He immediately felt the weight of the girl's mind clashing with his own. At first, there was the rush of her consciousness, the thousand thoughts zipping through her mind, the fear, the curiosity. Then there was nothing. Just an easy sense of emptiness, where all anxiety and worry were gone. He let out a sigh of relief—like obliviating children, it was notoriously difficult to place them under the Imperius Curse properly, and an improperly cast Imperius Curse ran the risk of addling the victim's brains. He wanted the girl to come through this alive and sane.
He had always hated the Imperius Curse on principle—taking away someone's free will was wrong. He knew that better than anyone, serving two masters. He himself had been the victim of the Imperius Curse when he was seventeen and not yet able to throw it off easily. Some of the pureblood Death Eaters had found great amusement in making the uppity half-blood quite literally lick their boots. It didn't take him long after that incident to learn how to throw the curse off.
And now he was casting it on Lily's precious daughter, whom she had given her life for. He hated himself.
"Severus," the Dark Lord said. "Send her to the corridor and follow her."
"As you wish, my lord," he said.
A faint sense of shock registered in the girl's mind. He felt it through the connection, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He willed the girl to leave the dungeon and go to the corridor, keeping his wand palmed in his hand, ready to cast curses the moment anything went awry.
Thankfully, most of the students were still at dinner. He did not have to worry about them seeing the girl enter the forbidden corridor, nor him following her in. He passed only a few stragglers in the halls, and none of them seemed to pay him or the girl any mind.
The girl hummed softly to herself. It was a subconscious, absent-minded thing; he couldn't tell her to stop, because he only commanded her consciousness. The Imperius Curse could only control so much—for instance, commanding someone to quit breathing wouldn't work for long, because eventually their subconscious would take over and force them to draw breath again.
He stopped outside the door to the cerberus's chamber, his hand resting against the knob. "And just how are we supposed to get past Hagrid's beast?"
"Music, Severus, can soothe the savage thing. Command the girl to keep humming, and we'll be past the wretched thing soon enough."
He willed the girl to hum louder, and she responded. It was a simple, haunting tune, one he remembered from his childhood. His mother had used to sing it to him as a lullaby, but those were the days before he had shown signs of magic. Both his parents had wished him to be born a Muggle or Squib, whatever the proper term for a magicless half-blood was, and had responded with cruelty when he proved to be magical. Tobias had turned his fists to his son and wife, hating them both for possessing a gift he lacked. His mother, for her part, dearly loved Tobias and wanted only to please him, even if that meant having a Muggle son. Eileen Snape eventually accepted her son's talents and told him small things about the world she wanted to forget when he begged to know more, but never again was she the mother who doted on her only son, for he had ruined any chance of a happy life with Tobias by inheriting her gift.
Of all the bloody songs for the girl to pick.
He opened the door slowly, watching as the dog blinked a bleary eye. Its brown eyes locked with Severus's, but this time, the dog didn't lunge at him, or flash its teeth at him. It hung its head, which drooped with drowsiness, before falling to the floor. The girl continued humming. Soon enough, the blasted beast was asleep, as harmless as a newborn puppy.
Severus lifted its paw and pulled the trapdoor open. He ushered the girl through it before jumping down into the unknown himself.
It didn't take long for the four of them to get through the protections. Severus found it laughable that Dumbledore had ever thought them enough. A sufficiently motivated and intelligent first year would be capable of getting through all of them. Really, Devil's Snare, a flying key, a chess board, a riddle—what were they thinking? If the Dark Lord could break into Gringotts, it was child's play to get past these meager protections. Unless Dumbledore's protection was something brilliant, they were doomed. He would either have to break his cover, or the Dark Lord would be returning tonight. As it was, he wasn't even sure he could destroy the half-shade, half-being.
So it was with these fearful thoughts he found himself standing for the Mirror of the Erised again.
"What is this magic?" the Dark Lord hissed, the turban long-since removed.
"It is the Mirror of the Erised, my lord," Severus said. "It shows you your heart's desire."
"Yes…the old fool would be fond of such magic. Tell me Severus, what do you see?"
