"Quod Me Nutruit, Me Destruit – Chapter 6"
By the Crystalline Temptress
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, the brilliant writer J.K. Rowling does. So don't sue me. I only own Niobe Tatius-Hathaway.
A/N: Much thanks to my beta readers. Misao, thanks for the brilliant idea. And, as usual, to those who gave me C & C, my gratitude. To my very own Snape—I love you! :) Okay . . . I will not go into PDA.
I apologize for the prolonged breach in writing; my parents dragged me all over the country on a spontaneous vacation, making me miss out on a lot of things. Then, upon coming back, I had a ton of work, and so that kept me from working on this again.
Oh yes, I was recently rereading Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare, and I was skimming over Shylock's speech. Suddenly, an absurd image of Snape walking down the hallway in his billowing robes popped into my head, and his gorgeous voice saying (complete with altered lines), "He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million! Laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what is his reason? I am a Snape!" etc. :) New fanfic idea: the Potter family is angry at the Snape family, etc. Other details to be worked out soon enough (if ever worked out at all). Romeo and Juliet somehow haunts me now.
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"Hermione!"
She looked up at the sound of her name. Ron was hovering by the entrance to the dungeons.
"How did it go?"
To his apparent shock, Hermione smiled, although somewhat nervously.
"Professor Snape let me go without taking any points!" she exclaimed. "And he didn't ask for his ingredients back. But then again, maybe he just forgot that I had taken some." She shrugged. "It was quite unusual. . . ." She trailed off. "Come to think of it, I reckon that it's because of his headache."
"What headache?" Ron demanded as they strode down the hallway. From the end of the corridor beside a flight of stairs, Harry gestured for them to hurry up a bit. "He told you that he was sick?"
"Not really," Hermione shrugged. "I just made that assumption, by the way his pupils were dilated and how he kept on squinting at me. He kept on rubbing his temples and the bridge of his nose as well."
"You seem to have observed a lot." Ron's eyebrows seemed to reach his hairline.
She looked at him keenly. "I always try to observe everything," she said with a grin. "What's new?"
"Yeah, you're right," he admitted.
"What happened?" Harry interrupted their conversation as soon as they reached the staircase where he had been keeping watch.
"Snape allowed her to keep the stuff!" Ron replied, although the question was addressed to Hermione. "And he didn't even put her in detention!"
Harry stared at him. "You're joking."
"No, I'm not!" Ron shook his head vehemently. "Right, Hermione?"
Hermione nodded in response.
"If that were me, Snape would've gotten me expelled for sure," Ron said with a grimace as he began to walk up the stairs.
"Same here," Harry agreed he fell into step with them.
"I think I was just fortunate enough to have faced him when he was in no mood to be vindictive," Hermione said with a small smile that clearly said she felt sorry for him. "By the way, what happened to Malfoy?" she asked, changing the topic. "I know I saw him there, because I recall that Professor Snape sent him out with the two of you."
Ron scowled. "At first, he stood there and annoyed us." He rolled his eyes and imitated Draco's swagger and his drawl. " 'That Mudblood Granger's in trouble now, isn't she? Now the two of you will have to be on your own, without the help of that sniveling Muggle-born. I suppose you need her to do your homework, Weasley? I honestly don't know why you depend on her so much; I don't think she's really all that smart. . . .'" Ron was positively seething.
"Nearly got into a fistfight," Harry said with a grin as he pointed discreetly at Ron, who was beginning to rant by himself. "I told Malfoy that I'd hex him if he continued to bother us. I don't know if that was what drove him off, but he threw a few more closing insults, then 'left us to our own devices,' as he had put it."
"Lovely," Hermione scoffed. "He still hasn't grown up, has he? He's been acting that way since first year," she said, eliciting a laugh from Harry.
"I don't know if we've grown that much either." Harry gestured to Ron, who was still talking to himself. "I hope that I don't do that."
Hermione covered her mouth in order to cork the giggles that were fighting to slip past her lips.
"A word with you, Professor Snape," Dumbledore said mildly as he poked his head past the entrance.
