What the Thunder Said

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places, and creations belong to the revered Ms. Rowling. The rest is mine.

Chapter 2: A Gathering of Clouds

It was raining in Britain, and Severus was convinced that Hogwarts had never seen a colder summer. His cloak stuffed haphazardly in his miniaturized trunk, he merely gritted his teeth and began the long hike up the hill towards the castle. It must be the castle, he thought sourly; sure enough, upon setting foot on British soil, that customary Snape temper was eking back into consciousness. He stomped a bit more quickly. Hogsmeade was dark behind him; logically so, of course. That at least offered some small comfort. Whatever emergency had called him back to the Headmaster's side had not yet touched the sleepy village.

He rubbed his forearm fitfully. Whatever emergency had called him back to the Headmaster's side would likely mean another summon as well.

There was another figure tripping lightly up the path to the Hogwarts castle. He recognized the cloaked shape—and that no-nonsense scamper—rather well. Snape, his hair loose now, stringy from the rain, and scattered about his eyes, scowled even more darkly.

Ah, how he missed acutely the solitude of Isabella's roost. And he channeled that entire ache into being his most ornery yet.

"McGonagall," he snapped in acknowledgement as the Deputy Headmistress caught up with him. The shrewd, aging woman gave him a curt nod and returned the cursory greeting. Strangely enough, the two had always gotten along well. One of the great bloody mysteries of the new world, Snape thought to himself irritably. Her beady eyes flitted to his forearm, and Severus snorted. "Nothing yet."

The two—neither speaking of their interrupted holidays, or the reasons for such an untimely interruption—sped off towards the castle as the skies opened up.

~*~*~*~

The castle was never truly silent. There were always the whispers of the permanent inhabitants ringing in the halls. A few of the portraits woke blurrily to note the passing of the two professors. One of the suits of armor rustily stirred before settling back into a metallic slumber. And Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, was upon them in the foyer. She rubbed up against Snape's leg. (Like her master, she got along well with Snape; all three shared an uncanny amount of joy in making the lives of the students as difficult as possible. Severus suspected that their reasons for this unpleasant occupation were widely varied, but Filch had often proven himself a helpful accomplice.)

As it was, Mrs. Norris had to scoot out of the way—and fast—to avoid being trampled into the purple runner in the entrance hall. McGonagall, refusing to fall behind or loose an inch of ground to Severus, was similarly hurrying. The two left a trail of mud and cold rainwater in their wake.

McGonagall beat him to the gargoyle. "Ton-Tongue Toffee," she breathlessly spit out. Snape grunted in response. McGonagall gave him a withering look and led the way up the winding staircase. She did not continue up to the spherical office; she ducked off at a small alcove, tapped a stone in the wall, and shuffled into the Headmaster's private quarters.


Albus was slumped in a chair by the fire, which merely held a few unenthusiastic golden flames. A bad sign, that. Even in his less cheerful moods, Albus generally enchanted a round of colored fireworks or silver starbursts.

He looked up as the two entered the comfortable living room and nodded. "I've called back the others as well," the old wizard explained. "I'm rather glad, though, that you two arrived first. I will need some help in breaking the news to the rest."

With the exception of Severus, the "others" were on a different sort of vacation. The advent of the year had brought an extended round of attacks from Voldemort. The Dark ranks grew ambitious, and Albus had dispatched the majority of his loyal Order to various posts for added protection. McGonagall had been in London, of course. Hooch was in France—"studying Quidditch history" at the international headquarters there. Sprout was visiting family in Berlin, and so forth. There had been stirrings throughout Europe that worried the Headmaster.

This was something traumatic indeed if Dumbledore was recalling all of his agents.

There was an uncomfortable pause as Albus returned to studying his mundane flames. McGonagall conjured up a pot of tea and poured him a cup, which he promptly ignored in favor of the tin of lemon sherbets in his pocket. Neither McGonagall nor Snape spoke; they simply seated themselves in the other two overstuffed, mismatched chairs beside the fireplace and waited in the semblance of patience.

"There's been another Taking," Dumbledore said at last.

The "Takings," as they called them, had started in the autumn. Prominent resistance fighters would disappear—for a period that varied from two days to two months—only to reappear either dead or insane. Inevitably, some caved to the overwhelming pressures that were applied to their fragile selves, and untold amounts of intelligence had been lost.