Severus looked into the mirror, at the boy-Severus and the little Lily again. Lily winked at him and threw an arm over the boy-Severus's shoulder. She slipped a tiny hand inside the boy-Severus's pocket, and then quickly removed it. Severus felt something heavy drop into his own pocket.
His mouth went dry. He had the stone. It was that easy—he had no idea what to do now, other than baldly lie to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord could not know it, or he would be dead.
"I-I see you, my lord. Returned to your former splendor. I am your right-hand, your most trusted lieutenant. We are in the Ministry…our goals have been accomplished."
A wry smile touched the thin mouth of the Dark Lord. "You always were an ambitious one, Severus. Find out how to get me the stone from this…artifact…and your heart's desire shall become reality."
The damned thing would have safer where it was, but no, the mirror had to give it to him, somehow. He had no idea how the magic had worked, only that it had. He balled his hands into fists, then released them. He had to come up with something, something to stall the Dark Lord until Dumbledore returned and realized his protections had been breached.
"What do you see, Quirinius?" the Dark Lord asked.
"I see myself presenting you with the stone, my lord. My heart's desire is to please you."
"Indeed," the Dark Lord remarked dryly. "You seem to lack Severus's larger ambitions. Then again, Quirinius, you always were just a means to an end. An easy body and a weak mind to bend to my will."
"My lord—"
"Save your protestations. We both know they will be feeble and pointless. Lord Voldemort always speaks the truth to his servants. Your expediency does not take away your usefulness."
Silence reigned for several long minutes. Severus knew that once Quirrell was no longer useful, he would be discarded. The man was only two years younger than Severus—old enough to have joined the Death Eaters during the war. But he hadn't. Severus knew Quirrell—the man had foolishly thought to use the Dark Lord as a means to an end, a means to achieve the glory he had long sought, and had become a tool himself. Put shortly, Quirrell was a fool, and the Dark Lord did not suffer fools gladly. Quirrell would be disposed of as soon as the Dark Lord had the chance.
"M-My lord. Perhaps I can offer you a theory."
"Do not think to save yourself with words. You are a mediocre wizard with whom I share a body only because I have no choice. Perhaps I will spare you, Quirinius, or perhaps I will not."
"Y-yes, my lord. I-I think only to please you."
"Then speak."
"I-I only thought, maybe it has something to do with intent. Perhaps the stone can only be taken by one who is pure of heart."
A high, cold laugh sounded, and Severus's stomach dropped. Perhaps not pure of heart, but Quirrell was onto something. Perhaps it could only be taken by someone who wished to protect the stone, and not use it. That would explain why it had been so, so easy to bypass Dumbledore's last and greatest protection. He was a protector, he was trusted—that damnable old man, how could he trust him! Now that trust had doomed them, just as Severus had always said it would.
"Yes, yes, perhaps I will spare you, my servant. You have pleased Lord Voldemort—that is exactly the sort of magic the old fool would turn to. Purity of heart. Luckily, we have just such an innocent among us. Severus, command the girl to stand before the mirror and tell us what she sees."
Severus did as he was told. There was no harm in it. The girl would tell them her schoolgirl fancies and perhaps be embarrassed for it later, if she even remembered anything. Meanwhile, and more importantly, it would stall for time. The Dark Lord's attention to her would not be wrathful as long as she served a purpose. Severus knew this well from experience.
The girl shuffled up to the mirror, standing in front of him. Severus watched her expression change in the mirror, turning from empty to wistful. His stomach churned with guilt. Not only was he violating her mind yet again, he was violating her heart. She would have no choice but to tell them her heart's greatest desire. That was no small thing, even if it would just be something like winning the House Cup or becoming a professional Quidditch player. All thoughts of the harmlessness of schoolgirl fancies disappeared.
"Tell us what you see," Severus said.
"Mum and dad," she whispered, walking towards the mirror. She placed a hand on the cold surface, as if she could touch them. "She's really pretty, even prettier than in the picture of her I got for Christmas. She has the greenest eyes I've ever seen. She looks like me, only better. And there's dad. I've only ever seen him in the mirror. He has messy hair, and twinkling hazel eyes, just like mine. Behind them are their parents, and their parent's parents. They're all waving at me, trying to make me smile. I wish they were here."
