Title: Missing

Summary: Severus Snape was a spy, but he always thought the people he cared about knew which side he was on. A set up, a betrayal, and an attempt at starting again. Eventually HP/SS

Author's Note: I wrote this story years ago. I think it was in 2004, back when my pen name was Tubesox, back when I still wrote in the HP fandom, back before everything changed for Snape, back before we all found out how it ended. Today, I changed my pen name on this site, and as I read my profile, I realized that there are quite a few of my old HP stories that were archived on other sites and never made it here (though I could have sworn this one had). So, I'm posting my oldies. Obviously, these stories are dated and should be labeled AU. Just keep in mind, this was before The End. On with the fic!

December, 1999

Severus Snape pulled at his gloves ineffectually, as if digging his fingers into the leather would make them any warmer. Scowling at the cold, at the crowds, at life in general, he pulled his cloak close to him and maneuvered around the throng of people in the streets of Hogsmeade. It was amazing to him that, even in the middle of war, the congested streets of Christmas were still a constant. Not that Severus was out in the near-blizzard to buy last minute gifts, like the others around him. No, the only thing that could have driven out of his comparatively warm dungeons during the shopping season was duty. Thankfully, this day's duty had to do with Potions, and not a mission for either of his "masters". Finally reaching the apothecary, Severus gratefully ducked into the store's heat and shook the stray snowflakes from his cloak and hair. Normally, he'd browse the store's shelves, but even this place was full to bursting, so he went straight to the counter to pick up his order, excusing himself from being caught in conversation with Hermione Granger, who'd graduated the year before and was now seeking refuge within the castle's walls, along with her two friends and a dozen others who were high on the Dark Lord's list of targets.

"Hello, Matet," Severus greeted the apothecary.

"Professor Snape," the old man greeted warmly. "Here for the scorpion stings?"

"Please," Severus answered, moving closer to the counter to avoid being jostled too much from the people working their ways through the narrow aisles.

" That'll be 7 galleons for this batch," Matet calculated, packing the goods into a magically sealed parcel.

"Just put it on my tab, as usual," Severus answered, carefully slipping the package into the satchel he word beneath his outer cloak.

"I would, Professor Snape, and I know you're good for it, but the funds from your visit Monday didn't come through," Matet said softly, awkwardly, not wanting to embarrass one of his best customers and friends, especially when a handful of people from the school were close by.

"Didn't…are you sure?" Severus asked, his brows knit in a frown.

"'Fraid so. Shall I bill the school for this, then?"

"Yes, yes, that's fine. Here, I have 3 galleons on me, for those dragon scales on Monday. I'll look into it, and I apologize for the inconvenience," Severus added, sliding the money across the counter, the frown on his face hardening into a look of concentration and, if you knew him well enough to see it, concern. In his line of work, surprises were far from welcome.

"Don't trouble yourself too much, Professor. Probably some Goblin cock up," Matet smiled gently.

"We'll see. Have a nice day," Severus said, but was out the door before he could hear Matet's reply.

...ooo...ooo...

A few hours later, Severus was one of the first of the Order to arrive in Albus's office for the nightly strategy meeting.

"Something the matter, Severus?" Remus Lupin asked from his side of the round room. He'd been sitting in his usual chair, reading like always when Severus had arrived, and now that Dumbledore had excused himself to collect some papers from his quarters upstairs, they were alone.

"Nothing of importance," Severus answered, distracted by his thoughts and the burning Dark Mark on his forearm. Tonight it would be, then. "Some confusion about my finances in Hogsmeade," he elaborated, trusting Remus not to read too much into his confession, and not to make any jokes about poverty, as Severus would have surely done if the roles were reversed.

"Have you contacted Gringotts?" Remus asked, and Severus knew that the concern in his voice was not truly for him, but for the chance, slim though it seemed, that someone had breached the bank's security.

"I'm going to London this weekend," Severus answered. "After I return."

"He's calling?"

"Yes."

...ooo...ooo...