Severus Snape wasn't a man given to believing in miracles. Still, he thought it nothing short of miraculous that his spy status had not yet been divulged. Luckily, oh-so-luckily, none of the Order of the Phoenix had been Taken yet.

He felt his stomach tighten apprehensively. "Who?" In spite of himself, his voice was a rough, angry croak. McGonagall, in an uncharacteristic moment of sympathy, patted his forearm with a bony hand. Snape brushed her sympathies aside with a growl and rose from his seat. He paced over to the fireplace, gripped the mantle tightly with both hands, and cursed under his breath.

Minerva, in turn, rose from her seat as well. She was tactful when she wanted to be, that woman. "I'll go to greet the others," she managed calmly. Primly settling her waterlogged cloak on her shoulders, she gave Dumbledore a fleeting glance, and headed towards the door.

The Headmaster and his spy were left alone.

Severus rubbed his forearm more strongly still. "One of the Order?" he snarled. He was studying with intense interest the dancing elf figurines on Dumbledore's mantle. Two were doing a pleasant little jig. He tried to steady his breathing.

"Yes and no." The Headmaster seemed to be weighing something in his head, some decision.

A miserable, self-loathing laugh. "Hell, Albus, what is that supposed to mean?" He could feel the strength ebbing from his veins. Six years he had played his dangerous game. Six years.

There was another pause for deliberation. Finally, at length, the old wizard sighed. "Has he called you yet?" Snape merely nodded, rolled up his left sleeve, and studied the angry black mark. He felt the bile rising in his throat. "You have to leave soon, then?" Another nod. "I won't tell you more, then, my son."

Severus closed his eyes, the blood draining from his face.

"Know that whatever decision you must make tonight, I trust and support you."

The chair creaked as Dumbledore rose. He laid a heavy hand, a tangible warmth, on Severus's shoulder. "Go now."

~*~*~*~

Through the fireplace, the internal Floo Network, down to the dungeons. The robe and mask were kept ready, tucked away under careful wards. On with the apparel of the Dark Lord, through the trap door, down the long tunnel. Albus had built the throughway for him soon after he made his return to Voldemort's side six years ago.

Above him, he could imagine the other professors—Sprout, optimistic little Flitwick, bright-eyed Vector—trudging through the rain up to the castle. He imagined their worry-lined faces, but he saw, beneath the lines, the inherent goodness.

They had clean pasts, all of them. In his mind's eye, they glowed with that unblemished light. They had redeemed themselves a thousand times over.

Up the dark stairs, pulling the mask over his features, and out into the grove of gnarled trees on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Just beyond the Hogwarts line. He was not a man given to sentimentality, so he did not look back over his shoulder at the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He knew all too well, though, that this was likely to be his last journey to Voldemort's side.

"One of the Order?"

"Yes and no."

He closed his eyes, tapped his wand to the burning mark on his forearm, and Apparated. Like clockwork, he appeared at Voldemort's side, dropped to his knees, and kissed the Dark Lord's hem.

He waited, then. It was only a matter of time, if whoever had been Taken had spilled his secrets. And yet, the six syllables of death were not spoke, Cruciatus was not applied, and Severus found himself being lifted to his feet.

Oh, how he hated that cold, silky touch.

"Dear Severus" --the voice like ice-- "I was wondering when that old fool would call you back from your holiday."

Severus lowered his eyes and smiled slightly, slyly. "Yes, pity that. A lost summer, my Lord." Voldemort chuckled in response. "But I will have you know that whatever you have managed most recently, my Lord, Dumbledore is devastated. This is a true blow to his morale."

He knew how to ingratiate himself with the Dark Lord. He had returned six years ago, and it had taken him only two to win himself a spot in the inner circle. Another year had passed, and he was a favorite. Now he stood equal with Lucius Malfoy.

"Good, good. The Taking? Yes." Voldemort smirked. "And it was well planned, too. I must give that Malfoy spawn credit for that, at least." Draco's to be credited, then. "We've held her, without notice, for nearly three weeks."

Her.

