Author's Note: Using Ron as a tool is cheating, huh? Well, I hate to force
the recollection upon you, as it is so cliché, but as the saying does
remind us, "all's fair in love and war."
And it is cliché-don't say I didn't warn you. ( Have patience, please. I'm perfectly aware that using the envious and rather rash natures of her friends would make for a weak and pointless plot-I have other devices in mind. But you must WAIT and READ.
Inescapable
Chapter Twelve
The wind was unbearably cold, but it never crossed his mind to summon anything along the lines of a cloak or protective outer-garment; he dashed from the castle with at a speed which he would never have thought himself capable otherwise, covering the cold ground on rapidly moving feet. Gasping in an effort to control his breathing-close to hyperventilation due to stress, both physical and emotional-he closed the Hogwarts gate behind him. It took not three steps before he crossed the distance necessary and was able to Disapparate.
The whirlwind feeling of flying through space and time was quite often overwhelmingly frightening; but in the anticipation of what awaited him upon his arrival at his Master's side, Severus found himself incapable of registering anything else. The interim period of travel was all too short, and before he was ready-if, indeed, he would ever be ready-his feet landed firmly on the marshy ground.
The moor, he realized with surprise, hardly daring to glance to and fro, but discovering that his curiosity overrode his fright. The outlines of the expansive, dreary moor were hardly visible in the stark of night, and dusk had long since fast. Breathing shallowly, he clutched convulsively at his arm and walked forward, willing himself to call forth the talent and energy necessary to complete his task.
He knew well enough that a late-night rendezvous had been scheduled among the Death Eaters for that very day, but Voldemort was not supposed to be present. Occupied elsewhere, their Master had promised them his time would not be spent in vain, and that he would return to them harboring tails of delicious torture and gore.
Grasping again at his arm, he steeled himself against the pain that continued to simmer, though only a shallow reflection of the degree that had assaulted him moments before. Only one explanation remained-and ever had been present-for the active burning of the Dark Mark: Voldemort had summoned him. Thus Voldemort, presumably, would not be there.
Crunching through half-dead plants covered in frost, his mind was rushing fluidly to reassure his body. While it was true the Dark Lord could have contacted him from his supposed whereabouts elsewhere, the fact remained that, to the best of his knowledge, Apparition would only serve to bring him to the side of his Master. It seemed to him, through vague recollection, that the Death Eaters had mentioned meeting in a new location, but had they meant the moor?
They were nowhere to be seen, and the farther he traveled, the wearier-and, paradoxically, more edgy and alert-he grew. Precaution and concealment were always vital, but there was nothing to substantiate their missing presence this long. The jarringly familiar semicircle of long, sinister black robes should have entered his sight by now, but the landscape that surrounded him revealed nothing of the sort.
Pausing in his tracks, he considered his options. He dared not leave; what would have otherwise been the probability of arousing Voldemort's ire would, in that case, become a veritable guarantee. An upset Voldemort was nothing short of petrifying, conveyed with sadistic flair through his abnormal gaze and equally awesome power.
"Severus."
The voice issued as though from the sky, rendering him without use of his senses for a good five seconds. As life seemed to seep slowly back into his body, he became aware that the moor seemed suddenly drafty and far more alive than it had moments before, as though swirls of barely perceptible fog had moved in and were congregating about his body.
Realization dawned, and his body tensed in response. Rotating on his heel, he turned slowly to meet the face of the man he now knew stood directly behind him. The moorland swept by in his gaze and he prayed instantaneously that somehow, it would all be a dream-his Master would not be there, and he would wake up a few puzzled moments hence, lying comfortably in his fireside chair in the dungeon lair he called home.
But of course, Fate has not mercy-only a sense of black irony.
"Ah, Severus." The voice should not, by any means, have been given so generously to the likes of a mere human being; the sheer power and terror of hearing such an eerie, spectral sound was enough to leave many immobile.
"You have decided to join me."
"My Lord," he croaked, hoping his voice would not betray his fear, "I should never dismiss any opportunity to bask in your presence."
It was these astronomical compliments-so very different from Severus' usual sardonic remarks-that made the nearly nonexistent lips smile in a way no other Death Eater could make possible. Severus was one of Voldemort's favorites 'toys,' as Hermione had so aptly delineated his position; one with a sense of humor so similar to his own that he considered them far closer than master and servant. It was only in through Voldemort's perversely distorted view of morality that he had been able to accomplish what he had; he might otherwise have found himself in Severus' position, living with nothing but his superior intelligence and his wicked tongue.
"You have always been a favorite, Severus," his Master informed him, the midnight blue robes in which he was adorned drifting in a ghostlike manner at his skeletal sides. "I could never help but pay you excessive attention. You appreciated it?"
"Always, My Lord. It was-it is-my honor." It had just struck him that his Master was speaking in the past tense. That could not possibly anything short of a death omen.
"I was proud of you, Severus," Voldemort continued, beginning to pace slowly in a circular motion, far too close for comfort. His eyes, Severus noticed, were cast toward the sky, their slits making him seem almost feline in complement to his lithe, flowing movement. "I had often considered making you an apprentice, for you had in abundance what the others lacked. You had the intelligence-such a rare gift, Severus-and the motivation. But you had subtlety, creativity, intuition.all invaluable assets."
"Thank you, My Lord." His tone nearly betrayed him as he began to feel the telltale signs of trembling in his lower limbs. His physiological functions had responded immediately and initiated the renowned 'fight or flight' response as he awaited the battle that could lead to his demise.
"Ah, Severus." There was nothing welcoming in Voldemort's tone, none of his usual appreciative candor. Rather, he spoke of Severus' remarkable attributes without any trace of true sincerity.
He was mocking him.
"You could have been my apprentice, dear boy." Reminiscent of Dumbledore, Severus thought despairingly; he was being addressed by Dumbledore's opposite, a demon in retaliation to the saint. "You could have followed my hallowed footsteps."
His death was inevitable; it was difficult to suppress a derisive laugh.
"You would have been my successor, Severus, continued the business. Our world could have been purged of the filth that surrounds us, and your name would have gone down in the history books. Perceptions would have altered, Severus; views would have changed when the others realized that you had committed not an atrocity, but a true service to the magical world. You would have been revered. You would have been a hero."
Severus could no longer contain himself. "You.speak oddly, My Lord. It is my interpretation that you have lost this.faith in me."
"Irrevocably, Severus. Completely."
He had been standing with his back toward Severus' face, staring at the stars as he spoke philosophically of Severus' talents and what might have, under different circumstances, come to pass. Visualizing his name in blessed print had given Severus quite a jolt, kicking forward his ambitious instincts. He had to remind himself of the noble reasons that had brought him to the barren moorland and the type of events for which he really wanted credit. Genocide was not among them.
"I.I do not know what to say, My Lord. My sincerest apologies. I had no idea that I am.lost to your cause." As Voldemort turned slowly, Severus forced himself to probe those inhuman eyes for some sign of weakness, humor, or lingering affection. Forcing the Dark Lord to recall his past appreciation, Severus recognized, might prove to be his only possible defense.
"You are indeed, Severus, though it is through no fault of mine." The gaze seemed to glow now, increasing in luminosity; the red hues were highlighted against the dilated black pupils, giving the appearance that there really was the proverbial fire in the eyes. "It is entirely your own fault. You betrayed me, my boy."
