Written for Red Strings of Fate - Severus Space Challenge
Challenge: Red Strings of Fate
-Dates: December 25th through February 15th.
-Guidelines/Prompt: Somehow, everyone in the world (or magical world only) wakes up with red strings tying them to the person they are meant to be with. Your explanation or backstory for this event is up to you. It must involve Snape and your ideal partner for him (Though can be platonic, I am writing one about destiny and defying expectations). Minimum 2000 words.
-NSFW is allowed
Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 4643
A/N: AU
I had (or wanted) to make a few decisions of my own with regard to this amazing idea so thoughtfully provided by vampiric so no matter how many stories he might get, each would be unique. I hope I do this justice.
While I will be confining this to the Magical world (although I have it in mind that it also affects Muggles, they just can't see it), there is no clarity as to if this is only for "adults" or not — and what constitutes "adult" anyway — so I'll be playing in the margins here. This is *very* influenced by my thoughts on Snape and the only Rowling character I can truly envision as a mate for him: Hermione. The age difference is always a factor, and a distasteful one for many readers. While it is notably more acceptable once Hermione is no longer a student (and specifically his student), there is an element of uncertainty here with the sudden appearance of this "red string" and what it means for one's destiny and their own role in determining it.
Also, the more I delve into this, the more I find it my own concept of the "red thread" as being heavily influenced by Pullman's imagery of dæmons in His Dark Materials trilogy. I must acknowledge that there is nothing new under the sun and concede that I will toy with the idea that "soulmates" may change, like dæmons, until one reaches maturity — maturity being relative to age and, more importantly, mental state.
I'm a big believer in discomfort and that the challenge it provides gives us the impetus to grow. I'm looking forward to seeing where this one takes me.
With many thanks to the beautiful imagery and poetic lyrics that of Neil, Alex and Geddy. So many things in my life are better with Rush for a soundtrack.
Freeze this moment
A little bit longer
Make each sensation
A little bit stronger
Make each impression
A little bit stronger
Freeze this motion
A little bit longer
The innocence slips away
Time Stand Still
Severus had woken up that morning as if it had been any other. He had no advance warning that anything had changed; that his whole world had slid out from beneath him while he slept.
"But why? How?" he cried, crumbling to the floor, his legs no longer able to support him.
"We're not sure," came Dumbledore's subdued reply. He made an effort to stand apart from his former student; his eyes focused on something just above Severus' head so as not to appear too interested. "There were magical forces at play that have gone unstudied for quite a long time — perhaps centuries. We are still trying to figure out how the child survived the attack."
He went on, monotone, as Severus sobbed and shook silently. "These red threads are also some sort of side-effect of Voldemort's demise, the importance of which are still yet unknown." Dumbledore's ability to empathize with others had always been stunted; it made him an effective leader, but a poor friend.
We all have our faults.
Severus' grief consumed him. He disappeared from the general society of the school for several weeks, foregoing classes and even meals. Rumours swirled about the student body that he was actually dead; a morbid, if believable tale considering the tumultuous times they were all trying to navigate. And it was most certainly the sort of gossip that Minerva McGonagall would not put up with for long. She used all means and methods to coax Severus back into the — including a very real threat to remove him from his position in favor of making his Professor Sprout's assistant in the greenhouses!
Minerva also recruited help. Poppy Pomfrey, her chosen partner in crime, also had a nasty habit of bending the rules to care for her 'patient' despite his insistence that he was not ill. She seemed to have an army of rogue House Elves at her disposal to nag him at all hours of the day and night. And between the two of them, they managed to prop him up behind his desk for classes, and force feed him broth until the palid sheen of his skin dissipated into its more normal — if still pale — appearance.
It was only then — a month or so after the initial event — that he noticed it. The red threads.
It seemed that every one of his colleagues had one; a small thread that seemed to hover just below the left clavicle. Severus had, initially, mistaken it as a stray strand from a minor repair when it caught his eye on Sybill Trelawney's robes — using red thread on a black robe seemed completely in-character for Sybill — but she recoiled from him as he went through the excessive courtesy (for him) to remove it.
"Merlin, Severus!" she cried, as if he had caused her physical pain. "Have you no boundaries?" She stalked off in a completely uncharacteristic way, leaving Severus more confused than ever. He rebuked himself for even attempting the friendly gesture and thought nothing more of it.
It took him many weeks more to understand in full the nature of his offense.