Severus swallowed. The girl saw Lily in the mirror too. This was no fleeting schoolgirl fancy, but a desire just as deep and desperate as his own.
"Is there a stone?" the Dark Lord asked.
"No," she said. "Just them."
"Get her away from the mirror, Severus."
He willed the girl to move away from the mirror, and she, of course, did as she was bid. A terrible smile took over the Dark Lord's half-formed face. "It seems Quirinius was wrong, Severus. But never fear, for I have a plan. Your curses always were among the strongest, save perhaps for dear Bellatrix."
"My lord?"
"Curse the mirror, Severus. The worst that happens is it shatters. It is no longer a clue to the stone's whereabouts, only an obstacle."
"Yes, my lord."
Severus drew his wand and pointed it at the mirror, his mouth dry. This mirror was a powerful magical artifact and cursing such artifacts was never simple. The Dark Lord knew this—that was why he would not risk his host on a whim. But Severus did not have the answers and was not playing host to whatever the Dark Lord now was, so he was disposable.
But he couldn't afford to tip his hand. The Dark Lord very well could return to full power tonight, and if not tonight another day, and when he did, the girl would need a protector at his right hand. He would just have to take his chances and hope that the backlash for cursing the mirror would not be such that he could not protect the girl.
"Confringo!"
A jet of black flames flew from the end of his wand, colliding with the mirror. The roar of the spell echoed in the chamber, but Severus never heard it, because the spell was reflected back at him, striking him square in the chest. The force of it blasted him across the chamber. He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.
*HP*
Hazel came back to herself with a start, just in time to see Professor Snape be blasted across the room by his own spell. She didn't know where she was or how she got there, only that she was standing there with Quirrell, sans turban. The last thing she remembered was running to detention with Professor Snape—
Who was lying on the ground, body contorted. She ran to him, all previous questions of his loyalties forgotten. Her premonition meant nothing compared to the reality before her—someone who had once saved her life was hurt. He had saved her life after those Gryffindor boys attacked her. She couldn't believe she had lost sight of that, in her haste to find someone to blame for the broom incident. She had discarded him so easily, all for a vague dream she had had.
She kneeled beside him, turning his body over, spreading his limbs out so he was not crumpled in on himself. She took stock of his injuries—his arm rested at an odd angle, and his breathing was shallow, but it seemed his nose got the worst of it, as it was now bent at an even odder angle than usual. She suspected he had landed on his face.
Hazel shook his shoulder. "Wake up, Professor, please wake up!"
"He won't," Quirrell said, his voice full of disdain. "He was hit by his own blasting curse—what kind of fool casts that at a mirror?"
Hazel scowled. "He's far smarter than you, P-p-professor Quirrell," she said, mocking his stutter.
A nasty smile formed on Quirrell's face. "I think you'll find we all wear our masks, foolish girl."
And then he turned around.
Her dream came back to her—Voldemort, in the back of Quirrell's head. It wasn't just a premonition. It wasn't just a dream. It was true.
And now she was standing face to face with her parent's murderer.
His face was flat and snake-like, his face full of blue veins and his skin thinner than parchment. Hazel took an instinctive step back. This couldn't be happening—she was utterly defenseless in front of one of the darkest wizards of living memory. She drew her wand, but knew it was useless. She didn't know any curses, not real ones, not ones that would save her now.
With a shaking hand, she pointed her wand at Voldemort, who was smiling. He laughed his high, cold laugh. "Go ahead, foolish child. Cast whatever curse you wish. You cannot harm me."
Hazel clutched her wand tighter but spoke no curse.
"Perhaps you lack the nerve," he said, smile creeping wider across his face. "Or perhaps you don't know any curses. I will teach you one, child, before you die. Speak the words with me. Crucio."
"Crucio," she said, not knowing what it was supposed to do.
"Now point your wand at our Quirinius. A quick stabbing motion. Filter all your hate through your wand. This pathetic man is the reason the reason I will return to power. The reason all your friends, all those who would have stood with you, will die. Think of your hate for me, child, the one who killed the parents your heart so desires. Do it."
"Crucio," she said, jabbing her wand at Quirrell.