The blatant response had Severus taken aback; he resisted the compulsion to flinch and instead clasped his hands to keep them from wringing or shaking of their own accord. "I know not what you speak of, Master. Perhaps you are.mistaken?"
Voldemort had always followed such insinuations immediately with some form of torture that tossed the perpetrator dangerously closed to the edges of either insanity or death. Severus had fully expected such an attack to be launched, but his Master seemed strangely calm; his wand remained neatly pocketed in his robes, the very end of the shaft just visible against the dark fabric.
"Come, Severus. Let us not speak in circles. We are both men and mature enough to handle this situation, no?" Voldemort stepped closer, and Severus sensed for the first time the feral palpation of powers he could not fathom. Invisible tentacles seemed to emanate from the man across from him, poking, prodding, searching for information he would not willingly provide. "We are only wasting time. You make me impatient. I want a confession."
"My Lord, I must repeat, with regret, but I know not of what you speak."
The voice was a full growl now, and one hand darted forward to grab Severus' robes. The protrusive bones that seemed to rear from beneath his skin only further accentuated the contradiction that was Voldemort. He possessed a level of strength-though it was clearly magically enhanced-for which no one would have given him credit.
"Last chance, Severus, or I will elaborate to you the many reasons behind my accusation. My evidence is not circumstantial, I assure you; you have been caught, and you will be punished accordingly."
Severus' feet were returned to terra firma, most likely in an effort to grant him some level of security. Admitting one's treason to Voldemort was by no means a simple task.
Was a confession against his rules, those the Ministry had laid before him when he turned himself in, hoping for death? Unable to kill himself, Severus had offered information in return for a peaceful death at the hands of a magical executioner; he knew what his crimes warranted, and had been unafraid of what lay ahead of him. They had considered him useful, however, but the bulk of the job was not meeting Voldemort but continuing the exchange of information while remaining within the regulations set for him.
A confession had never been considered-up until he had been given to believe otherwise, it had been the commonly accepted that, should his true loyalty be revealed, Voldemort would dispose of him then and there, no questions asked. Severus himself had never thought it to be within the Dark Lord's capabilities to withstand a confrontation tête-à-tête with the guilty party and refrain from committing murder before the words were delivered.
Dare he confess? It was ludicrous to imagine that he would somehow escape with his life, but in that unlikely event, he did not in any way long to undergo the same treatment at the Ministry of Magic.
"I beg of you, My Lord, I don't understand." He wished desperately that he could force himself to cry, but as terrified as he was, such an overtly emotional display was far beyond his reach. The endorphins flowed, but never the tears. "I want only to serve you with the truth-"
"Spare me the whining, Severus," his Master hissed, and Severus was propelled backward until he landed painfully on his back with the sensation that he had cracked several vertebrae. Voldemort wasted no time in appearing at his side to continue the onslaught. "You always did have a bitchy side to you, wouldn't you agree?"
The wand had exited the lovely pocket and now hovered in combat position before him, suddenly devoid of the nonthreatening look it had possessed earlier. Severus decided that the best answer was, in this case, a silent one.
"You were supposed to agree," he roared, and the Cruciatus was cast before Severus had a chance to leap up or in any direction.
Pain flashed through him as thought the very marrow of his bones were on fire, rocketing itself through the veins and byways of his body until it reached the brain at record speed. There, it was passed through the brain and traveled to every nerve, every cell, and every bit of substance he had. Consumed entirely by the agony, he had not even the mental awareness to long for death.
"Welcome back." The voice had long since averted his own perception of its sound from eerie to inhumanely evil. "I know what you've done, Severus. All these years, you've been talking to them, haven't you?"
Blood was flowing from his nose and ears, across his lips and into his mouth. Severus could not move his arms or legs, still paralyzed with the aftershock of the Cruciatus Curse, and he was unable to answer for fear of sputtering and choking on his own blood.
"Answer me!" The wand appeared again, and his lips moved wordlessly. "Very well," the Dark Lord sneered with a venomous caliber worthy of Severus' own gifts. "If you refuse to answer, then you shan't need that tongue. I will cut it out for you."
How will I explain? Severus wondered frantically when he realized that the wand was morphing into a knife, a trick that should have been impossible. A trick of his eyes?
But you will not need to explain.
"Useless, that tongue," Voldemort whispered, reaching one hand down toward Severus' face. "Wagging, treacherous thing. You shouldn't have told them, Severus." One finger was on his upper lip, and before long, all fingers were pulling violently to open his mouth. "You shouldn't have told them anything."
"No!" The strength to sit forward and call his vocal cords into action came from reserves he had never imagined he had, but the instant he sat upright, life seemed to flow once more, though sluggishly, through his body. The poisonous aftereffects of the Curse would be long in leaving him, but activity would speed the process.
"You will talk, then?" The knife had retreated, but just slightly; it was still in the perfect position to gouge any part of his body as he half-sat, half-lay, prostrate before Voldemort.
"Yes."
"Excellent," the voice rumbled, but no bony hand appeared to help him to his feet. He was left to lie in rapidly growing pools of blood. "Tell me everything, Severus. Everything. The longer you talk," he added with soft animosity, "the longer I let you live."
"A most generous gesture," Severus spat back, unable to contain himself. The eyes flashed but the knife diminished back into the long, slender wand, and Voldemort faded quickly from angered to amused.
"You always did have an acidic tongue, Severus, and a wit to match. How did you do it? How have you fooled me all these years?" He seemed to thirst for the knowledge, as though Severus held locked within his mind a secret that would provide the skills necessary to win the ongoing war. It was laughable, really, how anxious he was to hear the details of what had been, for the most part, a job of merely holding down another job-and one far more ordinary.
"It was not difficult," Severus muttered through a mouthful of blood and saliva, wanting to spit the foul taste from his mouth, but fearing it would be seen as flaunting disrespect and earn him another bout with the Cruciatus. "I've spent the majority of these years at Hogwarts. You know that."
"Naturally. It placed you within Dumbledore's grasp." The word issued from the mouth of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with the same tone in which others spoke his own name, both fear and disgust. "He's had access to you all these years, while I've lay in half-lived stupor." He glared down at Severus with a ferocity that seemed almost parental in its chastising manner. "Has he brainwashed you? Would you even know?"
He's rationalizing, Severus thought, suddenly far more alert. Perhaps there was a way out of this yet. Voldemort did not want to see the crown of his favorite servant thrown upon the floor with a cry of treason.
"I would not know, My Lord. To my recollection, it was I who approached Dumbledore." There was no sense in lying, he knew, for if Voldemort [by some miracle] forgave him, such lies would only be discovered in the time hence, and perhaps with far more disastrous consequences than those that currently faced him.
"Of course, of course. Your guilty conscience." Voldemort shook his head, twirling his wand through his fingers with the dexterity of one who had been practicing for years, not locked away in the body of a decrepit monstrosity. "You conscience will plague you, Severus, until the day you die." A smirk. "But, in my generosity, I can perhaps make that day less elusive.and much sooner."
"Would be better than your interrogation," Severus mumbled through lips saturated with blood that felt odd and too malleable.
The remark was ignored in favor of yet more inquiries. "What have you told him, Severus? What of my secrets?"
"I'm afraid that's classified information."
