Note: The characters here represented are the property of JK Rowling. Absolutely no profits have been derived from this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Friday, November 8, 1996
Hermione arrived at the Defense classroom door at precisely 6:58. The halls beyond were buzzing with the sounds of Hogwarts – footsteps and the turning of pages, the scribble of quills and the casting of charms, whispery snickers and shouts of laughter, the deafening silence of brooding, soft hums and sighs.
She added the creak of the door to the cacophony, and punctuated it with a click of the latch behind her, shutting out the din.
An icy rain pounded the world outside, and sheets of it sobbed down the length of the ancient glass paned windows – bordered in thick, simply rendered stone – that covered almost the entirety of the western wall in an even row of twelve. Hermione stood before them, watching the thick rivulets as they descended, distorting and obscuring the courtyard beyond.
The feeling of a strong ward being erected around the classroom door woke her from her silent thoughts, and she turned to discover Snape standing at the top of the short staircase leading to the Defense professor's office and quarters beyond. He dropped his wand to his side, and beckoned her come with a flick of his fingers.
Hermione had never had occasion to visit this office, and was filled with her characteristic curiosity as she ascended the thirteen steps leading to it. The professors that had held the post through the years had been, with the notable exception of Lupin, such a parade of lunatics and fools that remaining for any unnecessary length of time in the classroom, much less venturing into the corresponding office of any one of them had been, on her list of day to day priorities, extremely low.
The style of the room was distinctly high middle ages. Thick, plain, Romanesque pillars occurred at strategic points around the circular space, uplifting a domed roof from which an inelegant iron chandelier was suspended. It put her in mind of the Crusades. The oppressive heaviness of the stone seemed to reflect the kind of deranged pragmatism that fueled such campaigns, and a chill ran through her at the sudden but apt historical parallel.
The room had sat unused for quite some time by the look of it. Snape, of course, had kept his office and rooms in the dungeons while Professor Slughorn had requested and been granted his former rooms below the hospital wing. Thus, this space had become suddenly surplus to requirement, and the house elves had clearly forsaken it's upkeep for the more pressing tasks of the day. Cobwebs had overtaken the chandelier, and the plans of several large arachnids must have been deeply frustrated by the sudden appearance of flame amid their small city. Dust coated the empty desk dominating the deepest part of the room, and the hearth of the massive fireplace was badly in need of sweeping.
Snape pointed to one of two simple wooden chairs, arranged facing one another before the roaring fireplace, indicating to her to sit. She did so as he warded the office door, and waited.
"How capable an Occlumens are you?" he asked without preamble, taking his seat across from her.
"I…what?" she stuttered, a look of surprise on her face.
His eyes flicked upwards in annoyance. "You have been practicing the art since it was introduced to Potter last year as you have always done, with all forms of magic, whenever and however they have been brought to your attention. So, I ask you again, how capable?"
Another Hermione would have been bashful at this direct reference to her insatiable intellectual appetite. This Hermione merely huffed a sigh of annoyance before answering.
"I have performed the spell successfully, but I haven't…"
"…met with any challenge of consequence," Snape interrupted.
It was true. Harry and Ron had been dismal adversaries. She didn't argue.
"Then prepare yourself now," Snape said, pointing his wand between her eyes.
"Shouldn't I stand?" she asked, successfully masking the intense feeling of anxiety that washed over her at the notion of having her thoughts perused by him.
"Not unless you wish to crack your skull on the stone when you faint," he replied quietly, and then uttered in a voice just as soft, "Legilimens."
Hermione managed to clap defenses on her most fiercely guarded secrets as soon as she heard the spell. It was akin to castling in chess – a standard defensive move and a good one. But castling was no guarantee of victory, and it wasn't long before the strain of that protection, coupled with the dizzyingly dexterous fluidity of his invasion, had her gripping the chair for purchase in a room that felt like a centrifuge, blending the rich colors of her thoughts and memories into a brownish gray soup.
She leaned forward and panted for ten long seconds, then looked up again to meet his eye.
"Again," he stated.
"Yes," she replied.
"Legilimens."
OOOOOOO
Four long hours passed, during which he invaded her mind more than two dozen times. Some attempts at resistance were abysmal, most were impressive for a witch her age and experience, and two – only two – were worthy of the closest you could get to high praise from Severus Snape: "Better."
"That's enough for tonight," he said finally, rising. "You will be unsteady on your feet…"
She stood before he'd finished, and instantly felt her knees begin to give way.
Snape grabbed her by her upper arms and roughly sat her down again.
"As I was saying," he began, annoyed, "you will be unsteady on your feet for several hours. Drink this," he presented her with a potion in a small brown bottle – enough to contain maybe two thimbles full of liquid. "It will steady you for long enough to get to your dormitory. But when it wears off, you'll stumble like a drunkard."
She took it and drank, offering him the empty bottle. The room ceased its movement almost instantly and she stood, this time much more cautiously, finding to her relief that she felt quite normal.
"We meet again tomorrow," he said, watching her carefully.
She nodded. "Good evening, professor."
OOOOOOO
"How's she faring?" Dumbledore asked, handing Severus a cup of tea.
"Very well," he replied, silently appreciating the warmth of the china against his palm. "She's more capable than I had hoped. I predict she'll be sufficiently prepared before the winter holidays."
"Good."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"And how go the meetings of late?" Dumbledore asked, more gently.
Snape sat motionless for a moment, his face frozen in unnatural neutrality.
"The Dark Lord makes his displeasure known to me," he provided, gazing into the distance over the headmaster's left shoulder.
Dumbledore paused, in a way, out of respect. "Is it escalating?"
"No. I don't believe he intends to dispatch me until he feels that I am truly of no use to him. As long as our strategic position remains relatively unchanged, I believe myself to be safe from death at his hands."
Safe from death at his hands, Dumbledore thought…such specifics.
"And when you bring her to him – do you think she'll become aware of his intentions towards you?"
"I don't know," Snape replied, his face darkening. "If she asks, I'll explain. Perhaps by then she'll be prepared for the responsibility."
"I hope that doesn't become necessary," replied Dumbledore. "Keeping Miss Weasley safe is a much…" he struggled to find the right word.
"Purer," provided Severus, wearing just a ghost of a most jaded grin. "It is a much purer cause."
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed after a moment's silence. "Or at least it is less overwhelming."
Severus suddenly went rigid.
"I must go," he said, awkwardly switching his tea from a stiffening left appendage to his right hand and placing it on the desk.
Dumbledore nodded and watched him leave, trepidation etched in every line of his ancient face.
OOOOO
Hours later, around three in the morning, Hermione woke with a cry from a fever-dream sleep.
One man had been screaming, and another had laughed, while a massive serpent coiled and uncoiled restlessly nearby.