That night's meeting went according to script, the same arguments made the night before and the night before that, only minor details like location and time changed. It would have been boring, had it not been for the fact that they were talking about lives, and deaths. Too many deaths, these days, but they couldn't focus on that. Instead, they dug out old issues, some that had been considered settled. One, according to Severus, that had not been.

"Albus, you know the boy. He won't stand for it much longer."

"Severus," the Headmaster sighed, tiring easier these days, they all noticed. "This has been decided. Harry will remain at the safe house, under the protection of the Fidelius Charm, until we are ready to use him." He immediately regretted his choice of words when he saw several faces around him, namely Severus's, Remus's, and Hermione's, redden.

"Listen to you," Severus scoffed. "Potter knows that you think of him this way, Headmaster, and he won't stand for being made a weapon much longer. Mark my words, he'll follow his godfather's poor example soon and get himself killed if you keep him locked up, in the dark."

If they'd asked him, Severus would say that he cared little for Harry Potter, only for the damage he could do to the war efforts should the hot-headed Gryffindor take it upon himself to seek Voldemort out alone. Of course, Severus wasn't a spy for nothing, and, though he was loathe to admit it even to himself, he was concerned for Harry, and for the expectations that they all placed on the young man. And if having him closer might be personally beneficial, who could blame him for wanting Harry closer?

"Harry will stay at the safe house," Albus repeated. "It's the best we can do for him, for now. Respect my decision in this matter, Severus."

"I have to go," Severus muttered. "Duty calls."

Most nights, Albus would have bade him goodbye, good luck. He would have told him to be careful, and to come back safe. But this night, Albus Dumbledore was tired, weary, and he only nodded and politely waved the Potions Master out the door.

...ooo...ooo...

The coming dawn saw Severus Snape, half-crawling along a seemingly abandoned road, trying not to collapse, trying not to cry out in pain. Something's wrong, he thought to himself, and then laughed. Of course something was wrong. He was beaten, wandless, obviously exposed and certainly being tracked. The night had been hell, and that was in comparison to the usual unpleasant visits he had with Voldemort. He'd been punished for his "failings" with an ingestible form of the Imperius Curse. He'd been punished for his success with a low-grade undetectable truth serum. He'd been punished for others' failings, and others' successes. He'd taken it all, hoping to God that Voldemort was just having a bad night, but when the Dark Lord had summoned Severus's wand and snapped it in two, he knew that it was the end. Only, it wasn't. For some reason, he'd been dismissed, and now he was crawling home, bleeding from a stomach wound, gasping through a collapsed lung, and trying not to look at his broken body. He knew that he'd been discovered, knew that he was being followed by two Death Eaters, who'd been 200 yards behind him when he left Voldemort's encampment. He knew that he shouldn't be returning to the cottage he kept in Wales, for just this purpose, for taking time and healing the worst of his injuries before returning to the school. But he reasoned that, if the bastard had found out he was a spy, he most likely knew about the cottage. And, whatever Voldemort hoped, Severus knew that he wasn't leading his hunters back to anything of worth.

A portkey, in the guise of one of the many buttons on his robe, had taken him as close to the cottage as the wards allowed, and now Severus's only hope, as he scrambled down the road, down the hill, around the forest that would clear and show the cottage, was that the haven still stood, that his healing potions were still there, that the second portkey, keyed to his touch, was still hidden and waiting to whisk him back to Hogwarts. But as he rounded the trees, his heart sunk and his face hardened, seeing the cottage, or what was left of it, still in flames. He quickly moved back under the cover of trees, and looked around him. The ones following him hadn't arrived yet, and whoever had destroyed the cottage had left. Severus tried to tell himself that luck was with him, but it wasn't a comforting thought. His last magical resource had been stripped of him and now, beside the few tasks he could perform wandless, he was dependant on Muggle means of clinging to his life. He quickly ran through a mental list of his options, or lack thereof. He had no owl, no fire place. He couldn't chance turning to the closest wizard settlement, 3 miles west of his location. It would be watched. So his last recourse would have to be a letter by post. The only address he knew if within The Order that had access to Muggle post was at the Grangers' in Epsom. So he'd have to somehow get to the village just under a mile away, and find somewhere safe to lay low and send his letter.