The pain returned, snapping him nearly in half as his body flattened in a response similar to that of the stages of rigor mortis. His body became stiff as his limbs wrenched in convulsion. He could not clasp his fingers around the frozen ground to keep himself steady or still-coherent thought was not possible in the climatic clutches of an Unforgivable Curse.
When the ordeal finally ended, he knew numbly that Voldemort was lashing out recklessly, kicking at any available part of his body. Several blows caught him in the ribs and across the head, loosing more blood from its shaken confines. Black shapes began to appear through the waterfall of sweat and blood that ran down his face and he remembered the words at their last meeting.
'.completely new location,' Napps had informed them in an almost gleeful whisper. 'More secluded. He has promised us a new one.'
Up until then, the memory had escaped him, but he realized now with sickening acceptance that he was 'the new one,' their latest victim. It was logical, he knew, in the loosest and most terribly twisted sense of the word-there was no finer way to drive a stake through Voldemort's heart than to murder his prized pupil; his protégé; the needful child whom he had guided down the path to redemption.
They circled in closer as Voldemort's personal beating concluded, and he was only dimly aware of what the Dark Lord said to his followers.
"Do not kill him-he has a message to deliver, incapacitated as he may be." He could hear the high-pitched, sadistic laugh that echoed through the still air of the early morning. "Words may not be.necessary."
Appreciative chuckles rippled through the semicircle of followers as Voldemort stepped forward to address Severus for one last time.
"My best regards to Dumbledore," he murmured, his lips only a few inches from Severus' ear, which was nearly indistinguishable in the blood. "He and I shall be seeing much of each other in the days to come."
* * *
"When you have finished, you may hand in your papers," Madam Pomfrey called out, sounding as though she was rooted to Severus' desk chair with lethargy. Acting as substitute teacher in Potions class was a task few were up to-being successful at actually teaching an entire lesson was on another tier entirely.
Professor Snape's absences, few and far between as they were, quickly became occasions for partying and rejoicing. The students clapped and whistled in pure delight when Madam Pomfrey walked into the room three days earlier and announced that she would be filling Professor Snape's position until he was able to return to his duties. She had given no reason for his empty place, save that he was 'indisposed.'
Hermione had frowned, but she no longer had to brush errant tears from her eyelashes at the simple mention of his name. It was a relief, but a feeling deep within her nagged constantly at her heart. While she knew their relationship had been rent irreparably, she yearned to know his whereabouts. Something about his behavior the last few weeks they had been together bespoke of anxiety and depression, as though he was squirming under the burden of upcoming troubles.
That he had left so abruptly bothered her to no end. There could be no reasonable explanation for his sudden leave-taking that did not pose danger to him, and while she knew she should react bitterly and vindictively, she fretted on his behalf.
"Madam Pomfrey?" The other students had filed from the room, the sounds of their footsteps echoing through the moldy dungeon floors as they contentedly approached the stairways that would lead them back to the place they belonged. "May I speak with you?"
"Of course, dear." Lines appeared to have sprouted nearly overnight, creasing the older woman's face mercilessly. Hermione had a sudden urge to reach out and hug the teacher, to comfort her, but she knew not how. An adult offering condolences to a student with an unknown problem was one thing, but she had not the slightest idea what vexed Madam Pomfrey, and how she could possibly be of any comfort.
"Where is Professor Snape?" Madam Pomfrey's eyes shot upward, though her face remained bent, and her pen, poised above a worksheet, sat inert. "I know you said earlier that he was 'indisposed,' and you clearly didn't want to give any more details, but.I really need to know where he is."
"And why is that?" Madam Pomfrey inquired as politely as she could manage, laying the pen aside and folding her hands in a manner emulative of Dumbledore. "It would be an invasion of Professor Snape's well-deserved privacy if I revealed to you his whereabouts."
"I know, but." A single pair of feet approached, and both could hear clearly the rapid and intent step which they conveyed through the resounding echoes in the hallway. Hermione hastened to finish her explanation, but Madam Pomfrey's mind was elsewhere.
".there's something I really, really must discuss with Professor Snape, and I realize that he is busy and he certainly deserves a holiday, but it's imperative and I really can't afford to-"
"Poppy." Dumbledore's voice cracked and Hermione whirled around to find herself face-to-face with the most unkempt and discomposed version of the Headmaster she had ever seen. His robes were streaked with a substance that suspiciously resembled blood and his eyes were equally red. Dirt streaked his hair and face in long strokes and caked his hands, usually immaculately clean and well-kept.
"He's back," Dumbledore finished, and Madam Pomfrey was instantly on her feet, one hand clapped to her mouth. Hermione gaped in unabashed astonishment as tears flooded Madam Pomfrey's face while she struggled to make her way, stumbling, maneuvering around the desk to follow the Headmaster.
"Oh, thank Merlin-really, Albus-damn it! How does he work in this classroom?" she shrieked, and Dumbledore was forced to pull her into a calming embrace. She shook violently and Hermione could see that she was struggling, to no avail, at regaining her usual businesslike, brusque composure.
"Albus, is he alive?" Dumbledore's eyes flickered for just one moment to Hermione, searching her face, and the lines of his lips became thin and grim, but he obliged the shaking mediwitch with the words she wanted desperately to hear.
"He's alive, Poppy, but just barely." He was leading her, one hand on her shoulders, toward the doors. "He needs your help, Poppy, now more than ever before."
Hermione took a hesitant step forward. Severus had always mentioned how many times Voldemort subjected him to the Cruciatus Curse at the meetings, simply to play with him in the unspeakably aghast manner only Voldemort could manage. Who healed his wounds when he returned?
Dumbledore was rushing Madam Pomfrey through the door while she attempted to walk steadily, a difficult task while her vision was blurred through the tears. "Go, Poppy, please." Albus Dumbledore was not a cold man, nor stoic, but he had never been one to show raw emotion. Hermione was moved close to tears simply by the sight of them.
Could it be Severus? If he had been summoned to a Death Eater meeting, he would have been tortured, cursed, wounded-had they thought him dead?
"Headmaster-"
"Go to your next class, Miss Granger. I do not want to see you down here without the supervision of your teacher again." His voice was more acrid than she had ever heard it, a tone she had thought him incapable of using. "You have no reason to remain here."
She brushed past him as quickly as she could, tripping over the hem of her robes and clutching at her books to keep them from falling. By the time she arrived aboveground and passed through the main portion of the castle, she was running, though not because she feared arriving late for Care of Magical Creatures.
* * *
The only logical place they could house Severus during his recuperation period-if he was still alive, she reminded herself-was in the hospital wing. But it had been effectively closed off to all Hogwarts personnel save for Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore himself; even a few of the teachers complained audibly that they had been denied access into the infirmary while escorting injured students, and had been diverted to the Great Hall to meet with Madam Hooch and her sports medicine training instead.
Hermione had tried in vain to feel no remorse for Severus' pain. She had reread his letter a good twenty times, letting each and every word seep into her and poison her with its maliciousness; she no longer blamed herself for their breakup, but only him. He had, in his insecurity and his strict moral code, abandoned all pretenses and lashed out at her in an effort to ignore his own responsibility. He carried enough as it was, she reminded herself, without the added burden of knowing that he was involved in a relationship that broke the school rules.