It was another September first — one like many before. Yet, as the newest students entered the Great Hall, Severus was stricken with pain; it was like he was being stabbed. Even before the sorting had begun, he found himself clasping his chest — the pain was excruciating. It had been years since he'd even thought about his father, but as he gasped for air, Tobias' pained face drifted up into his consciousness. A heart attack, was what they all said. Is it my turn now, too?
Severus took advantage of the jostling and excitement in the Hall to slip out of the room through the small, auxiliary door just behind the dias. It was there that he ran into Dumbledore.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
"The infirmary," Severus answered through gritted teeth. "My chest—"
Dumbledore moved deceptively quick, grabbing Severus' hand away from his robes. He seemed to be looking for something, but what, he neglected to say. He only moved his eyes from Severus' chest to his face, searching, probing with those piercing blue eyes.
After another moment's hesitation, he finally spoke. "Yes, by all means. See if Poppy can take a look. We'll get on without you for the evening." He glanced back at Severus' chest one more time before gathering up his robes and turning away. Severus took it as his permission to leave, and did so.
His visit to the Infirmary was uneventful. Poppy Pomfrey thought he might be suffering from heartburn or indigestion, and recommended he take up a bland diet for a few days and gave him a vial of his own anti-nausea potion. Severus felt better just having left the crowded confines of the hall, but went ahead and implemented the protocol specified. It didn't cost him much; only a few minor food selections, and — honestly — a hearty appetite was never Severus' strong suit.
He felt like himself in no time.
"How are you holding up?" Minerva asked. She had sidded up beside him in the Great Hall and was using the extraordinary din of a holiday meal to affect. While it wasn't unusual for the professors to talk, or even for he and Minerva to share a sentence or two, an extended conversation would not have gone unnoticed.
Clever.
"As best as can be expected," he answered, his eyes still downcast on his own plate — his hair a curtain of privacy between them.
"It is a nasty business you are involved in," she murmured between dainty sips of soup. Hunched over her own bowl, she was an inconspicuous as humanly possible. "I don't know if there is anyone else who is better suited to it, though." A thin smile graced her lips and she placed a hand over his own, if only briefly. "At least you are spared the grief of these 'red strings of fate'."
"Indeed." It was the expected response, he knew, but his mind was a whirl of confusion. Red strings of fate? He thought back to Sybill — to the threads he'd seen on colleagues, and even students. He found himself with more questions than answers, but he could not get them here. Involuntarily, his hand went to his chest, giving away for anyone who cared to see that which he had gone to great pains to hide. Not spared.
When, at last, the train had pulled away, and the students remaining within the castle over the winter break had been relegated to their dormitories for the evening, Severus made his way to Minerva's personal rooms. Almost no one worked as well into the night as he; Minerva was an exception. She could always be found burning her candle to a nub. She and Dumbledore.
He knocked lightly against the already ajar door. "Minerva?" he asked, hesitant.
"Come," she said. "I've been expecting you."
"Have you?" Her ability to read him was always a surprise.
She looked up from her desk and pulled off her glasses to see him better. "You weren't fooling anyone at dinner this evening," she said with a wry smile. Her eyes drifted to his chest. "How do you hide it?"
"What is it?" he whispered back, stepping deeper into the room.
"Let's start from the beginning, then," she said, pushing back from the desk and crossing the room towards the fireplace. With a lazy wave of her wand, she set a fire to blaze, plumped pillows in adjoining seats and started a kettle to warm for tea. "Come, sit," she motioned. "It's going to be a long night."
By the time they got down to the crux of the matter, Minerva had had to replenish the logs in the hearth three times over. Severus rubbed his eyes. His mind was awash of conflict and confusion. "I just don't understand how we know this," he stated again for what seemed like the hundredth time.
"Certainly, you are not the only one," Minerva agreed, topping up his cup before her own. "And yes, there is some debate about how it works."
"I'm not even talking about how, Minerva," he seethed. His fatigue was taking its toll. "Excuse me," he rejoined quickly, "I am just frustrated. And confounded. And exhausted…"
"We can always pick this up at a later date," she offered, her eyes glancing briefly at the clock on the wall. It was about to strike three.
"It's only…" Severus hesitated. It was the part of the whole thing that bothered him most. Her.
"You thought your love was gone." Minerva filled in with empathy what Severus couldn't find a way to say.
"Yes."
"Can I show you something?" She rose gingerly. It was evident that from the way she stood, still a bit hunched, that she had been sitting too long. Severus stood, too, and offered her a hand, but she refused. "It'll straighten itself out once I start walking," she offered, and made her way to the door. He followed, and they headed down the dark and quiet hall.