A plan decided upon, Severus followed through the best he could. He stuck to the outer edges of the forest, and, when he came to it, the river, following it to Begbaile, the isolated village where his salvation lay. Occasionally, he heard snaps of branches, muffled oaths, behind him. He was still being pursued, and he was both annoyed and near-frightened that he didn't know why he'd been "set free". But the two men on his trail gave him no trouble, and when he finally reached Begbaile and had, ignoring the disgust and concern in the barkeep's face, settled in a booth at the local tavern, he was alone. The Death Eaters hadn't entered the village. From the window, Severus watched as the men came to the edge of the tree line, kicked at the robe Severus had abandoned there, gave a cursory survey of the town, and then Disapparated. They obviously felt secure in the knowledge that Severus was in no condition to get himself back to the safety of Hogwarts.

"What can I get you?" the barkeep asked him.

"Do you know any way I can get to Cardiff?" Severus wheezed, taking a handful of napkins from the holder on the table and pressing them against the wound in his stomach. His shirt was torn and soaked through, but the wound, deep as it was, was also narrow, and he was relieved that he hadn't been disemboweled, contrary to what the level of pain told him.

"We have a clinic here," the man frowned, handing Severus the dish towel he'd been drying his hands with.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," Severus grimaced, calling in his memories of his brief stay in the Muggle world for training. "Well, not really, I'm fucking banged up good and proper, turned my car over. But my wife's in Cardiff, she's in labor and my bloody mobile…well, I need to get there. Any buses, trains?"

"There's a coach, it leaves at noon every day. You've about 4 hours until then. You really ought to get yourself looked at."

...ooo...ooo...

Six hours later, Severus was sitting at the back of the bus, going south to Cardiff. While in Begbaile, he'd let the local doctor stitch the stomach wound, and bandage other superficial cuts and burns. There was nothing that could be done about the broken ribs, but thankfully his lungs were both well and functioning, and the doctor had been understanding about the situation with "his wife", or else he would have insisted that Severus be shipped to the closest hospital, which was in Llanhilleth. The bus fair and a decent breakfast took up most of his reserve of Muggle currency that he always kept on him for emergencies, but he had enough left to pay for postage on the missive sent to the Order, care of the Grangers, explaining the situation and giving them the name of a hotel that he remembered, on the Bristol Channel, just south of Cardiff. It was risky, betraying his plans in a letter that could easily be intercepted, but he had little choice. Even if he knew the number, he couldn't trust the security of the phone lines at the Grangers'. He only hoped that the Death Eaters who had been trailing him through the forest had not seen him board the bus. It was a slim hope, but he would cling to it for now. He would just wait at the hotel, try to keep himself alive, and they would come for him. Only a few days, he told himself. Only a few days.

...ooo...ooo...

"How long has it been now? Three days?"

"Four."

"Christ, do you think he's – ,"

"Enough," Dumbledore snapped, from his desk chair. "I'd rather you two not speculate so."

"Albus," Remus began, softly. It was necessary these days to tread lightly around the Headmaster, especially when it concerned a certain Potions Master. Severus Snape had been missing for four days. "I think it's time that we count Severus as a loss."

"But he may come back," Hermione countered. She had finished her education at Hogwarts the previous year and was now a trusted member of the Order of the Phoenix, and one of the few in the select group that had a friendship of sorts with Snape. "You know that Voldemort sometimes requires things of him that take days longer than he'd expect. There's no reason to think that this is any different."

"Except he's always sent word before," Remus pointed out. Hermione was about to argue when Bill Weasley came into the Headmaster's office.

"Any news of Severus?" Dumbledore asked immediately, offers of tea, sweets, or even a chair lost to his concern.

"It's not good," Bill sighed, sitting beside Remus.

"Has he been found?" Hermione asked.

"It's worse than that," Bill answered grimly, handing her a scroll he had brought with him.

Scanning it quickly, the only sound that could get passed her lips was a strangled, "No!"

"This comes from Gringotts, from the Office of the Muggle Liaison Goblin. It seems that Snape had all of the contents of his family fault transferred to a Muggle bank in Switzerland two days before he left the castle. The same bank that half of the senior Death Eaters have accounts with."