However, try as she might, she could not banish him from her mind, and the feelings that flooded her at the recollection of his name were never of the bitter variety. She longed to see him again-longed for someone to reassure her that he was well and would heal fine-and wanted to hear his voice just one last time speaking not in reprimand, but in gentle contemplation. She had glimpsed a side of the resident Hogwarts demon that no one else had been allowed to see. She doubted if even Dumbledore himself had heard Severus musing some of the things he had with her companionship, and she felt both honored and enamored by him.
I am not in love with him, she had reaffirmed to herself when she came close to crying in History of Magic at the mention of Voldemort. Nevertheless, she did love him, as much or more than she loved anyone else she whose name she could mention, and his death would elicit a period of mourning unlike anything she could imagine. It did not take her brilliance to know that.
Sneaking through the hallways while the other students were at dinner, she was forced to hold her breath and exhale slowly in rhythm to remain quiet enough that she would not be heard. It had been her original desire to snatch Harry's Invisibility Cloak from his clothes chest, but as Neville Longbottom had been working on homework in solitude in the boys' dormitory, she would have had to cause nearly impossible diversionary events to gain control of the Cloak. In her worried and nauseous state, it would have been impossible-so she crept instead.
The path to the infirmary seemed unbearably long when she could not escape from her wonders of what-or who-she would find lying in the hospital beds that warranted complete isolation from the entire school. Madam Pomfrey had long since ceased to substitute teach for the Potions class-Dumbledore himself had begun to fill Snape's position, and was an abysmally poor teacher at best; but she had an inkling that it was due less in part to his skills and more to his state of mind.
Severus was not the type of man who would relent easily to others' offers for healthcare; as little as she knew him, she was as much an authority as they had, and for him to be under Madam Pomfrey's care did not speak lightly of whatever injuries had been inflicted upon him. Hardly anything short of death would have landed him in the infirmary without a fight both violent and valiant on his part.
Just as her fingers brushed the doorknob that led into the hospital wing, she remembered that some strange spell had been cast to ward off visitors. Wary of what would occur should she turn the knob, she restrained herself and ducked into the darkness cast by a nearby suit of armor. Fortunately, not being especially tall for a female, she fit perfectly into its shadow, her back flush with the wall. Her unfamiliarity with the spell necessitated that she wait until someone with that power-or immunity, whichever it should be-opened the door for her.
She was not long waiting, mercifully, for within ten minutes, she could distinguish voices from behind the heavy oak door. It swung open at a sluggish pace, and Madam Pomfrey's hand on the doorknob was just visible. She was speaking rapidly with Dumbledore, but it was exceedingly difficult to discern their words with the rapid beating of her own heart and the blood pounding in her ears.
".may be weeks," Madam Pomfrey was saying, and by the sudden appearance of flying hair, she knew the nurse was shaking her head in either derision or dismay. ".in an unbelievable state. Truly, Headmaster, I can't figure out how he lived."
Hermione gulped, too loudly, and slapped a silent hand over her face, hoping it would partially muffle the sound of her all-too-audible breathing. She could envision the ensuing scene should she accidentally make contact with the armored suit in front of her; most likely, once the initial resounding crash had ceased to echo, they would hear the sounds of the helmet rolling down the hall like a decapitated head..
"He's a strong man, Poppy.never gets credit." Tears threatened to fall. He is, she wanted to scream, physically and mentally, but you just can't give him credit. ".best if we did not mention this to the students."
You hardly need to tell anyone that, Hermione thought irritably. The teachers had been both delicate and effective in skirting the issue of Professor Snape's whereabouts up until then.
".keep it locked until further notice," Dumbledore finished, and once again, the sight of a few curls of Madam Pomfrey's unruly hair could be seen peeking from outside the partially open door. This time, she had to be nodding in assent and obedience. "The students may grow curious; they always do, with those inquisitive minds."
"I quite agree," Madam Pomfrey assured him in a kind but brisk voice, and Hermione wanted to reach out and yank the woman by her insufferable hair, throw her to the side, burst through the door, run down the aisle-
"Thank you, Poppy. Now"-Dumbledore heaved an exhausted sigh, twirling his long beard around his fingers in anxiety and contemplation-"perhaps you would join me for dinner? I'd much like you to make an appearance.other teachers are growing just as curious." His voice lowered again when the topic of discussion veered toward the other faculty.
"I'd be glad to." Like a true gentleman, Dumbledore offered her his arm and a warm, inviting smile. They turned to walk down the hall, Madam Pomfrey carelessly leaving the door to slam its way shut behind them.
Hermione darted forward soundlessly, and slipped a hand between the door and the doorjamb. It hurt intolerably when the heavy door put pressure against her fingers, and she stifled a scream. When she noticed their stride slowing, she slipped through the door as quickly as she could and let it slam shut, as Madam Pomfrey had intended it to do. Unbeknownst to her, the two in the hallway turned only once, vaguely observed the fully closed door, and continued on their way to the evening meal.
The room was softly lit by candles on the few tables, and a light illuminated the glassed-in partitions of Madam Pomfrey's office. The aisle of white-sheeted beds, professional and uninviting, unnerved her. She had not spent much time in the infirmary herself, opting only to visit when Harry or Ron became a patient, and she found the sterile, bright whiteness to be distinctly off-putting.
One bed, a single, simple one at the very end of the aisle, was blocked from view by white curtains that had been drawn about it. Through the soft, thin fabric of the curtains, she could just make out a shock of dark hair.
Severus! She walked slowly forward, pining again for the Invisibility Cloak. At this rate, she would never cease to worry that Madam Pomfrey or the Headmaster might return quite suddenly, on an errand, or at least that pretense, and catch her here. It was entirely possible they were expecting nosy intruders and had sensed her presence in the hallway.
She walked around the curtain, steeling herself for what would lay before her. No mental preparation could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes, and she choked back a convulsive sob.
Severus lay there, his rate of breathing hardly noticeable; only by placing a tender, inquisitive hand to his chest did she realize that he was even alive. Bending closer, she could not hear the gentle inhaling or exhaling of his breath. His hair was matted with blood that had not yet been able to wash out, and cuts and scratches lined his face. He had never had an attractive complexion, true, as it was far too pale, but it had never been marred. His lips had been cut in multiple places, but, oddly enough, it only increased the urge she felt to kiss him, try to awaken him from his sleep.
He wore the traditional hospital robe, white as chalk and twice as rough, but his skin was still perceptible through the weave of the fabric. Nasty bruises lined his entire body, and from the bottles on the bedside table, she knew that he had suffered a great deal of broken bones, most likely ribs. She was not sure she had ever seen a greater quantity of Skele-Gro doled out for the use of one patient.
Her hand still lay on his chest. She moved it slowly, laying it across his brow; he was hot and feverish, no doubt his body's reaction to such a trauma. It was amazing he had not suffered to the degree that he became comatose. His right arm was bent at an awkward angle, which worried her above all else. If the bone had been broken and Skele-Gro had not fixed it by now, he had endured something even Madam Pomfrey was incapable of healing.
She wanted to whisper his name, but was afraid of truly waking him; it would do no good to have him wake amidst a nightmarish recollection of what had happened and think her to be his attacker.
Indistinguishable as he was covered in lacerations and scars, he was still Severus, and she finally broke down and allowed herself to reach out and take his hand in hers. It was clammy despite his elevated body temperature; she lay his palm against hers, hoping that maybe some of her own body heat would seep through her skin and permeate his. It was unfair that his hand could feel so large, so safe, and yet she was the one who was supposed to be doing the comforting.