In utter silence, with only the guttering of the occasional candle in a hallway sconce to accompany them did Minerva and Severus make their way towards the library. Once inside, she raised a finger to her lips, reminding him to be even quieter still as they crept up on the Restricted Section. Within, Albus Dumbledore worked next to his own nub of a candle, his nose buried in one book while his quill took notes of its own volition next to him from another.
Beside the late hour, nothing particularly looked amiss to Severus. He turned his face back towards Minerva to mime his confusion when he saw it; her red thread, floating out and away from her body, pulling taughtly towards the only other person in the room. She met his gaze with sad chagrin and after another moment of observance, moved to leave. Severus stayed only another second or two on his own, to see if Albus had noted them before making to catch up with his friend.
She only spoke again after they were almost back at her rooms. "So, you see," she started, quietly, "we still really don't fully understand what they mean."
Severus felt that he understood all too well what they meant from that display. We can't always get what we want. "I'm afraid I understand even less now," he replied, without irony.
"You aren't the only one."
"You love him?"
"In a fashion," she answered, her voice quiet, and a bit less confident than Severus had grown used to. "We are old, Severus," she laughed. "Love isn't the same for us." She stopped before the door to her rooms, turning to thwart his progress. He would not be invited back in.
But it almost seems as if the threads yearn, he thought. How can it not be love as I remember it?
"Would you call it platonic?"
Her face crumpled. "I would call it — unequal," she finished with effort.
"What you mean is unrequited." It had slipped out before he could stop it. She did not correct him; or meet his gaze. "I know that feeling all too well."
"The hour is late, Severus," she said, unlatching her door and passing through. "Perhaps there is more to discuss, but we will have to resume it some other time."
"Minerva, I— "
"Not at all, Severus," she interrupted him. "I know you meant no ill by it. Now, if you will, I'll take my leave." And with that, she closed her door, leaving him in the dark hallway to mull over his own thoughts for what remained of the night.
She approached him after class, as was her want when she had not been allowed to make her point in class. Severus found it equal parts charming and irritating. Today would prove to be a much greater dose of the later. His patience — and his ability to fend off the overly curious — was wearing thin.
"Professor," she demanded — there could be no two ways about it — "I just am not sure that the approach for such a complicate—
"Miss Granger," he boomed, immediately shutting down whatever well-thought-out argument she was about to launch into. "Surely you have considered that people have other things to do besides stay behind after class and conduct a completely separate set of instruction with you on a whim. Yes?" She nodded, meekly, tears dangerously close to spilling out of her eyes. It was so unlike her that he could not help but admonish himself.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice lowered to almost a whisper. "I am frustrated, but not with you." He put down his quill and folded his long, delicate fingers together, and raised his eyes to look at her full in the face. He hoped his heart did not betray him. "Is there something I can help you with, Miss Granger?"
She quickly wiped her eyes and met his gaze. He could not help but admire her ferocity. It burned in her so brightly, he wondered how no one else could see it. "I had a question about method, Professor," she asked, her voice toned down — chastened. "About how to go about testing a theory, actually."
It seemed like a normal question — at least for Hermione Granger — so he relaxed a bit. "Understanding what you are testing will dictate how you go about testing it," he started, "which is a bit of a catch-22 since testing it how you discover what something is." He found himself smirking, which was as close to smile as he was want to get. Narcissa had once mentioned to him that it gave him a bad-boy sort of look. At the time he'd taken it as a compliment, but upon remembering it and his current situation, he immediately retracted to his solemn scowl.
"Start with what you do know," he recommended. "Test that, and be sure to record your results. They will lead you to your next phase of criteria."
"Is it the same no matter the subject?" she asked.
"It should be. Have you something in mind?" He raised an eyebrow, but was careful to keep his mouth in a firmly grim line.
"Yes," she said, waving her wand, quickly over her chest. "These." Hermione was one of the fortunate ones whose House Crest almost entirely concealed the thread being that it was of like colours; yet it was undeniably there, fully extended from her chest as if it were reaching for something. For me.
He felt his stomach turn inside-out; it was a perfect accompaniment to the pressure that had settled over his chest. Her thread was most definitely pointed at him; and he was equally certain that his was straining towards her own, but he wasn't going to remove his glamour to confirm it. Truly, there is no need. He shook his head, his face angling back down towards the scroll on his desk and his hair fell to shield his pained expression. "Dark Magic is not to be toyed with by young, inexperienced witches," he said, softly.