"Are you suggesting that Severus has defected?" Remus asked. "Because this could be smoke and mirrors."

"It's not looking that way, Professor Lupin," Bill answered. "Has my father come yet?"

"Arthur?" Dumbledore asked. "No, we haven't seen him since Wednesday."

"Well, I expect he'll be along shortly."

No sooner than that was said did Arthur Weasley walk through the door with the news that the cottage in Wales where Snape was known to repair to after long missions, taking the time to collect his thoughts, clean the blood off his hands, and heal any wounds before returning to the school, had been razed to the ground.

"Was there any trace of him there?" Remus asked.

"Yes. Magical trace," Arthur answered darkly. "Our aurors have concluded that the damage done was by his own hand. It looks like he's painting the picture of a hero's demise. Ambushed by Death Eaters. He didn't want us to know that…"

"He wouldn't do this," Hermione snapped. "Headmaster, you know he wouldn't do this!"

"I've seen good men go bad before, Hermione," Albus sighed. "Severus proved at seventeen that he had this in him. I just refused to see it."

"That's shite!" Remus yelled, shocking them all, more with his tone than with the uncharacteristic profanity. "Albus, Hermoine's right. He wouldn't do this. It's unforgivable of you to doubt him this way, after all he's done."

"Tell me, Remus, what I should think," Albus said calmly. "He has squirreled away funds. He has destroyed his home. He. Is. Not. Here. What should I think?"

"Anything but this! Maybe he's in trouble, on the run. Maybe he's been discovered. I'm not writing him off as a turncoat."

"He's done it before," Hermione pointed out reluctantly. "Only to the other side."

"He's been more and more hostile with all of us in the Order lately," Bill added. "You know he's been complaining about the situation with Harry."

Severus had indeed been very vocal about the way Dumbledore had virtually placed the young man under house arrest, "for his own good". He'd been bringing it up at every meeting, saying that Harry couldn't last in seclusion much longer, often likening him to Sirius Black.

"Maybe he wanted Harry out in the open so he'd be more vulnerable to Voldemort," Arthur suggested.

"You're all resigned to think the worst of him," Remus growled.

"He wasn't happy with his role, either," Hermione continued, as if trying to convince herself that Snape was a traitorous bastard. "He thought you were putting his life at unnecessary risk," she said, looking at Dumbledore. "That you were asking too much of him."

"And you were!" Remus accused. "Every time he came back, he was more hurt than before. It was like Voldemort knew that he was working for us. So, maybe this time, he was angry enough to…"

"We don't know Snape was hurt for sure," Bill interrupted. "I mean, he'd always heal the 'serious injuries' himself at the cottage. How do we know he was ever tortured? He could have made it all up."

They were all quiet for a very long time.

"Albus, will you let me go look for him?" Remus asked.

"Remus, I think it's time that we count Severus as a loss."

"I'm going to look for him," Remus insisted.

"Remus, you've been wrong before," Dumbledore said softly, but sternly. "The situation with Sirius. Maybe you're reaching -."

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Remus hissed, a glow in his eyes causing Hermione to tense at his side, and to remember how dangerous he could be.

"Professor Lupin, you will remain in this castle until ordered elsewhere," Dumbledore ordered calmly, every aspect of him daring Remus to contradict him, save his eyes, which were pleading with him to understand.

"You're wrong," Remus whispered, but when he left the room, he returned to his office, just as Dumbledore had bid. He didn't plan on staying there long. Everything he knew told him that Severus was still on their side, and that he'd been taken from them, and should be found and taken back. Everything he knew told him that this is what he owed the man. But the war pressed on, and plans, and brothers in arms, were laid to waste, and Severus Snape fell through Remus Lupin's fragile grasp.

Dumbledore sighed when Remus left his office, but was distracted from the meeting by an owl that alighted his windowsill. Reading the letter, his heart grew heavy. He looked around the room, deciding who should go, and knowing who must stay.

"Kingsley," he commanded in a weary but hard voice, "bring Severus Snape in."

Kingsley Shacklebolt set his face, nodded, and left.

