and made a largely unheard or unnoticed excuse about having to 'organize her stores before things got hectic', to which Dumbledore gave a half-nod, his eyes never leaving the dark young man in front of him.

"Severus. This once, you will listen to me without interrupting about the hopelessness of our situation. I realize you carry around trains and carriages of baggage, and there is nothing I have yet found to say or do to compel you to let one of us in far enough to lighten your load. But whether or not you accept or appreciate the fact, there are people here who care about you very deeply, not least of all myself. If you cannot bring yourself to ask for help for your own sake, then, Severus, let us help you to quiet our own selfish fears."

Somehow, during the course of his speech, Dumbledore had managed to grasp hold of Snape's left hand in his own. Snape found himself too shot to protest.

"Headmaster...Albus," and suddenly he felt the urge to pour out his pain to the man holding onto his hand. As if on cue, a searing tongue of pain licked it's way from the dark mark down to his wrist.

Right. Composure. No reason to make like a repentant child, already played that part one too many times.

"Headmaster, I must ask you not to interfere. You know well that my mission balances on the edge of a knife as it is. One false move, one slip of information on my part or yours, and we are truly lost."

Dumbledore sighed as he stood to go. He'd thought for one blessed moment—but, no. The silkened steel was back in Severus' voice, and the distant intensity had returned to his tired eyes. Irritated, Dumbledore transfigured the chairs back to pens, "I know your bias against wand magic, so I shall save you the trouble. But, Severus, in your uncharacteristically gryffindor-like chivalry, do not forget the fact that you are of no use to anyone if you are killed or driven insane."

Dumbledore made his way to the door, and, not eager to leave the already wounded Severus with a chastisement hanging in the air, added paternally, "Child, I will never understand what you feel you need to protect me from. Lest you forget your more recent magical history, let me remind you that Grindelwald was quite competent with his use of the unforgiveables as well."

With that, the older wizard was gone. Snape would have been deeply moved, if not disturbed, by what the last comment had implied had he not been fuming about being thought of in a Gryffindor context and befuddled as to how the headmaster had managed to leave his hand filled with sticky, sickly- sweet lemon drops without him noticing.

Waking from a delicious dream, whose events curled just around the edges of her consciousness, Hermione Granger rolled over and stretched her toes to the end of the little bed in which she slept. For a few seconds, she was supremely confused as to why her bed was half of its usual size. Then she realized that she was not in the bed of her childhood, tucked into the second floor of her parents' home—she was in Bill Weasley's old room at the Burrow.

True, she usually stayed in Ginny's room when she visited the Weasley's, but Molly—bless her—had decided that if Hermione was going to stay for an extended period of time, there was no reason she shouldn't have her own room.

And her stay was definitely going to be extended this time.

She had expected the summer to be a tad uncomfortable. Her parents weren't upset with her choice of the magical world of the Muggle one—hell, her father openly lamented that he hadn't been born a wizard, but they had no real understanding of who she was or what she did anymore.

Still, if that had been the only problem, she would have gotten through the summer quietly, peacefully, if, perhaps, just a tad annoyed at their parental ignorance. Not really so different than any other eighteen-year- old girl.

She'd expected all of that.

What she hadn't expected was to come home to a house divided. Her father perpetually downstairs in front of the telly. Her mother upstairs with a trashy paperback, waiting for a call from her boyfriend—Lloyd. Lloyd, with two fucking L's. What a completely moronic name.

In front of her eyes, Hermione's two childhood heroes, her beloved parents, had reverted to bickering schoolchildren. The blow knocked the emotional breath out of her. So, before she had to chance to go out on another sickening double-date with her mother, Lloyd, and Lloyd's younger cousin, Spencer, Hermione had written a desperate letter to Ginny Weasley.

Within twenty-four long hours, she's received the precious reply from Molly, insisting that she stay the rest of the holiday at the Burrow. Her parents were too caught up in their little feud to dig too deeply behind her excuse that she and Ron had to work on an independent study project over the holiday. Hermione had at least thought they would point out that she'd never mentioned the project before, but then again, her parents had not mentioned their peculiar sleeping arrangements before she's come home either.

Fred and George, eager to show off their new apparating licenses, had arrived to pick her up and take her back home with them. And, with one last look at the house she'd once thought of as her home, she went unhesitatingly with them.

Rolling back over and propping herself up on one elbow, Hermione gazed out of the window next to her bed at the Weasley's unruly garden. She'd thought leaving her house, her parents--her childhood, really—would have been so much harder than it was. I probably hadn't thought of it as my home for some time now, she mused, idly letting one thought flow into another in a way peculiar to having a lie in with the sun streaming onto one's bed.

Which brought up an interesting question; did she really have a home anymore?

She certainly hadn't disowned her parents—she would, of course, still see them on the odd holiday—but she knew things would never be the same between them.

She knew the Weasley's would welcome her as long as she wished to stay, but, as fond as she was of all of them, she had no great desire to make herself one of the family. There had been a time...she stopped herself. Better not to let her mind travel to everything that had passed and not passed between her and Ron. Nothing good down that road, Hermione, My Girl.

Besides, all of this disorder, fine as it was for the summer, would eventually drive her to bloody distraction.

Then there was Hogwarts. It was as close to a 'home' as any place she could think of, but it still didn't quite fit. Of course, Harry and Ron were there, but deep in some dull, repressed part of her mind, she knew they enjoyed each other's company more than her's. Not that they weren't affectionate or friendly towards her, but she knew they shared something she would never be a part of—though she could never quite put her finger on what it was. And , certainly, she and Ginny got on very well, but, well, Ginny loved divination, and that's about all that needed to be said about that.

She sighed deeply and rubbed her eyes. It would be different if there were someone who understood her situation. The constant, nagging feeling of being out of place with everyone and everything around you. Not at home with the muggles or the wizards. Too smart, too eager, not sophisticated enough to understand the rules by which she had to play.

Like a song stuck in the back of her mind, Hermione was vaguely aware of something simple and glorious that she was constantly looking for. The sacred something in the darkness of that blissful realm before she succumbed to sleep each night that called to her like a bloodrush. But, as she had no words to describe it, or memories or experiences to liken it to, she squelched it back once again, to live in those hazy moments between dreaming and waking.

"Hullo! 'Mione? Are you up yet, you lazy arse?"

Hermione smiled into her pillow. No need to get pensive or introspective with Ron Weasley about.