Voldemort smiled. "Just like your parents. They too lacked the nerve for real magic. You have to mean it, Hazel."
"I don't want to hate," she said, sounding braver than she felt.
"But you do hate me. That is my power, Hazel. I inspire fear and hatred. Respect and devotion. People cannot help but react to me, and it gives me power. You and those you care about can only feed on the scraps I leave behind. You and those you love will meet the same end as your parents…they died begging me for mercy…"
"You're wrong!" Hazel said. "We have love and friendship. And you're alone. All you have is Quirrell. And he's nothing. I don't know what you are, but you're just a shadow of what you used to be. People may fear you, but they wouldn't if they could see you now. You're nothing, and you never will be again."
The smile fell from Voldemort's face. "Quirinius," he said. "I tire of the girl's ranting drivel. Dispose of her."
Quirrell started to turn around, but Hazel was faster. She didn't need her wand. She flung herself at the two-faced man in front of her, determined to knock him off balance. She didn't care that she was not even five feet tall, nor a hundred pounds. She didn't care that Quirrell was much larger, stronger. All that mattered was hurting him, taking his wand, somehow evening the score. Instinct told her that she could.
She laid her hands on the half-being's scaly face. Pain like she had never felt engulfed her scar, but she persisted, clawing at those milky eyes. Nothing mattered except for dying putting up a fight, proving the horrible Voldemort wrong. Her parents had not died begging, and neither would she. She would die like them, fighting.
Voldemort cried out in pain, and Quirrell turned around, trying to seize her by the wrist. It felt as if her head was splitting in two. She struggled and struggled as Quirrell grabbed her, placed his hands around her neck. She pushed against him as hard as she could, and to her surprise, Quirrell was moving away from her.
Quirrell stumbled backwards, falling to the ground, holding blistering fingers before his eyes. "Master, I cannot hold her—my hands—my hands!"
Hazel pushed herself up, looking at Quirrell's hands. They were burned, raw, red, and shiny. Hazel launched herself at Quirrell again, tackling him the rest of the way to the ground. She put her hands on his face, just as she had Voldemort's. He brought his hands to his face, which was now blistering too. Hazel knew now, that Quirrell could not touch her bare skin, not without suffering for it. If she could just keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in pain, keep him on the ground—
But the pain, the pain in her head, it was blinding, and it was only getting worse. All she could hear was her own whimpers, Quirrell's terrible shrieks, and Voldemort's commands to kill, to kill—
And then another voice, maybe just in her head, crying, "Hazel, Hazel!"
She felt a pair of strong arms wrench her off of Quirrell, and then she knew all was lost. She fell into blackness, unconsciousness, and knew no more.
*HP*
When he awoke, he could not move. An invisible force restrained him. He blinked, the only motion allowed him—he was in a full-body bind. His entire body tensed—wherever he was, he was completely helpless to whoever had cast the spell. It was not a feeling he enjoyed. He was all too familiar with how it felt to be helpless, vestiges of his harsh childhood.
Somehow, he had survived.
"Albus, he's awake," a familiar voice said. Poppy. He relaxed. The matron was a formidable witch in her own right and would not let any harm befall him, not while he was one of her charges. Poppy Pomfrey was one of the few people he trusted.
But that didn't explain why he was restrained.
Then he heard a set of footsteps he had hoped never to hear again—the distinctive thumping of Alastor Moody.
His body tensed again. They knew, knew that he had cast an Unforgiveable. But then again, how could they not know? The girl—
Had somehow lived. If they knew he had obliviated her and imperiused her, then she was alive.
Relief flooded through him. His last thoughts before he had lost consciousness had been of how he failed Lily, leaving her precious daughter defenseless in the company of that monster. But he hadn't failed, and he hadn't blown his cover as a spy either. For once, luck was on the side of Severus Snape. He would have liked to attribute it to skill, but he knew better. Where the Dark Lord was involved, only luck could save you.
"Surely you can release him long enough to have a conversation, let him explain himself!" Poppy said.
And just like that, he felt the spell lift. It felt as though a ton of bricks had been lifted off his chest. He immediately pushed himself upright and looked around the room, his eyes settling on a familiar redhead chatting with Dumbledore without a care in the world. The old man patted the girl's leg and stood up.