And it is cliché-don't say I didn't warn you. ( Have patience, please. I'm perfectly aware that using the envious and rather rash natures of her friends would make for a weak and pointless plot-I have other devices in mind. But you must WAIT and READ.
Inescapable
Chapter Twelve
The wind was unbearably cold, but it never crossed his mind to summon anything along the lines of a cloak or protective outer-garment; he dashed from the castle with at a speed which he would never have thought himself capable otherwise, covering the cold ground on rapidly moving feet. Gasping in an effort to control his breathing-close to hyperventilation due to stress, both physical and emotional-he closed the Hogwarts gate behind him. It took not three steps before he crossed the distance necessary and was able to Disapparate.
The whirlwind feeling of flying through space and time was quite often overwhelmingly frightening; but in the anticipation of what awaited him upon his arrival at his Master's side, Severus found himself incapable of registering anything else. The interim period of travel was all too short, and before he was ready-if, indeed, he would ever be ready-his feet landed firmly on the marshy ground.
The moor, he realized with surprise, hardly daring to glance to and fro, but discovering that his curiosity overrode his fright. The outlines of the expansive, dreary moor were hardly visible in the stark of night, and dusk had long since fast. Breathing shallowly, he clutched convulsively at his arm and walked forward, willing himself to call forth the talent and energy necessary to complete his task.
He knew well enough that a late-night rendezvous had been scheduled among the Death Eaters for that very day, but Voldemort was not supposed to be present. Occupied elsewhere, their Master had promised them his time would not be spent in vain, and that he would return to them harboring tails of delicious torture and gore.
Grasping again at his arm, he steeled himself against the pain that continued to simmer, though only a shallow reflection of the degree that had assaulted him moments before. Only one explanation remained-and ever had been present-for the active burning of the Dark Mark: Voldemort had summoned him. Thus Voldemort, presumably, would not be there.
Crunching through half-dead plants covered in frost, his mind was rushing fluidly to reassure his body. While it was true the Dark Lord could have contacted him from his supposed whereabouts elsewhere, the fact remained that, to the best of his knowledge, Apparition would only serve to bring him to the side of his Master. It seemed to him, through vague recollection, that the Death Eaters had mentioned meeting in a new location, but had they meant the moor?
They were nowhere to be seen, and the farther he traveled, the wearier-and, paradoxically, more edgy and alert-he grew. Precaution and concealment were always vital, but there was nothing to substantiate their missing presence this long. The jarringly familiar semicircle of long, sinister black robes should have entered his sight by now, but the landscape that surrounded him revealed nothing of the sort.
Pausing in his tracks, he considered his options. He dared not leave; what would have otherwise been the probability of arousing Voldemort's ire would, in that case, become a veritable guarantee. An upset Voldemort was nothing short of petrifying, conveyed with sadistic flair through his abnormal gaze and equally awesome power.
"Severus."
The voice issued as though from the sky, rendering him without use of his senses for a good five seconds. As life seemed to seep slowly back into his body, he became aware that the moor seemed suddenly drafty and far more alive than it had moments before, as though swirls of barely perceptible fog had moved in and were congregating about his body.
Realization dawned, and his body tensed in response. Rotating on his heel, he turned slowly to meet the face of the man he now knew stood directly behind him. The moorland swept by in his gaze and he prayed instantaneously that somehow, it would all be a dream-his Master would not be there, and he would wake up a few puzzled moments hence, lying comfortably in his fireside chair in the dungeon lair he called home.
But of course, Fate has not mercy-only a sense of black irony.
"Ah, Severus." The voice should not, by any means, have been given so generously to the likes of a mere human being; the sheer power and terror of hearing such an eerie, spectral sound was enough to leave many immobile.
"You have decided to join me."
"My Lord," he croaked, hoping his voice would not betray his fear, "I should never dismiss any opportunity to bask in your presence."
It was these astronomical compliments-so very different from Severus' usual sardonic remarks-that made the nearly nonexistent lips smile in a way no other Death Eater could make possible. Severus was one of Voldemort's favorites 'toys,' as Hermione had so aptly delineated his position; one with a sense of humor so similar to his own that he considered them far closer than master and servant. It was only in through Voldemort's perversely distorted view of morality that he had been able to accomplish what he had; he might otherwise have found himself in Severus' position, living with nothing but his superior intelligence and his wicked tongue.
"You have always been a favorite, Severus," his Master informed him, the midnight blue robes in which he was adorned drifting in a ghostlike manner at his skeletal sides. "I could never help but pay you excessive attention. You appreciated it?"
"Always, My Lord. It was-it is-my honor." It had just struck him that his Master was speaking in the past tense. That could not possibly anything short of a death omen.
"I was proud of you, Severus," Voldemort continued, beginning to pace slowly in a circular motion, far too close for comfort. His eyes, Severus noticed, were cast toward the sky, their slits making him seem almost feline in complement to his lithe, flowing movement. "I had often considered making you an apprentice, for you had in abundance what the others lacked. You had the intelligence-such a rare gift, Severus-and the motivation. But you had subtlety, creativity, intuition.all invaluable assets."
"Thank you, My Lord." His tone nearly betrayed him as he began to feel the telltale signs of trembling in his lower limbs. His physiological functions had responded immediately and initiated the renowned 'fight or flight' response as he awaited the battle that could lead to his demise.
"Ah, Severus." There was nothing welcoming in Voldemort's tone, none of his usual appreciative candor. Rather, he spoke of Severus' remarkable attributes without any trace of true sincerity.
He was mocking him.
"You could have been my apprentice, dear boy." Reminiscent of Dumbledore, Severus thought despairingly; he was being addressed by Dumbledore's opposite, a demon in retaliation to the saint. "You could have followed my hallowed footsteps."
His death was inevitable; it was difficult to suppress a derisive laugh.
"You would have been my successor, Severus, continued the business. Our world could have been purged of the filth that surrounds us, and your name would have gone down in the history books. Perceptions would have altered, Severus; views would have changed when the others realized that you had committed not an atrocity, but a true service to the magical world. You would have been revered. You would have been a hero."
Severus could no longer contain himself. "You.speak oddly, My Lord. It is my interpretation that you have lost this.faith in me."
"Irrevocably, Severus. Completely."
He had been standing with his back toward Severus' face, staring at the stars as he spoke philosophically of Severus' talents and what might have, under different circumstances, come to pass. Visualizing his name in blessed print had given Severus quite a jolt, kicking forward his ambitious instincts. He had to remind himself of the noble reasons that had brought him to the barren moorland and the type of events for which he really wanted credit. Genocide was not among them.
"I.I do not know what to say, My Lord. My sincerest apologies. I had no idea that I am.lost to your cause." As Voldemort turned slowly, Severus forced himself to probe those inhuman eyes for some sign of weakness, humor, or lingering affection. Forcing the Dark Lord to recall his past appreciation, Severus recognized, might prove to be his only possible defense.
"You are indeed, Severus, though it is through no fault of mine." The gaze seemed to glow now, increasing in luminosity; the red hues were highlighted against the dilated black pupils, giving the appearance that there really was the proverbial fire in the eyes. "It is entirely your own fault. You betrayed me, my boy."
