Chapter Six: "A potions test"

"Any change?" Ron asked Poppy Pomfrey. His normally cheery face looked thin and drawn, his eyes tired. A stubble of reddish beard tracked down his cheeks. He had visited the infirmary every day and spent at least an hour each morning and evening sitting between Diana and Terry's beds. He chatted about everything from Quidditch practice to the weather, as if they could hear. Poppy did nothing to discourage him, for she had run out of all other options.

The previous afternoon, Minerva had dispatched an owl to Ethelwyn Trickett, one of St. Mungo's most famous healers. Ron had greeted that news with loud relief, but Poppy knew how difficult it had been for Minerva to issue that plea. Healer Trickett's controversial method of healing the body by exorcising dark forces from the mind had failed on only a few occasions, but the first—many years ago—had meant the death of someone close to Minerva. Exactly how close Poppy didn't know, but sending that owl was a measure of Minerva's desperation.

Healer Trickett had arrived that night. Grey-haired and grandmotherly, she exuded a cheerful calm that Poppy found reassuring. Wasting no time, the healer had gone directly to Diana and Terry. Asking Poppy and Minerva to stay as witnesses, the healer invoked both Life Maps. Bathed in that coruscating light, she examined both maps closely and in silence. Then she stood between the two comatose students, one hand on each of their foreheads, her eyes closed, body tense with concentration. At last she swayed and sagged, her hands falling to her sides. "They've gone somewhere I've never travelled—and wherever it is, I can't follow," she said, all cheer gone from her voice, leaving it ragged and weary. Meeting Minerva's grimly critical gaze, she had explained that the children's life pathways were too fragile. "My smallest intervention would destroy them." After a bitter pause, Healer Trickett turned her head away. "I'm so sorry."

On the heels of that bad news came worse: according to Arthur Weasley, Hermione had failed to arrive for work at the Ministry two days ago. Ron had taken the news in grim-lipped silence, but Hagrid had been inconsolable. It was all Minerva could do to stop him from charging headlong into the Forest and pulling up every tree by its roots, Interdiction or no.

Now Poppy rested a gentle hand on Terry's forehead. His skin looked more grey than brown, and he breathed in shallow little spurts. Diana looked gaunt, her closed eyes shadowed, a shade of the vigorous and athletic Head Girl she had been less than a week ago.

"No change," Poppy said to Ron. "But they're no worse." Earlier, she had managed to coax some water into each of them, but still no solid food. Soon she would have to ask the potions mistress, Madam Heatherfield, to concoct another batch of an emergency nutritional lotion that allowed patients to absorb nutrients through their skin. It would keep their bodies alive for a while, but with their mind-paths fading and dying, what good would that do?

She offered Ron her best professional smile. "Keep talking to them, though," she said. Healer Trickett had said they were lost, but perhaps a calm, cheerful voice talking about everyday things might help, she thought, like a long line of buoys straggling across a pitch-dark ocean. But Ron held her eyes, and she sensed he wasn't fooled by her bedside manner.

"When are we going to tell their parents?" he said.

"The headmistress has already written to them."

"And what did she say?"

"Not to worry. That it's a bit too soon for them to visit."

"Too soon?" At Poppy's frown, Ron lowered his voice. "More like too late," he muttered. Then, with a long sigh—"Right. Well, I'll stay a few more minutes, yeah? I haven't told them yet what Sweeney did to the Snitch today. Pretty funny. They might—" he looked at Diana and Terry, and his voice softened "—enjoy hearing that."

"I'm sure they will," said Poppy, and reached toward the water pitcher. But Ron, still looking at the students, put his hand on her arm.

"When they find Hermione," he said very quietly, "What if she's like them?"

Poppy hesitated, knowing not to resort to platitudes, but unable, for a moment, to think of anything reassuring to say. According to Minerva, Firenze and his centaurs were scouring the Forest for Hermione. Minerva's interdiction had rendered it off-limits to everyone else, even the Aurors Arthur Weasley wanted to send. Yet the power of the centaurs came from centuries of stewardship over the Forest, not actual control. What if the Forest and its creatures decided to heed them no more?