Snape fought the urge to swear aloud, as he was mortally tired and in no mood for a conversation. He reluctantly stood and followed the headmaster, ambling into place behind the older man.
They strode through the labyrinthine halls in a manner that was incredibly reminiscent of how Snape had followed Voldemort through the winding paths of the Forbidden Forest—quiet, stealthy and secretive. He hastily quelled his qualms and reminded himself that he was following Dumbledore; the knowledge should have given him at least some degree of comfort.
Déjà vu stuck him again. It also reminded him of how he had followed Dumbledore right after he had decided to relinquish his ties with the Death Eaters.
Whatever the situation was now, it was, no doubt, less serious than the ones he had in mind. But nonetheless, Dumbledore's unusual silence was unnerving him.
They reached the headmaster's office. Dumbledore said the password ("Sugar Quill"). Immediately, the gargoyle guarding the passageway slid aside. Dumbledore headed up the flight of stairs, while Snape followed him quietly.
Upon entering the circular room, the headmaster lit a fire with a spell and sat down behind his desk. He gestured for Snape to do so as well, in the chair in front of the mahogany table.
"So, I reckon you've discovered Miss Granger's plan." It was a statement, not a question.
He nodded, wondering if that was what they were going to talk about.
"What do you think of it?"
"It . . . was well planned, but risky," Snape replied. "And very noble and loyal." Dripping sarcasm.
Dumbledore sighed. "I was expecting something of the sort to happen when I read the paper," he said as he watched Snape with those penetrating blue eyes. "Mr. Potter is quite attached to Black, Black being the only person like a relative left in his life. I know for a fact that Harry's unhappy living with the Dursleys. . . ." He waved his hand. "But I didn't call you here to talk about Harry's life." He smiled mildly at Snape's obvious dislike of the topic. "Although it can't be helped, because Harry's life has much to do with the situation.
"I wanted to talk to you about Miss Granger," Dumbledore told him. He tapped his fingers on the desk and looked at Snape expectantly.
"What about her?" Snape asked, perplexed as to what relevance she could present.
"She is actually the one taking the greatest risks in trying to help Harry by helping Sirius," Dumbledore sighed vaguely. "Doing the Aevum in itself is dangerous, as the potion is very delicate. Of course, Severus, you'd know more about that than I would," he said with a smile.
"She's going to Moonshine Tavern, just to see if the rumor regarding Sirius' dossier is true. And she'll manipulate the situation to meet her ends, whether she is justified in going to the tavern or not."
Snape eyed him, slightly dubious. He was still at a loss in regard to what Hermione had to do with him, and he was wondering how Dumbledore had acquired all the information he possessed.
Need I ask? he thought, knowing how Dumbledore always knew everything.
"Madam Pince told me about how Hermione had taken books on On-Contact potions and aging potions," Dumbledore said, as if replying to his unspoken question. "I had heard about how Moonshine Tavern was thought to have all the missing files on the Death Eaters. And I know that one can't enter unless over the minority age.
"I am just making my assumptions, Severus. And this is where you come in."
Snape looked at him in surprise. "What—"
"—I'm asking you to do, is to find out as much as you can, and to assist her in her plans." Dumbledore smiled benignly as Snape's mouth went slightly ajar. "At first, I was going to ask you to prevent her from accomplishing these tasks, but I think that she deserves the chance to venture forth into the world. Good training for later life. And who better to aid her with potion making?"
"But—" Snape protested.
"And Severus," Dumbledore interrupted, apparently unwilling to listen to his complaints. "She's going forth in a project that concerns Death Eaters."
Unstated: only you can direct her properly in sneaking around them.
"And," he added, "don't tell Miss Granger that I told you to keep an eye on her. Tell her that you picked that option."
"What?" This time, Snape made the word curl into a question before the headmaster could cut him off.
"I think that it would make her rather indignant if she were to find out that I assigned you the task of keeping watch," Dumbledore said.
Snape exhaled sharply and nodded jerkily, deciding that it would be futile to try to escape the headmaster's request.
Dumbledore smiled. "Good. Now, off with you," he said, as if Snape were still his student.
He did as he was told and made his way out of the office.