The blatant response had Severus taken aback; he resisted the compulsion to flinch and instead clasped his hands to keep them from wringing or shaking of their own accord. "I know not what you speak of, Master. Perhaps you are.mistaken?"
Voldemort had always followed such insinuations immediately with some form of torture that tossed the perpetrator dangerously closed to the edges of either insanity or death. Severus had fully expected such an attack to be launched, but his Master seemed strangely calm; his wand remained neatly pocketed in his robes, the very end of the shaft just visible against the dark fabric.
"Come, Severus. Let us not speak in circles. We are both men and mature enough to handle this situation, no?" Voldemort stepped closer, and Severus sensed for the first time the feral palpation of powers he could not fathom. Invisible tentacles seemed to emanate from the man across from him, poking, prodding, searching for information he would not willingly provide. "We are only wasting time. You make me impatient. I want a confession."
"My Lord, I must repeat, with regret, but I know not of what you speak."
The voice was a full growl now, and one hand darted forward to grab Severus' robes. The protrusive bones that seemed to rear from beneath his skin only further accentuated the contradiction that was Voldemort. He possessed a level of strength-though it was clearly magically enhanced-for which no one would have given him credit.
"Last chance, Severus, or I will elaborate to you the many reasons behind my accusation. My evidence is not circumstantial, I assure you; you have been caught, and you will be punished accordingly."
Severus' feet were returned to terra firma, most likely in an effort to grant him some level of security. Admitting one's treason to Voldemort was by no means a simple task.
Was a confession against his rules, those the Ministry had laid before him when he turned himself in, hoping for death? Unable to kill himself, Severus had offered information in return for a peaceful death at the hands of a magical executioner; he knew what his crimes warranted, and had been unafraid of what lay ahead of him. They had considered him useful, however, but the bulk of the job was not meeting Voldemort but continuing the exchange of information while remaining within the regulations set for him.
A confession had never been considered-up until he had been given to believe otherwise, it had been the commonly accepted that, should his true loyalty be revealed, Voldemort would dispose of him then and there, no questions asked. Severus himself had never thought it to be within the Dark Lord's capabilities to withstand a confrontation tête-à-tête with the guilty party and refrain from committing murder before the words were delivered.
Dare he confess? It was ludicrous to imagine that he would somehow escape with his life, but in that unlikely event, he did not in any way long to undergo the same treatment at the Ministry of Magic.
"I beg of you, My Lord, I don't understand." He wished desperately that he could force himself to cry, but as terrified as he was, such an overtly emotional display was far beyond his reach. The endorphins flowed, but never the tears. "I want only to serve you with the truth-"
"Spare me the whining, Severus," his Master hissed, and Severus was propelled backward until he landed painfully on his back with the sensation that he had cracked several vertebrae. Voldemort wasted no time in appearing at his side to continue the onslaught. "You always did have a bitchy side to you, wouldn't you agree?"
The wand had exited the lovely pocket and now hovered in combat position before him, suddenly devoid of the nonthreatening look it had possessed earlier. Severus decided that the best answer was, in this case, a silent one.
"You were supposed to agree," he roared, and the Cruciatus was cast before Severus had a chance to leap up or in any direction.
Pain flashed through him as thought the very marrow of his bones were on fire, rocketing itself through the veins and byways of his body until it reached the brain at record speed. There, it was passed through the brain and traveled to every nerve, every cell, and every bit of substance he had. Consumed entirely by the agony, he had not even the mental awareness to long for death.
"Welcome back." The voice had long since averted his own perception of its sound from eerie to inhumanely evil. "I know what you've done, Severus. All these years, you've been talking to them, haven't you?"
Blood was flowing from his nose and ears, across his lips and into his mouth. Severus could not move his arms or legs, still paralyzed with the aftershock of the Cruciatus Curse, and he was unable to answer for fear of sputtering and choking on his own blood.
"Answer me!" The wand appeared again, and his lips moved wordlessly. "Very well," the Dark Lord sneered with a venomous caliber worthy of Severus' own gifts. "If you refuse to answer, then you shan't need that tongue. I will cut it out for you."
How will I explain? Severus wondered frantically when he realized that the wand was morphing into a knife, a trick that should have been impossible. A trick of his eyes?
But you will not need to explain.
"Useless, that tongue," Voldemort whispered, reaching one hand down toward Severus' face. "Wagging, treacherous thing. You shouldn't have told them, Severus." One finger was on his upper lip, and before long, all fingers were pulling violently to open his mouth. "You shouldn't have told them anything."
"No!" The strength to sit forward and call his vocal cords into action came from reserves he had never imagined he had, but the instant he sat upright, life seemed to flow once more, though sluggishly, through his body. The poisonous aftereffects of the Curse would be long in leaving him, but activity would speed the process.
"You will talk, then?" The knife had retreated, but just slightly; it was still in the perfect position to gouge any part of his body as he half-sat, half-lay, prostrate before Voldemort.
"Yes."
"Excellent," the voice rumbled, but no bony hand appeared to help him to his feet. He was left to lie in rapidly growing pools of blood. "Tell me everything, Severus. Everything. The longer you talk," he added with soft animosity, "the longer I let you live."
"A most generous gesture," Severus spat back, unable to contain himself. The eyes flashed but the knife diminished back into the long, slender wand, and Voldemort faded quickly from angered to amused.
"You always did have an acidic tongue, Severus, and a wit to match. How did you do it? How have you fooled me all these years?" He seemed to thirst for the knowledge, as though Severus held locked within his mind a secret that would provide the skills necessary to win the ongoing war. It was laughable, really, how anxious he was to hear the details of what had been, for the most part, a job of merely holding down another job-and one far more ordinary.
"It was not difficult," Severus muttered through a mouthful of blood and saliva, wanting to spit the foul taste from his mouth, but fearing it would be seen as flaunting disrespect and earn him another bout with the Cruciatus. "I've spent the majority of these years at Hogwarts. You know that."
"Naturally. It placed you within Dumbledore's grasp." The word issued from the mouth of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with the same tone in which others spoke his own name, both fear and disgust. "He's had access to you all these years, while I've lay in half-lived stupor." He glared down at Severus with a ferocity that seemed almost parental in its chastising manner. "Has he brainwashed you? Would you even know?"
He's rationalizing, Severus thought, suddenly far more alert. Perhaps there was a way out of this yet. Voldemort did not want to see the crown of his favorite servant thrown upon the floor with a cry of treason.
"I would not know, My Lord. To my recollection, it was I who approached Dumbledore." There was no sense in lying, he knew, for if Voldemort [by some miracle] forgave him, such lies would only be discovered in the time hence, and perhaps with far more disastrous consequences than those that currently faced him.
"Of course, of course. Your guilty conscience." Voldemort shook his head, twirling his wand through his fingers with the dexterity of one who had been practicing for years, not locked away in the body of a decrepit monstrosity. "You conscience will plague you, Severus, until the day you die." A smirk. "But, in my generosity, I can perhaps make that day less elusive.and much sooner."
"Would be better than your interrogation," Severus mumbled through lips saturated with blood that felt odd and too malleable.
The remark was ignored in favor of yet more inquiries. "What have you told him, Severus? What of my secrets?"
"I'm afraid that's classified information."
The pain returned, snapping him nearly in half as his body flattened in a response similar to that of the stages of rigor mortis. His body became stiff as his limbs wrenched in convulsion. He could not clasp his fingers around the frozen ground to keep himself steady or still-coherent thought was not possible in the climatic clutches of an Unforgivable Curse.