"The rest of you are dismissed. Except you, Miss Granger. Please stay. We have something to discuss."

...ooo...ooo...

"Snape, surrender your wand, put your hands on the wall, and there will be no need for this to become unpleasant," Kingsley instructed, using a voice he'd acquired growing up, helping rescued griffins and other skittish, caged, wounded animals on his grandmother's farm.

"This is ridiculous," Severus panted, winded from dodging curses the junior aurors had thrown at him, before Shacklebolt had ordered them out of the room. It was now the fifth day since Severus had been tortured by Voldemort, but his wounds were still fresh, as was this new blossoming pain, that of betrayal. When he'd heard the faint popping sounds outside the window of his ground floor room, he'd been relieved, not caring which side it was, only that it was over. He'd even laughed, with joy, when Kingsley had caught his glance. But then his stomach surged when he saw the look in the Auror's face, and the shock from it kept him inside his room, rather than urging him to run away from whatever mistake this was. It was a stupid mistake, he knew, letting himself expect things like trust and compassion of his comrades.

"You've been discovered, Snape," Shacklebolt went on.

"Obviously!" Severus answered, gesturing towards his stomach, to a wound that Shacklebolt couldn't see, for the shirt covering it.

"Bill found out about the Swiss bank account. Arthur found the cottage, the magical signature."

While Shacklebolt listed the charges, Severus added it all up in his head. The mistake at the apothecary. The portkey in the cottage that no one knew about. His own history, his name, his House, everything. It was damning.

"Kingsley, this is a mistake," Severus said calmly. "I've been set up. Voldemort found me out…I've been set up. The Grangers! I sent them a letter days ago! I explained…why would I give up my location if I was defecting?"

Shacklebolt's brow furrowed, doubt clouded his eyes, but he'd been trusted with a task and had little choice but comply with Dumbledore's orders. Besides, maybe it was a lie. Maybe the bastard… "The Grangers are dead," he announced coldly.

"Wha…no," Severus hissed.

"The house was set aflame. They were locked inside. We found you through leads from Begbaile."

"The Grangers…," Severus whispered, not knowing what to say, but sure what was coming next.

"If you did send a letter, as you say, how did you know the address?"

"Don't be an idiot," Severus snapped. "I'm in the Order, for fuck's sake."

"You weren't in on those meetings," Shacklebolt countered coldly. "We made sure you weren't in any meetings where locations of safe houses were discussed."

"Hermione. I went there with Hermione, ask her," Severus snarled, his only way of keeping the whimper from his voice. He couldn't believe this was happening. He couldn't believe that, after all he'd given these people, they could think this of him. He couldn't believe he was surprised.

"Surrender your wand, put your hands on the wall," Shacklebolt repeated. "Come on, Snape. Don't make this harder on yourself than it has to be."

"I don't fucking have my wand!" he fairly shrieked.

"Turn around, hands on the wall."

There was nothing he could do. Nothing. He couldn't duel Kingsley, not without a wand. And there was no way he could take him on physically. There was only one chance. Wandless magic. But it would have to be powerful enough to knock the man out, give him time to escape, to collect proof of his innocence. To get his life back. But Severus only knew one spell powerful enough to do that, only one spell that he'd been trained to do wandless since the age of nine.

"Crucio."

Kingsley collapsed, dropped his wand. Severus knew he needed it, but decided simply to use it to ward the door, and then threw it out of the auror's reach. Being considered "armed and dangerous" would only get him killed. Looking down at the screaming man, the man he had considered something of a friend, Severus briefly took pity. He knelt, grabbing at Kingsley's hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Ask Matet, Ask Hermione. And it was a portkey." He knew he wasn't making sense, especially to a man howling in pain. So he retrieved the wand, stopped the curse and petrified the man. And then, hurrying out the window to avoid the junior aurors, dropping the wand, running to the beach, Severus realized what he'd done. He'd burned his bridges. He'd made it impossible to go back home. Really, he'd given them all, the Order, the Death Eaters, he'd given them all enough rope to hang him with. That thought in mind made him run that much faster towards the shore.

...ooo...ooo...