"She's the strongest witch I know," she finally said. "If anyone is capable of fighting back, it's she."

Ron looked at her, his blue eyes opaque. For once she couldn't read him. Resigned, enraged, beyond despair, guilt-ridden? He might have been all of those things, or none.

"Right," he said softly. Then he turned and sat himself down between the two beds, resting his elbows on his knees. As he began to talk quietly, Poppy refilled the patients' water glasses and turned toward her office.

She had taken only a few steps when she stopped short. A dark figure stood just inside the infirmary door, face hidden in the dim light. Yet she hadn't heard anyone come in. Had Minerva called another healer? But no: surely the headmistress would have told her first.

The figure did not move, and Poppy found herself thinking of the name Diana had screamed out three days ago. Her heart began to hammer.

Hermione swam in warmth. She lay, eyes closed, aware of nothing but the pillow beneath her cheek, the comforting weight of a soft blanket, and firelight flickering through her eyelids. The air smelled vaguely like ginger. Someone moved nearby; she heard what sounded like a poker prodding a log, and the fire crackled anew. She didn't want to move; she couldn't remember when she'd last felt so cosy and safe. Maybe at the Burrow. Is that where she was?

A vague memory surfaced of having been dizzy and sick, but her head didn't swim, and her mouth—though dry—did not taste disgusting. Another memory: a plateau spiked with rough grey grass; a sky so low it felt like a lid upon the world; the twisted shapes of tree-like things, black-clawed against the sky. Hermione frowned, eyes still closed.

And then everything came crashing back. She wasn't safe: she was supposed to be dead. He was going to kill her. He had said something about her future, but the look in his eyes had been bleak, deadly. She couldn't remember whether she'd tried to run. All she remembered was the world blurring, swimming into greyness, nothingness.

Did he know she was awake?

What if she lay very still? Waited for him to go away?

"I know you're awake, Miss Granger."

Her eyes flew open. She was lying full-length on the long sofa, a cushion tucked under her cheek. Her hoodie, along with the sturdy walking shoes, had been placed neatly beside her rucksack on the floor beside the sofa. On a hassock near the hearth sat her abductor, bowed over, elbows on knees. He had removed his black coat, and the dark grey long-sleeved shirt and black vest looked ordinary. He had not taken off the ugly black boots, still laced up over his trousers. He didn't look at her but into the fire, his sharp profile and hooked nose black against the warm glow of firelight.

"I know what you're thinking," Severus Snape said, still not looking at her, "but you can't leave. Not without a guide. Not if you wish to live."

Hermione pushed herself up until she was sitting, then wrapped her arms around her knees. No dizziness: the world had steadied, and she no longer felt sick.

"Does that mean," she said with care, "you're not going to kill me?"

Snape turned his head sharply to face her. "Why would I want to do that, for fuck's sake?"

His swearing, once unimaginable, seemed quite in keeping with her sense that reality as she understood it no longer applied.

"I have no idea," she shot back. "Why would you want to abduct children?"

Snape stared at her for a moment, his expression appalled, then he turned back to the fire. "I don't," he said, and it seemed to her his voice sounded strained. "I don't abduct children. They would be taken with or without me. I just do what I can to make what happens . . . less painful."

"And you don't even try to stop it?" She flung the blanket off. "That makes you just as responsible!" Her fear was gone, swamped by a rising fury.

"You came through the gateway without my help. Do you forget what that felt like? Like being torn apart?" His voice was calm, though his hands tightened into fists.

"That's not the point." Hermione stood up, a small part of her noticing she now felt strong and steady. "If you think you helped Diana and Terry, guess again. They're dying."

Snape's gaze flicked away from hers. "I know," he said quietly, and beneath the calm she caught a note of terrible grief.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think. If Snape was insane, shrieking at him wouldn't help. If any spark of humanity remained within him, she had to find it, call it forth.