When the ordeal finally ended, he knew numbly that Voldemort was lashing out recklessly, kicking at any available part of his body. Several blows caught him in the ribs and across the head, loosing more blood from its shaken confines. Black shapes began to appear through the waterfall of sweat and blood that ran down his face and he remembered the words at their last meeting.
'.completely new location,' Napps had informed them in an almost gleeful whisper. 'More secluded. He has promised us a new one.'
Up until then, the memory had escaped him, but he realized now with sickening acceptance that he was 'the new one,' their latest victim. It was logical, he knew, in the loosest and most terribly twisted sense of the word-there was no finer way to drive a stake through Voldemort's heart than to murder his prized pupil; his protégé; the needful child whom he had guided down the path to redemption.
They circled in closer as Voldemort's personal beating concluded, and he was only dimly aware of what the Dark Lord said to his followers.
"Do not kill him-he has a message to deliver, incapacitated as he may be." He could hear the high-pitched, sadistic laugh that echoed through the still air of the early morning. "Words may not be.necessary."
Appreciative chuckles rippled through the semicircle of followers as Voldemort stepped forward to address Severus for one last time.
"My best regards to Dumbledore," he murmured, his lips only a few inches from Severus' ear, which was nearly indistinguishable in the blood. "He and I shall be seeing much of each other in the days to come."
* * *
"When you have finished, you may hand in your papers," Madam Pomfrey called out, sounding as though she was rooted to Severus' desk chair with lethargy. Acting as substitute teacher in Potions class was a task few were up to-being successful at actually teaching an entire lesson was on another tier entirely.
Professor Snape's absences, few and far between as they were, quickly became occasions for partying and rejoicing. The students clapped and whistled in pure delight when Madam Pomfrey walked into the room three days earlier and announced that she would be filling Professor Snape's position until he was able to return to his duties. She had given no reason for his empty place, save that he was 'indisposed.'
Hermione had frowned, but she no longer had to brush errant tears from her eyelashes at the simple mention of his name. It was a relief, but a feeling deep within her nagged constantly at her heart. While she knew their relationship had been rent irreparably, she yearned to know his whereabouts. Something about his behavior the last few weeks they had been together bespoke of anxiety and depression, as though he was squirming under the burden of upcoming troubles.
That he had left so abruptly bothered her to no end. There could be no reasonable explanation for his sudden leave-taking that did not pose danger to him, and while she knew she should react bitterly and vindictively, she fretted on his behalf.
"Madam Pomfrey?" The other students had filed from the room, the sounds of their footsteps echoing through the moldy dungeon floors as they contentedly approached the stairways that would lead them back to the place they belonged. "May I speak with you?"
"Of course, dear." Lines appeared to have sprouted nearly overnight, creasing the older woman's face mercilessly. Hermione had a sudden urge to reach out and hug the teacher, to comfort her, but she knew not how. An adult offering condolences to a student with an unknown problem was one thing, but she had not the slightest idea what vexed Madam Pomfrey, and how she could possibly be of any comfort.
"Where is Professor Snape?" Madam Pomfrey's eyes shot upward, though her face remained bent, and her pen, poised above a worksheet, sat inert. "I know you said earlier that he was 'indisposed,' and you clearly didn't want to give any more details, but.I really need to know where he is."
"And why is that?" Madam Pomfrey inquired as politely as she could manage, laying the pen aside and folding her hands in a manner emulative of Dumbledore. "It would be an invasion of Professor Snape's well-deserved privacy if I revealed to you his whereabouts."
"I know, but." A single pair of feet approached, and both could hear clearly the rapid and intent step which they conveyed through the resounding echoes in the hallway. Hermione hastened to finish her explanation, but Madam Pomfrey's mind was elsewhere.
".there's something I really, really must discuss with Professor Snape, and I realize that he is busy and he certainly deserves a holiday, but it's imperative and I really can't afford to-"
"Poppy." Dumbledore's voice cracked and Hermione whirled around to find herself face-to-face with the most unkempt and discomposed version of the Headmaster she had ever seen. His robes were streaked with a substance that suspiciously resembled blood and his eyes were equally red. Dirt streaked his hair and face in long strokes and caked his hands, usually immaculately clean and well-kept.
"He's back," Dumbledore finished, and Madam Pomfrey was instantly on her feet, one hand clapped to her mouth. Hermione gaped in unabashed astonishment as tears flooded Madam Pomfrey's face while she struggled to make her way, stumbling, maneuvering around the desk to follow the Headmaster.
"Oh, thank Merlin-really, Albus-damn it! How does he work in this classroom?" she shrieked, and Dumbledore was forced to pull her into a calming embrace. She shook violently and Hermione could see that she was struggling, to no avail, at regaining her usual businesslike, brusque composure.
"Albus, is he alive?" Dumbledore's eyes flickered for just one moment to Hermione, searching her face, and the lines of his lips became thin and grim, but he obliged the shaking mediwitch with the words she wanted desperately to hear.
"He's alive, Poppy, but just barely." He was leading her, one hand on her shoulders, toward the doors. "He needs your help, Poppy, now more than ever before."
Hermione took a hesitant step forward. Severus had always mentioned how many times Voldemort subjected him to the Cruciatus Curse at the meetings, simply to play with him in the unspeakably aghast manner only Voldemort could manage. Who healed his wounds when he returned?
Dumbledore was rushing Madam Pomfrey through the door while she attempted to walk steadily, a difficult task while her vision was blurred through the tears. "Go, Poppy, please." Albus Dumbledore was not a cold man, nor stoic, but he had never been one to show raw emotion. Hermione was moved close to tears simply by the sight of them.
Could it be Severus? If he had been summoned to a Death Eater meeting, he would have been tortured, cursed, wounded-had they thought him dead?
"Headmaster-"
"Go to your next class, Miss Granger. I do not want to see you down here without the supervision of your teacher again." His voice was more acrid than she had ever heard it, a tone she had thought him incapable of using. "You have no reason to remain here."
She brushed past him as quickly as she could, tripping over the hem of her robes and clutching at her books to keep them from falling. By the time she arrived aboveground and passed through the main portion of the castle, she was running, though not because she feared arriving late for Care of Magical Creatures.
* * *
The only logical place they could house Severus during his recuperation period-if he was still alive, she reminded herself-was in the hospital wing. But it had been effectively closed off to all Hogwarts personnel save for Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore himself; even a few of the teachers complained audibly that they had been denied access into the infirmary while escorting injured students, and had been diverted to the Great Hall to meet with Madam Hooch and her sports medicine training instead.
Hermione had tried in vain to feel no remorse for Severus' pain. She had reread his letter a good twenty times, letting each and every word seep into her and poison her with its maliciousness; she no longer blamed herself for their breakup, but only him. He had, in his insecurity and his strict moral code, abandoned all pretenses and lashed out at her in an effort to ignore his own responsibility. He carried enough as it was, she reminded herself, without the added burden of knowing that he was involved in a relationship that broke the school rules.