"What the fuck is he doing?"

The younger of the two Death Eaters had just run up to join his companion, having been previously occupied buying them both some sandwiches and drinks. Now, he was watching Severus Snape pace the shoreline, occasionally glancing back at the hotel, but unaware of his more sinister audience.

The senior Death Eater simply leaned back against the wall of the changing room on the beach, where they'd been stationed all morning. He lit a cigarette, took the food from the other's hand, and silently watched the unraveling of their former comrade.

"He's trying to escape!" the younger man laughed, as Severus Snape stripped off his shirt and dove into the freezing water, as if planning to swim to England.

"He's trying to kill himself," his companion answered, bored.

"What's the difference?"

A few well-placed stunning hexes and a summoning spell later, and Severus Snape was a prisoner of war. One that had no hope of rescue.

...ooo...ooo...

Harry sat on the sofa, panting, oblivious to the damage he'd just done, save for the blood pouring from a ripped fingernail. The house was in shambles, torn apart. Just like him. He felt like he was going mad, trapped in this miserable place, while Hermione…

He'd gotten the letter the day before. He'd never been close to Hermione's parents, not like he had with the Weasleys, but he still needed to be there for the funeral. For Hermione. Only he couldn't. He couldn't leave the house, couldn't even speak to her, only send letters that were torn open and read by who knows how many Order members, checking for tracing spells and for any classified information he might have let slip. It was painfully lacking as far as solace goes, a second-hand letter a week too late. But, because of Dumbledore, it was all Harry could give, which is why the house looked like a bludger had been set loose within its close walls.

And the news about Snape was nearly as bad, as far as Harry was concerned. It was a testament to how well and truly cast out the Potions Master was, that the whole sordid story was deemed tame enough, pedestrian enough, to come to Harry through strictly regulated channels. Twice. Both Remus and Hermione, surprisingly enough in her grief, told Harry about the latest twist of fate, and it was easy enough for him to discern what his friends thought. It just wasn't Snape. Remus and Hermione had "friendships" to fall back on for faith in the man, but to Harry, the matter simply boiled down to this: Severus Snape was not sloppy. Yet here he was, discovered as a traitor, nearly caught, close to desperate in his claims of innocence. Harry conceded that he didn't really know the man, no matter what they'd done together the last time they'd met, but he'd often imagined, in his youth, the day when all his hatred for the greasy bastard would be justified, the day when they found out he was really a Death Eater. And this fantasy either featured a vindictive Snape, a manipulative Snape, or a dead Snape, but never, never a pleading, running Snape. The man was just too stubborn.

Harry sighed, and surveyed the damage he had wrought. It was all a distraction from the big picture, he knew, just like this new fixation on the Snape Situation. But what else could he think about? What else did he have? Four walls, and fatalism. And nothing good to eat. So who could blame him for welcoming distractions?

He went to the writing desk by the window, stepping over broken vases and turned-over lamps, contemplating writing Hermione that letter of sympathy. Or empathy. But what should he say, when she already knew he still had nightmares about his parents dying? "It'll get better," was a lie, "I'm sorry," was woefully inadequate, and he couldn't even tell her that he was there for her, because, obviously, he wasn't. Which was the whole bloody point.

So instead, he wrote to Ron, who very well could have been one of the junior aurors that was sent to apprehend Snape, for all he knew. Time and distance was more of a strain in that friendship than either had anticipated, or even thought possible. Harry wrote for nearly an hour. About how the Cruciatus was a bastard thing to do, but more about how things didn't look right. Why was Snape alone in some hotel? What did that bartender mean, saying Snape was in bad shape? What happened to Snape's wand? Where the hell was he?

In the end, Harry didn't send the letter. In all likelihood, it wouldn't have made it past the screeners anyway. And what would it change? Ron would call Snape a greasy git, and defer to Dumbledore, who had already written Snape off as a backstabber, and who would never change his mind about anything, or anyone, until it was too late. No, Harry didn't send that letter. But he did finally write Hermione, telling her he was sorry. He knew she'd understand. And hopefully, she'd understand why he couldn't stay in this fucking house one day longer.