As he strode down the familiar corridors towards the dungeons, he thought of the headmaster's odd requests. He nearly grimaced at the thought of having to aid a student in something that seemed so brilliant it was ludicrous. He wondered how he should approach her about it.
He passed by the classroom where he had talked to her a while ago, and came to the conclusion that she'd need a proper workplace to brew the Aevum. Perhaps he could just tell her to make the Aevum in the dungeons, and in the process find out about what she was going to do.
A glimmer of silver caught his eye. It was the Invisibility Cloak draped over a chair, where he had placed it when he had come across her.
I could just owl her a note, telling her to claim the cloak. Then I'll just tell her to brew the potion here, he thought, his lip curling in distaste. At least he had established a premise for conversation.
Hermione rubbed her eyes wearily as she squinted at the curly writing on the book she had been reading for the past hour or so. Her wristwatch said that it was 11:27 in the evening. She was tired and sleepy, but she felt like sleep was the last thing she should do at the moment. She had been reading and thinking since she had left Ron and Harry in the common room with Fred, George, and Ginny. She didn't feel like sleeping without at least a bit of information acquired from the books she had borrowed, because the evening would have been such a waste if she didn't learn something new.
Besides, my train of thought's still running, she thought as she cushioned her cheek on the heel of her hand.
She sighed. With the acknowledgement of her flowing ideas, they abruptly ceased to make room for her random musings.
If I wasn't helping Harry, all I'd be worrying about are my O.W.L.s, she told herself mentally.
You know that you're compelled to help. You're always griping on and on about how some people (or beings) are persecuted because of their helplessness, another tiny voice retorted at the back of her head. Helping Sirius isn't that different from establishing S.P.E.W.
She knew that people had always wondered why she was so passionate about helping others who were incapable of defending themselves.
Niobe Tatius, she thought resignedly.
She shut the book that she had been reading and stretched out on her bed, trying to loosen the knot of tension at the base of her nape. At the same time, she reached for her journal in the trunk beside her and flipped it open.
She found the marked page she had been searching for and began to read:
I did a bit of research on my family tree for a project in History of Magic. I discovered something really interesting. It turns out that somewhere along my father's family line, a relative of mine named Niobe Tatius-Hathaway was accused of witchcraft. It wasn't true, though. But as far as I know, she was still burned at the stake.
I suppose I'll delve into her life a bit. She lived in Greece, but due to the conflict in the country, she moved to London. (Greener pastures, I presume—the Renaissance was supposed to have been a mix of both beauty and hideousness, putting it in my words. Research more on that later.)
She found this British guy and married him; they had a daughter named Rhea. But later on, her husband found her reciting "'incantations" before a fire. He declared it to the church, and she was burned at the stake in the public square. (Whatever happened to "Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do onto me"?)
Rhea was said to have possessed the power to See into the future, and although she wasn't burned for it, she was still shunned by society. I find that discrimination very disheartening, to put it mildly. I'm often indignant when someone gets in trouble because of other people's "natural" instincts (crab mentality, etc.). I just don't like it when the world ostracizes someone or something just because of differences.
Anyway, people say that Niobe died. Of course, with no magical powers whatsoever, she must have been defenseless. But then, I often ask myself: what if she had just performed a Flame-Freezing Charm, made herself invisible, changed her identity, and continued to live quietly in the Wizarding World? Then, I squelch the thought. I reckon that I'd know if I wasn't a pure Muggle-born; I'm sure that my family would tell me if there was another magical person in the clan. Unless they themselves don't know.
But isn't it ironic that later on in time, Niobe's descendant turns out to be a real witch?
That was where the page ended. Hermione flipped to the latter portion of her journal and unfolded another marked page. The date showed that she had written the entry around the Quidditch World Cup, or thereabouts. It said:
I've always been disgusted by low treatment of people, or even non-human beings. Watching Mr. Crouch fire his house-elf, Winky, had stirred this anger in me; I realized the play of power between all those in existence, and it scared me. It's like what had happened was just an analogy for me to understand the way the universe is fashioned, and a very chilling analogy at that. If Mr. Crouch could treat a house-elf that way, then perhaps he could treat fellow human beings in the same way. And if he could act that way, other people could too. It's unjust, this persecution-of-the-weak rule.