However, try as she might, she could not banish him from her mind, and the feelings that flooded her at the recollection of his name were never of the bitter variety. She longed to see him again-longed for someone to reassure her that he was well and would heal fine-and wanted to hear his voice just one last time speaking not in reprimand, but in gentle contemplation. She had glimpsed a side of the resident Hogwarts demon that no one else had been allowed to see. She doubted if even Dumbledore himself had heard Severus musing some of the things he had with her companionship, and she felt both honored and enamored by him.
I am not in love with him, she had reaffirmed to herself when she came close to crying in History of Magic at the mention of Voldemort. Nevertheless, she did love him, as much or more than she loved anyone else she whose name she could mention, and his death would elicit a period of mourning unlike anything she could imagine. It did not take her brilliance to know that.
Sneaking through the hallways while the other students were at dinner, she was forced to hold her breath and exhale slowly in rhythm to remain quiet enough that she would not be heard. It had been her original desire to snatch Harry's Invisibility Cloak from his clothes chest, but as Neville Longbottom had been working on homework in solitude in the boys' dormitory, she would have had to cause nearly impossible diversionary events to gain control of the Cloak. In her worried and nauseous state, it would have been impossible-so she crept instead.
The path to the infirmary seemed unbearably long when she could not escape from her wonders of what-or who-she would find lying in the hospital beds that warranted complete isolation from the entire school. Madam Pomfrey had long since ceased to substitute teach for the Potions class-Dumbledore himself had begun to fill Snape's position, and was an abysmally poor teacher at best; but she had an inkling that it was due less in part to his skills and more to his state of mind.
Severus was not the type of man who would relent easily to others' offers for healthcare; as little as she knew him, she was as much an authority as they had, and for him to be under Madam Pomfrey's care did not speak lightly of whatever injuries had been inflicted upon him. Hardly anything short of death would have landed him in the infirmary without a fight both violent and valiant on his part.
Just as her fingers brushed the doorknob that led into the hospital wing, she remembered that some strange spell had been cast to ward off visitors. Wary of what would occur should she turn the knob, she restrained herself and ducked into the darkness cast by a nearby suit of armor. Fortunately, not being especially tall for a female, she fit perfectly into its shadow, her back flush with the wall. Her unfamiliarity with the spell necessitated that she wait until someone with that power-or immunity, whichever it should be-opened the door for her.
She was not long waiting, mercifully, for within ten minutes, she could distinguish voices from behind the heavy oak door. It swung open at a sluggish pace, and Madam Pomfrey's hand on the doorknob was just visible. She was speaking rapidly with Dumbledore, but it was exceedingly difficult to discern their words with the rapid beating of her own heart and the blood pounding in her ears.
".may be weeks," Madam Pomfrey was saying, and by the sudden appearance of flying hair, she knew the nurse was shaking her head in either derision or dismay. ".in an unbelievable state. Truly, Headmaster, I can't figure out how he lived."
Hermione gulped, too loudly, and slapped a silent hand over her face, hoping it would partially muffle the sound of her all-too-audible breathing. She could envision the ensuing scene should she accidentally make contact with the armored suit in front of her; most likely, once the initial resounding crash had ceased to echo, they would hear the sounds of the helmet rolling down the hall like a decapitated head..
"He's a strong man, Poppy.never gets credit." Tears threatened to fall. He is, she wanted to scream, physically and mentally, but you just can't give him credit. ".best if we did not mention this to the students."
You hardly need to tell anyone that, Hermione thought irritably. The teachers had been both delicate and effective in skirting the issue of Professor Snape's whereabouts up until then.
".keep it locked until further notice," Dumbledore finished, and once again, the sight of a few curls of Madam Pomfrey's unruly hair could be seen peeking from outside the partially open door. This time, she had to be nodding in assent and obedience. "The students may grow curious; they always do, with those inquisitive minds."
"I quite agree," Madam Pomfrey assured him in a kind but brisk voice, and Hermione wanted to reach out and yank the woman by her insufferable hair, throw her to the side, burst through the door, run down the aisle-
"Thank you, Poppy. Now"-Dumbledore heaved an exhausted sigh, twirling his long beard around his fingers in anxiety and contemplation-"perhaps you would join me for dinner? I'd much like you to make an appearance.other teachers are growing just as curious." His voice lowered again when the topic of discussion veered toward the other faculty.
"I'd be glad to." Like a true gentleman, Dumbledore offered her his arm and a warm, inviting smile. They turned to walk down the hall, Madam Pomfrey carelessly leaving the door to slam its way shut behind them.
Hermione darted forward soundlessly, and slipped a hand between the door and the doorjamb. It hurt intolerably when the heavy door put pressure against her fingers, and she stifled a scream. When she noticed their stride slowing, she slipped through the door as quickly as she could and let it slam shut, as Madam Pomfrey had intended it to do. Unbeknownst to her, the two in the hallway turned only once, vaguely observed the fully closed door, and continued on their way to the evening meal.
The room was softly lit by candles on the few tables, and a light illuminated the glassed-in partitions of Madam Pomfrey's office. The aisle of white-sheeted beds, professional and uninviting, unnerved her. She had not spent much time in the infirmary herself, opting only to visit when Harry or Ron became a patient, and she found the sterile, bright whiteness to be distinctly off-putting.
One bed, a single, simple one at the very end of the aisle, was blocked from view by white curtains that had been drawn about it. Through the soft, thin fabric of the curtains, she could just make out a shock of dark hair.
Severus! She walked slowly forward, pining again for the Invisibility Cloak. At this rate, she would never cease to worry that Madam Pomfrey or the Headmaster might return quite suddenly, on an errand, or at least that pretense, and catch her here. It was entirely possible they were expecting nosy intruders and had sensed her presence in the hallway.
She walked around the curtain, steeling herself for what would lay before her. No mental preparation could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes, and she choked back a convulsive sob.
Severus lay there, his rate of breathing hardly noticeable; only by placing a tender, inquisitive hand to his chest did she realize that he was even alive. Bending closer, she could not hear the gentle inhaling or exhaling of his breath. His hair was matted with blood that had not yet been able to wash out, and cuts and scratches lined his face. He had never had an attractive complexion, true, as it was far too pale, but it had never been marred. His lips had been cut in multiple places, but, oddly enough, it only increased the urge she felt to kiss him, try to awaken him from his sleep.
He wore the traditional hospital robe, white as chalk and twice as rough, but his skin was still perceptible through the weave of the fabric. Nasty bruises lined his entire body, and from the bottles on the bedside table, she knew that he had suffered a great deal of broken bones, most likely ribs. She was not sure she had ever seen a greater quantity of Skele-Gro doled out for the use of one patient.
Her hand still lay on his chest. She moved it slowly, laying it across his brow; he was hot and feverish, no doubt his body's reaction to such a trauma. It was amazing he had not suffered to the degree that he became comatose. His right arm was bent at an awkward angle, which worried her above all else. If the bone had been broken and Skele-Gro had not fixed it by now, he had endured something even Madam Pomfrey was incapable of healing.
She wanted to whisper his name, but was afraid of truly waking him; it would do no good to have him wake amidst a nightmarish recollection of what had happened and think her to be his attacker.
Indistinguishable as he was covered in lacerations and scars, he was still Severus, and she finally broke down and allowed herself to reach out and take his hand in hers. It was clammy despite his elevated body temperature; she lay his palm against hers, hoping that maybe some of her own body heat would seep through her skin and permeate his. It was unfair that his hand could feel so large, so safe, and yet she was the one who was supposed to be doing the comforting.