"Ten years ago," she said quietly, "I saw Severus Snape die. Rather horribly." She stopped as images from her dreams of a decade ago rushed into her mind: Snape crawling toward her, Snape imprisoned in a cave lit with greenish, unwholesome light—his screams of agony. Her mouth went dry. As if somehow sensing her thoughts, the figure against the firelight went very still, the stillness of an animal before it springs.

Hermione took a ragged breath, forced herself to go on. "It was a nasty, pointless death. Everyone thought he deserved it. But we were wrong, we know that now. Professor Snape was killed in honouring a promise. A promise made long ago, to someone he loved. Harry—" for a moment her voice wavered, "Harry considers him the bravest man he ever knew. And," her voice sank, "so do I."

Snape rose to his feet and turned to face her. "Why are you telling me this?"

Hermione had heard that soft, deadly voice many times in Potions. Without exception it meant trouble, not uncommonly for her. But this was no Potions class; this was no Hogwarts. She sensed mortal danger, whether from Snape or that unseen watcher on the plateau or some other horror she had yet to face. Without her wand, she had no defences except reason and boldness and luck.

She swallowed. "Can you tell me who you made that promise to? Can you tell me who you loved? Do you remember?"

For several seconds he simply stared at her. Then his lips curved in a bitter smile, accentuating the sharp grooves bracketing his mouth. "A test, is it? How delightful. Let's see how well I do. Am I Severus Snape? Yes. Did I escape death? Yes, though I don't remember the details. Is this hellhole of a world my new home? Oh, yes. And I'm sure you're wondering whether I'm even sane. The correct answer is yes. With reservations." He stopped abruptly, his eyes shuttering. "This world is very different," he said more quietly. "The human mind isn't well suited to it." He lifted his eyes again, his gaze boring into her. "You'll soon understand that—all too well."

Hermione shook her head, partly in denial, partly to try and process what he was saying. "You haven't answered me."

"I can't," he said grimly. "I don't remember making any promise. And I don't remember loving anyone." His voice grated over that last word. "I find the idea ridiculous."

Hermione let out a short breath. "That's because those memories aren't yours anymore. You gave them to Harry."

As fury spasmed across his face, she raised her chin. "I was there."

He stared at her as the fury drained away, and for a moment his face seemed etched in sadness. Then his expression cleared. "Very clever, Miss Granger." His eyes glinted. "Do I pass your test?"

"Not quite," she said, rather conscious of this odd role reversal. "First, I need to be convinced you won't harm me."

Snape crossed his arms. "If I wanted to harm you, stupid girl, then explain why I treated your dizziness and then let you sleep it off on my sofa."

A sound point, but she wasn't rising to that bait. Instead she pointed to the chair where Snape had flung his coat. "Then give me back my wand."

For a long moment Snape looked at her, his face expressionless, and she held his gaze. At last, without a word or the flicker of an eye, he reached down to his right boot and produced a wand. It was hers; she knew it instantly. He balanced it across both palms as if it were made of something too delicate, or too dangerous, to grasp.

"Sit down, Miss Granger."

Hermione imagined lunging forward and snatching her wand from his open hands. Petrificus Totalis—and in a second Snape would be helpless. Or would he? Something told her that plan would manage to backfire. With a sigh, she sat back down on the sofa.

"In this world, magic does not behave the way you're used to," said Snape, his voice low, as if someone nearby were trying to eavesdrop. "The effects of a spell can be completely unexpected: chaotic, even fatal. I have discovered wandless spells are less volatile. They generally—"

"—create the opposite effect," she interrupted. "I noticed that."

"For the most part." Snape failed to look impressed by her quick observation. "However, the first thing you need to learn about this world is that nothing can be predicted. Nothing is stable. Do you remember the hillside?"

Hermione stared at him.

"Outside? When the trees began to close in on us?" he insisted.

She suppressed a shudder. "Yes."