"I'm not sure it is Dark Magic, Professor," she replied, equally softly. Has she taken a step closer? "But I intend to find out." When he raised his eyes back up through his hair, she was still looking at him; forthright and determined. "Many students are scared and confused," she said, by way of explanation. She's been planning this — reheasing it, even. "I want to help them," she hesitated, losing her composure just a fraction. "And myself," she finished timidly, delivering the very last of her statement to her own feet. Severus found himself noticing how the little light he got in this dank lab seemed to be reflected ten-fold in the curls of her hair.
"Start with what you know," he repeated, unable to look away. He knew he should not encourage her; knew he had to find a way to divert her attentions.
"I'm not sure what I know," she said, her eyes returning to meet his gaze. She had audacity for one so young.
"Few of us are," he replied. Truer words were ne'er spoken. "Try and take your feelings out of it." The suggestion served him twofold; it gave her a task while also taking him out of the equation. At least, that was his hope.
"To give myself objectivity," she suggested, brightening.
"Yes. Professional distance," he returned. "Treat it as if it were a potion. Be gentle, consistent, patient."
"I will, Professor," she said with a slight smile. "I will."
He knew she would. Nothing distracts Hermione Granger.
He was making his way back from a late night visit to the Astronomy Tower when Albus confronted him.
"We need to talk, Severus."
"Do we?" Severus was more cagey around Albus now that the Dark Lord had made his return public. He could never be certain that they were fully alone and not being watched. It made their relationship even more tenuous.
"Don't play games with me," Dumbledore growled, waving his wand in a grand sweeping motion. Severus assumed that he was engaging a strong silencing charm of some kind. "You!" he charged, pointing his almost skeletal finger into the long black robes. "You of all people!"
Severus immediately backed up a step, swatting the finger aside. "Me of all people what, Albus?"
The older gentleman reached up, grabbing at Severus' chest and yanking on the as-yet invisible thread that floated above his heart. Severus hadn't realized that it would cause him physical pain until it was too late. He grunted and folded in half, straining to get away from Albus' grasp.
"Good Merlin," he gasped, pain clear on his face. "Stop. Stop!"
Albus twisted the string around his finger, drawing his colleague closer. "I thought you would be immune?" he hissed. "I thought you, of all people, would be safe!"
Severus scrambled, his mind only bent on ending the pain. He found himself clutching at anything that would end it; and that was when he realized what was really happening. He looked up slowly, meeting Albus' eyes, and let out a scream of realization as he tried desperately to close his mind. "No!"
"It is what he'll use against you once he finds out," Albus repled. Severus thought he sounded pitiless, but what did he know. All he could hear were the screams in his head. Screams of witches and wizards gone by who had desperately tried to protect their parents — their spouses — their children from Voldemort's clutches by resisting him. In the end, once the torture had ravaged them to nothing but husks, their cries all sounded the same. Like his did, right now.
"He will find her and torture her, and you in your turn. He will take everything from you, every exquisite ounce of pain you give him, and only then he will kill you."
"No," he whispered. "I don't love her. I can't love her."
Albus yanked on his chest again, pulling at the thread as if he might removed Severus' spine and his soul from his very body in one yank. "Tell me again?" he ground out as Severus writhed in pain. "Tell me you don't love her?"
The screams echoed out over the lake well into what was left of the night, but in the end, it was always the same.
"Don't ever tell her," Albus insisted, quietly, as he knelt down by the heaving, dark form lying on the slate. "Spare her that." The old wizard rose slowly, as if he felt every one of his extended years all of a sudden. "Allow her to think herself alone in her feelings. It may be all that saves her, in the end."
Severus didn't remember acquiescing; only the sound of footsteps slowly moving away from him as the light of dawn graced the eastern sky.
He lay in the darkness of the Boathouse, unable to move. His insides were on fire as the venom made its way, slowly, through his veins. It was all there was left to feel, until the thread on his chest fluttered and stirred. He hadn't thought about it in so long; he certainly no longer possessed the power to mask it. It lay out in the open on his chest, a bright red tether to a world he was rapidly leaving.
"I knew it," she whispered. He could feel the warmth of her as she crouched close, but found he was unable to turn his head to see her. No matter; if he knew anything anymore, it was that Hermione Jean Granger would get what she came for.
"Why," she said, louder than before but none too shrill. The war still raged around them; no need to call unwanted attention to themselves. They were both vulnerable now.
"Why would you lie to me?" He could hear her fussing with things behind him; the pop of a stopper was unmistakable, but beyond that, he could only struggle to figure out what she might be doing. The stringent sting of Dittany was a jolt; he felt himself clench what few muscles he still had control over in pain. He made no sound.