Prejudice is almost a common thing. My ancestor, Niobe Tatius-Hathaway, was one to be persecuted. House-elves are treated like vermin. Even I am rejected by my peers, because they think I'm a "nerd," or something of the sort. (Well, I used to be alone, until Harry and Ron had kept me company—thank God for people like them.)
From now on, I swear that I'll try to defend those that I see as unjustly accused, persecuted, helpless, shunned, and whatever else. And heaven forbid that I forget this promise to myself.
Hermione slammed the leather-bound notebook shut and tucked it back into her trunk.
Sirius Black is persecuted, she told herself sleepily. As if she hadn't known.
With that, she closed her eyes for a while, and drifted off into the light clutches of slumber.
But it wasn't long before she was awakened by something tapping on her windowpane.
Opening one eye blearily, she squinted at the gray owl making noise on the other side of the glass. She sighed and made her way to the window. As soon as she had pushed it outwards, the owl came swooping in. It landed by the foot of her bed and hooted softly. It stuck out its leg, where a note was tied.
Glad that the owl hadn't disturbed the other occupants of the near-empty girls' dormitory, Hermione hurriedly unraveled the parchment and began to read.
Miss Granger, it said in a hand that was a cross between scrawl and script, you left Potter's cloak. It is currently in my possession. Claim it in the Potions dungeon. If possible, tonight.
Despite the gravity (or irony) of the situation (having left such an object in the possession of the Potions master seemed like a Very Bad Idea), Hermione snorted with laughter. It seemed that even in writing, Snape disliked Harry. It was as if the man was irked just to have something of Potter's in his hands.
It didn't seem like a Very Good Idea to leave it there for the night either, so Hermione decided to do as he had asked, although she was exhausted. Not bothering to keep her writing legible, she scribbled on the edge of the parchment: be there in a few minutes. She retied the parchment to the owl's leg and sent it off.
She dragged herself out of bed and threw a robe over her pajamas.
I hardly think that Professor Snape would deduct points from me for choosing to wear sleeping clothes, she thought sardonically as she stepped into her slippers. She tied the belt and moved towards the common room.
Snape sat behind the desk motionlessly as he waited for Hermione. The Invisibility Cloak was folded and placed on the chair in front of him.
He had received Hermione's note a few minutes ago and was waiting for her. Less than patiently, at that. All he wanted to do was to go to sleep—his only way of escaping the pain of his headache, at least for a few hours.
He reckoned that Dumbledore knew of his condition. He exhaled and pressed his forehead to the surface of the table. The headmaster most definitely worked in mysterious ways, Snape told himself, and the hints that Dumbledore was giving him didn't go over his head. He asked Snape to visit Madam Pomfrey on an errand once—Snape didn't know whether it was coincidental or staged.
But somehow, as much as Dumbledore's omnipresent knowledge unnerved him, the headmaster's lack of comment regarding his headache bothered him too.
Indecisive, aren't you? he said internally.
His thoughts were interrupted as Hermione entered the room, looking just about as tired as he felt.
Snape pointed at the cloak wordlessly. She was glad for the silence; she didn't think that she could handle another bout of confrontations. She walked over to the cloak and hung it over her arm, already prepared to make her exit.
"A question, Miss Granger," Snape said, stopping her in her tracks. She turned around and faced him.
"Where are you planning to brew the Aevum? I hardly think the headmaster would stand for it if you brewed it in strange places, as I'm sure you did with the Polyjuice Potion." He allowed himself a small mocking smile at that, and Hermione paled visibly.
"I was planning to use . . . my room," she said haltingly, not rising to the bait he had set, but not quite managing to disguise how awkward he had managed to make her either.
I refuse to ask him how he found out, she thought. Not right now, at least.
"I fully intend to preserve the castle. I suggest that you use the Potions classroom; that way, the damage you create would be very minimal, since the dungeons have been protected by several spells to keep them in tact," Snape said coolly.
Hermione was both flattered and flustered.