"One day without thinking, I used—" his voice fell almost to a whisper "—the Protego spell. I barely escaped." Snape rolled up his left sleeve, and Hermione bit her lip. The Dark Mark once etched into his skin had faded almost to invisibility, but the pale flesh was criss-crossed with thin, silvery scars, as if he'd been whipped with tiny flails. "I learned the hard way that your only hope is to drop your normal defences. Invoke your power while opening your mind to any and all possibilities. Without a wand."

"But why? A wand channels power; prevents magic from becoming chaotic."

"Not here!" Snape's eyes blazed. "Using a wand in this realm is like sending up the Dark Mark in ours." He took a deep breath and added more calmly, "It would attract attention of a kind you don't want." He extended his hands, palms out. "But I will return this to you as a token of trust. Or a peace offering, if you want to think of it that way. Not an invitation for foolish wand-waving."

Hermione stared at the slender, tapered object in Snape's hands, its polished surface limned with firelight. Slowly, careful not to touch him, she reached out and grasped her wand between her thumb and two fingers. As carefully as if it were a stick of dynamite, she slid it into a deep pocket of her rucksack.

"For now," she said, "I won't use it. And I won't ask any more questions about that—not yet. But I need to know about Diana and Terry. If you didn't want them dead, who did? And why?" Her rose rose on the last few words.

Snape surged to his feet. Startled, she pushed herself back.

"We must go." He swept his coat off the chair. "This place won't be safe for much longer." The coat swirled around his shoulders. "Put these on." He picked up her boots and hoodie and dropped them beside her. "Now!" Not waiting for her to react, he whirled toward his workbench. From amongst bottles and bowls, measuring cups and spoons, and jars filled with ingredients, he extracted what looked like a hip flask. Then he took a wooden spoon with a lip on one side and dipped it into a cauldron steaming over a flame (the source of the ginger scent, Hermione realized). With care, he tipped several measures of a golden liquid into the flask, then sealed the top. Then he undid one of the pockets of Hermione's rucksack and pushed the flask inside.

"What are you—?"

He tossed the rucksack to her. "The potion controls the dizziness," he said curtly. "There is enough for three days."

She stopped in the midst of pulling on her shoes. "Three days? But isn't the gateway nearby?" She gestured in the direction of the plateau. "Out there, where I came through? That's only a few minutes' walk." She frowned. "Maybe half an hour."

"It's not possible to send you back from this place. Not without terrible consequences," said Snape, rummaging through a rucksack of his own. "The only hope of getting you back safely and intact lies at least two days from here. On foot," he added, as if it were an afterthought.

"Two days? Then—how did you send Diana and Terry back?"

"That," said Snape grimly, "is what I mean by 'terrible consequences.'" His eyes suddenly blazed. "Get this through your head, Miss Granger, before you waste more time with foolish questions. We have three days. If you aren't back in your world by then, you will adapt permanently to this one—every single cell of you. You will have to live here for the rest of your life, which will likely be short and miserable. Unless—" with a brisk wave he extinguished the flame beneath the cauldron "—despite my best efforts, you are caught by the kidnapper. If that happens . . ." Another sharp gesture and the hearth fire died, leaving only the candles.

Hermione scrambled into her hoodie. "What? Who is this kidnapper? There must be a way to defend ourselves."

"The less said, the better. Even the name—" he took in a hissing breath "—can be a summons." Snape secured his rucksack. "Three things: first, do not use your wand. Second, when I tell you to do something, do it instantly, without question. Your life may depend on it. Third, never leave my sight. Never. Do you understand?"

It was tempting to retort, but the urgency in his voice quelled her. So she simply nodded, then followed the former Potions Master past the narrow wall of rock to the great slab concealing the entrance to his sanctuary. Glancing quickly behind her, she saw the candles dying one by one, until the once cosy cave was plunged into darkness.

Note:

Trickster32, I appreciate your comment about Hermione jumping to conclusions. She was worried about Snape's state of mind in Ch. 4 and whether he'd remember what he did for Hogwarts. I hope this chapter adds more insight!

Thank you to everyone for reading! Ch. 7, "Opposites Attack," will be posted on Aug. 6.