"We'll have time enough to talk of that soon, though," he hissed, red eyes glinting bright in the darkness. They were very much alone, as they often were when Severus was called. The Potions Master steeled himself privately. A sharp finger traced the line of Severus's throat, the angle of his jaw. "I have to welcome back my favorite Death Eater from a most unfortunate vacation."

Oh, indeed, there were some things that Severus would never tell Dumbledore about his meetings with Voldemort. There were worse things than the Unforgivables.

~*~*~*~

The next meeting was far more formal. Voldemort's moods were as ever-shifting as his strange red eyes. Still, Severus stood beside the Dark Lord's empty chair, waiting for the wizard to arrive. He walked a very fine line. The chambers were silent, and he found himself thinking back to a time when he would have been overjoyed rather than horrified to find himself here.

He had been young, and he had been angry, and he had been easily swayed in the path of darkness. He had returned to Hogwarts, blood on his hands and guilt heavy on his mind, two years after graduation. The Dark Lord had not yet fallen at the hands of an infantile Harry Potter, and at the time, it looked as thought Voldemort's reign would go unchallenged.

And yet, Severus Snape brandished his Mark and his guilt at the feet of Albus Dumbledore.

It had been the girl that had weighed heaviest on his mind, and in the end, had driven him to Dumbledore. She had been in his year at school, a pretty little Muggle-born thing with strange violet eyes and flaxen hair. He recalled her being quite intelligent. She had been a Ravenclaw with a lilting laugh and a knack for spells, and a close friend of an auburn-haired beauty who would become Head Girl.

And that friendship had been the death of her. He didn't know the beginning of her story, but the end replayed itself in his mind all too often. She still haunted his dreams; he'd wake in a cold sweat, sick to his stomach with the reality of his actions.

His ruthless manner and willingness had set Severus apart from the other Death Eaters. He had been young and eager to please, true, but he had been cleverer than most. There was a heartlessness about him that Voldemort had admired. Tom Riddle took a liking to young Severus Snape immediately.

And yet, he had brandished his Mark and his actions for Albus Dumbledore to inspect. For reasons Severus still didn't understand, he had been forgiven and, more astonishing, trusted.

Over twenty years later, he found himself still in Voldemort's inner circle, though under far more dangerous terms. It had been a hard handful of years, convincing Voldemort again of his faithfulness. The worry that now lurked incessantly in Albus Dumbledore's eyes was not unfounded.

He wrenched himself back to the present. Severus, with his attention to detail, made a quick and able spy.

Malfoy had entered the arena. He too stepped forward, taking his place beside the grotesque throne.

"Lucius," Snape said tersely, meeting the other man's eye pale eye. Both prickled noticeably.

Lucius Malfoy snickered at the Hogwarts Potions Master. "A bit late, aren't we, Severus?" There was a malicious twang to his drawl; the words put Severus on edge. He obviously did not allude to the present meeting, and there was meaningfulness behind what that weasel spoke. "Tsk, tsk. I just hope that you are not too late to enjoy what's left. The Dark Lord thought little of your… vacation." Severus answered with only a cool glare, and shrugged his shoulders lightly. "I hope you have not angered him?"

"He seems to value information most, as I'm sure you know. What have you uncovered for our Lord this time, Malfoy? Another faulty Ministry report?" Snape sneered. The two glared at each other for a minute, and Severus could almost see Malfoy formulating a scathing reply behind those glinting grey eyes. The two had never been on good terms. They had been recruited together, and had both risen high in Voldemort's ranks; neither trusted the other, though. That, coupled with the fierce competition that lent itself to their… careers, left them on wary terms.

Their verbal assaults were waylaid as the door swung open, held by a groveling servant, and a pair of glinting crimson eyes glowed in the dark doorway.

Both Severus and Lucius were on their knees, instantly, as was the mass of shadowy figures.

Severus played a perilous game, but he intended to win.

Voldemort sank into his glittering chair, gestured for his minions to rise, and looked to Malfoy. "She is still alive, then?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort chuckled; it was more of a heathen hiss than a laugh, and the mirth there was dark, pitiless. Severus, had he been less schooled in this dangerous masquerade, would have shivered. Instead he quirked a curious eyebrow, lips curling in sinister amusement.

"This is the one you spoke of, my Lord?" Voldemort nodded, reptilian eyes narrowing further.