"Snape," Moody said.
Severus jerked his head. It wasn't a nod, but an involuntary, instinctual movement. Moody always set him on edge—he had been one of his interrogators after his arrest, all those years ago. Moody walked the line between light and dark magic better than most and knew exactly which buttons to push.
Then a blond man now hovering over the girl's bed caught his eye. David Greengrass. It surprised him the two men were still partners after all these years—Greengrass was surely a senior auror by now. He considered the man for the moment—he was the same age as Severus, but looked younger, despite a large scar marring his handsome face. He said something to the girl, and she tossed her head back in laughter, just like Lily used to.
"Greengrass," Moody growled. "Quit fooling around with the girl and come here. Snape is awake."
Greengrass turned around, the smile falling from his face. "Right," he said, striding across the room. He stopped beside Moody.
"Now listen, Snape," Moody growled. "You're the only one who can tell us what happened down in that chamber. The girl can't remember—she shows sign of the Imperius Curse. She says she only remembers what happened after you were knocked out, which points to you being the one performing the curse."
"I—" he began, starting to protest.
"Severus," Dumbledore said. "You can tell them."
"I did it for Dumbledore," he said.
"You're saying Dumbledore told you to use the Imperius Curse on Miss Potter?"
"No," he said. "The Dark Lord was inhabiting Quirrell's body and they approached me for help."
"I wonder why they did that," Greengrass murmured.
Ignoring the jibe, Severus continued. "Dumbledore told me to play along, so I would be in a position to help the girl from within the Dark Lord's ranks when he returns."
"If he returns," Greengrass said.
"No. When. The Dark Lord seldom fails to achieve something he puts his mind to, and it is even rarer when it is something of great import."
"Then why did you come crawling back to our side, Snape?" Moody said.
"Alastor," Dumbledore said. "We have already spoken on this matter. I trust Severus."
"Even after he performed an Unforgivable on a student, claiming it was at your request? Hell, he was probably the one who obliviated the girl too—"
Severus looked away guiltily.
"He doesn't even deny it, Albus! We have to take him in for a trial, rather he's under your protection or not. He's nothing but Death Eater scum-he deserves to be tossed in Azkaban and forgotten about!"
"No, he doesn't," a small voice said.
Severus turned his eyes to the source. It was the girl, standing before them pale-faced and shaky, the too-large hospital gown making her look younger than her eleven years. Severus looked away from her—Moody was right. He didn't deserve Dumbledore's trust. He was a horrible person for violating the girl's mind. And now here the girl was, taking up for him. He wondered if Lily would have done so, but he doubted it—after all, she hadn't forgiven him for one slip of the tongue.
"Professor Snape saved my life," she said. "I've figured it out, why Hermione saw him muttering when my broom tried to buck me—he was casting a counter curse. Am I right, professor?"
Severus nodded curtly.
"And then there was the time before that. He found me after those Gryffindors attacked me. I would have died if he hadn't found me. And those are just the times I know about. I trust Professor Snape."
A lump had lodged itself in his throat. The girl was speaking on his behalf—if she understood the magnitude of his crimes, she surely wouldn't, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If she could keep him out of Azkaban, he would take it.
"He violated your mind, your personal autonomy. He did it not once, but twice, Hazel," Greengrass said.
"I know," she said. "But he didn't do it to be evil—he's done nothing but protect me."
Dumbledore smiled. "See, Alastor, David, nobody was harmed. Surely you don't need to take Severus to Azkaban when even the victim is advocating for his release."
"Be that as it may, procedure is procedure," Moody said. "Get up, Snape. You're coming with me."
Severus pushed himself up and scooted out of bed. He swallowed. He couldn't go back to Azkaban, he couldn't. It would kill him. But he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't beg. Not in front of the girl. He had to be strong.
"Just get it over with, then," he said, with more bravado than he felt.
Greengrass cast a spell. Thick cords of rope bound his wrists together. He shuffled out of the room behind the two aurors, still clad in nothing but a hospital gown. He was going back to Azkaban, unless Dumbledore could work another miracle.