"Did you think I didn't know?" she said, soothingly. She laid something warm and comforting over his throat. "How could I not?" Her speech had softened again to a whisper. He still could not see her face, but her voice betrayed the blush on her cheeks. Warmth began to radiate through his body, and somehow, he was certain it had nothing to do with the compress she had applied at his neck. His throat convulsed, and he opened his mouth as if to speak.
"Shhh…" she said. "Not yet." She ducked into his line of sight for the first time. She was filthy; her hair a terrible knot of grime and curls she had skewered back away from her face. Her beautiful face. He clothes were equally rumpled and dirty, yet her thread was plain; bright and red and curled onto her jacket like a small pin. It laid flat against her chest, shaped like a half a heart. He could not help but feel soothed by it.
"Drink," she whispered, pressing the vial to his lips. As she cradled his head, he could not help but notice that she had a series of vials lined up. She had come prepared. He felt a surge, a flush of heat — but if it was the Blood Replenisher or her proximity, he could not tell. She reached forward, gently tracing the outline of his own thread. His eyes closed, his life still hanging in the balance, he could only feel the light touch of her finger copying the distinct shape a half a heart as it lay on his breast. "You said it would change," she murmured, "but it never did. Not once."
Despite his precarious state, he knew if he did not speak he might never get the chance to again. His desperate gasps at words from his mutilated throat would never do. There was so much to say; and so little time. His decision was more desperate impulse than anything proven. Somehow, he knew it would work.
"There is much and more we do not know about this spell," he spoke into her mind. He hadn't gotten permission; there wasn't time. Hermione's eyes went wide, but she grasped what was happening quickly, as he knew she would. He made an attempt to look at her more directly. "I was only trying to protect you."
"Protect me from you?" she smiled, sadly. She kept her hand busy at his neck, muttering curses under her breath every so often as she filled yet another bandage with the blood still seeping from his wound.
"Maybe just protect you from this silly notion of destiny; or fate; or whatever monstrousness this is." He felt some strength returning to his body despite his firm knowledge of how dire his situation truly was. He reached up and took one of her hands from his throat, holding it tightly to his chest. "The Dark Lord is ever one for terrible tricks." Didn't we all get what we asked for in some horrible fashion or another?
His eyes closed and Hermione let out a little gasp, fearing the worst. Even in her mind, his voice was weakening; as was his grip. She strengthened her grasp and his eyes refocused.
Severus strained against the growing darkness at the edges of this eyes. For all her efforts, all her faith…
"I never trusted that this 'curse' he put on us all was any more than a cruel joke. One last laugh at the small, insignificant lives we all end up living." His chest heaved as he struggled to get in enough air.
"Stop, Severus," she said, her voice louder than he would have wished since any one could be lurking nearby. It put her in danger. But he would have given anything in his power to hear her say his name again. "You're weakening yourself."
"Did you think I'd survive?" He almost managed a smile. "Did you think we'd live 'Happily ever after'?" His face resolved itself into a grimace of pain, and sadness. "That was never meant for me. THAT is the only destiny I know."
Hermione sat back on her heels, her eyes brimming with tears. "And me?" she cried. "What happens to me?"
"That is what I've been trying to tell you all along. You will go on, and be brilliant, and be loved. Soulmates aren't real. Only an illusion we sell to ourselves." He felt so tired, all he wanted to do was close his eyes, but he would not give back one moment. He stared at her, wondering how, after all these years and all his certainty, it might be this — the beauty of love and its return. A kiss before dying.
"I thought I'd loved as powerfully as man could, already," he continued. He needed her to understand before he left this plane. "I knew it with the conviction of a zealot. I had had my soulmate, and she had been taken from me — first by anger, and then by death." He could barely make out the color of her eyes, no longer sure if it was the encroaching night that clouded his vision.
"It wasn't until years later when I realized that I had replaced her. I came to love my deception, and the role I played. I loved it more than I had ever been able to love her, because it was mine — and she never was." He heard, more than saw Hermione's tears; and he ached for her. He knew all too well what she was feeling.
"And now it will be the same for me," she sobbed, her voice a soft scrape of whisper in the quiet. The explosions had stopped. Something around them was changing.
"No," he insisted, squeezing her hand again to help him push through. "That is what I need you to recognize. There is life after loss. There is love, too, if you allow it to be." It took everything he had left to bring her fingers to his lips, to feel the delicate touch of her skin on his for just a moment. "Don't waste it with anger or lament." He closed his eyes, pulling from the very dredges of his reserves. "Go after your life with gusto, with fire. Love it fiercely. Don't be afraid."
"I'm not, Severus," she whispered, pressing her lips to his face as her fingers slipped from his grip, his body going slack. "I never was."