His stomach knotted uncomfortably, but he managed a look of quiet interest. Images of the little golden Ravenclaw flickered behind his eyes. "The one you've Taken. Three weeks, you said? Well done, my Lord."

"Indeed. We've reason to believe that she holds some very useful information." Severus arched an eyebrow, right on cue. He nodded slowly. Voldemort grimaced, however, and glanced away. "I'm afraid, though, that she's putting up more fight than we'd reckoned for. I'm loathe to question to her myself, but the little bitch hasn't so much as spoken a word for any of the… others." A flicker of displeasure appeared on his eerie features. Those red eyes glinted in the darkness. Snape felt an inkling, niggling reminder at the back of his mind, a small feeling of dread building in his middle.

He knew all to well what manner of questioning had been employed to wrench the information from that poor girl. That she was alive, much less resisting, after three weeks was remarkable.

"We will finish tonight." Voldemort decided. He folded those icy hands—Severus turned his mind away from the hands—over his stomach. "I am sure your expertise will be greatly appreciated, Severus. You have been given very few excuses to practice these last years. That will be remedied." He fingered the wand at his side anxiously. Beside him, Malfoy trembled with ill-suppressed excitement. He gestured to one of the robed figures beside the door.

"Have her brought in, Malfoy."

The pudgy doorman, one hand gleaming, reached for the heavy gate. Voldemort gave Severus a flickering glance. His voice was low. "You will enjoy this, my pet."

Ah, but he was in trouble now. The wheels of his mind were working frantically. He had managed to avoid too much hands-on work after his return to Voldemort's ranks; he was simply an informant. A double-agent, though Voldemort had not yet found him out. He tried, rather frantically, to think of an excuse for avoiding whatever poor wretch came tripping towards him, all the while maintaining a look of suppressed eagerness.

The way he saw it, he had three options. First, he could do exactly as he had been asked, and wring the information out of the woman somehow. His … skills, as Voldemort so gently put it … were strong indeed. This, however, was not a simple matter of frightening first years. Severus repressed a small shudder. Violet flashed in his mind's eye.

If she were lucky, she would be thrown back like most of the other Taken; insane, yes, and near death. But still alive, perhaps.

Second, he could simply fail where any number of Death Eaters before him had failed. It would be a dangerous charade, though, with the Dark Lord and Lucius Malfoy and a gaggle of Death Eaters watching over his shoulder. Besides, as Voldemort had said, this ended tonight.

And there was no mistaking what that meant.

And third… he could leave. Hightail it out of there like a bat out of hell. But that meant giving up what he had worked at for six years, ending a crucial link in the war effort … and putting Hogwarts at the forefront of the fight.

Dumbledore's words came drifting back to him, prophetic now as understanding set in.

"Know that whatever decision you must make tonight, I trust and support you."

A perfect golden head appeared in the doorway, surrounded by the folds of a black cloak. Draco Malfoy's cheeks were uncommonly flushed in that milky pale complexion. His smile was all too telling. He made a short bow, lips tweaked with self-satisfaction. And then he led in his near-broken capture, three weeks worth of praise and pleasure buoying the young man's spirits.

It was not a woman that had been Taken, at least in Severus's eye. It was a girl, a mere wisp of a naked, bruised thing. He observed her for a moment with hidden dread, with cool, academic curiosity.

A tangled mess of brown hair—vaguely familiar—covered her eyes as she studied the flagstones, weak and wobbly. She was obviously supported by some spell or another; she looked ready to collapse. "Bring her forward," Voldemort hissed. She seemed to float forward, and some unseen hand pushed her to her knees.

And yet it was of her own volition that she raised her trembling chin and studied her captors with large, unreadable chocolate eyes. Perhaps it was the eyes. Perhaps it was that he had seen her before—often, really—in these same dungeon-like settings. But recognition was upon him instantly.

Oh, Albus.

"Hermione Granger."

A/N:

I know! Before you say ANYTHING, let me tell you that this is not headed where you think it's headed. I've been working on this plot for some time, and I've been told before that here it faintly resembles PtQ. I thought this up and wrote the preliminary draft before I even read PtQ. So there. Pfft. *g*

Tell me what you think! I adore feedback.