"Besides, I don't think that Professor McGonagall would like it if her student got . . . damaged . . . by a potion made without proper supervision," he added darkly.
Hermione decided that his remark must have been spurred by something in the past, but decided to put that thought aside and settled on feeling irritated at his complete lack of confidence in her.
Classic, though, she mused. Head of the Slytherin house never bestows his or her trust upon a Gryffindor student.
"Thank you for your concern, Professor Snape," she said, carefully keeping her voice level as to emphasize the sarcasm. "I will use the dungeons . . . tomorrow."
"Good," he answered just as impassively as her.
She nodded curtly and headed out as quickly as she could, grateful to be out of his presence once and for all . . . at least, for that night. She had had too many scrapes with him already.
Dear Father,
I think that I should tell you this interesting bit of information. Professor Snape's stores were raided today by none other than Hermione Granger. That Mudblood is another sidekick of Potter, and I bet she's doing something under his bidding. I know that that doesn't concern you, but maybe this bit of information will: Professor didn't punish her. At all. I don't know; I still think that Professor Snape favors me, but maybe he isn't that harsh to Mudbloods anymore? Isn't a D.E. supposed to be wholly against that type of riffraff?
Lucius shook his head and tapped his quill upon his desk impatiently. He was annoyed at three things: firstly, his son's lack of discretion would surely bring about the downfall of the Malfoy line, if Draco continued to divulge information without doing something as simple as casting protective spells on his letters.
Secondly, his lack of attention on important things was surely a disadvantage. If Snape's stores were indeed raided by that Granger, Draco should have at least tried to find out why, since it seemed to be a blatantly obvious fact that Potter was connected to that Mudblood.
Finally, if Snape was indeed nice (for lack of a better term) to this Mudblood, something must be amiss. Lucius narrowed his eyes. Something had to be done about that.
He twirled his quill lazily and pulled a spare piece of parchment from his drawer. Within minutes, he had constructed a short letter addressed to Snape. He folded it and debated on whether or not he should send it just yet.
Deciding that it was too late in the evening to summon Snape (untimely letters tended to make people nervous, which was the last thing he had in mind), Lucius placed it on the stack of letters he had on his out-tray.
He placed his quill back into its inkbottle and continued reading Draco's letter, which consisted of nothing more than meager descriptions of his son's vacation and the petty conquests he had accomplished.
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A/N: I explained a bit of Hermione's history in this chapter (idea provided by Misao). That's Hermione's reason that doesn't have to do with Harry. I'll delve more into that as the story progresses. (It'll play an important part.)
I also realized that my portrayal of Draco in this fic is an exaggerated version of himself from the books. But to all you Draco fans out there, I promise that he won't be like that all the time. I have special plans for him—that's why he's there. Otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered. :) But I'll pose a question earlier in the fic . . . should I allow him the untimely death I had so ruthlessly planed for him? No, I'm just joking . . . kind of. :)
I got a comment about my last chapter, saying that Snape was too nice. Yes, I agree that he was much nicer than usual, but I had three reasons why I made him milder.
Firstly, he had a headache; it drained him of all his energy, therefore, he found that he was too tired to be vindictive. All he wanted to do was send Hermione off. He didn't even want to see if what Draco was saying was true, but he had to.
Secondly, as he said in the chapter itself, he thought that she wasn't a child, and that she knew the consequences of whatever she chose to do. Although that it was his job to discipline students, he wanted to hear her reason first. (Yes, our cruel Potions master actually has a sense of justice.)
Thirdly, upon hearing her reason, he was trapped. To discourage her from entering, he would cause suspicion, because I reckon that Hermione would want a reason as to why she can't go, and he can't tell her about the Death Eaters. And to allow her meant that she was plunging into the fire, and he had told her that she was old enough. In a way, he had allowed her discreetly by telling her that she knew the effects of her deeds. (He could discern the way Hermione's mind worked; he knew that she knew she was taking full responsibility for her actions.)
And now, in this chapter, he has yet another reason: Dumbledore told him to. :) Soon, he'll have even more. This is a romance fic concerning them, right? :)