What the Thunder Said

Chapter Three: The Fog Rolls In

Oh, dear. She was in trouble now. Funny how her mind had stayed blissfully, torturously intact all these weeks; sanity came and went, but this moment was definitely one of her more sane. Pity. She knew that voice, behind the shadows of his mask and robe. And her mind clicked back a few years—six, to be precise, and she ever-was.

Cornelius Fudge had left, and Hermione, pushed up against the windowsill, was studying the toes of her sensible shoes. She felt invisible; she lifted those eyes to study the buzzing room, to readjust her view of the world.

Severus Snape, a Death Eater. Ex-Death Eater, Hermione reminded herself. Lemon sherbets and Santa Clause eyes aside, Dumbledore was a wise man; she trusted him. And yet she felt herself sway at the sight of the ugly, faint Dark Mark. Even if he was an ex-Death Eater, that Mark meant only one thing.

Logically, at one time or another, the "ex" had known no place in that title.

Dumbledore was speaking, quietly, faintly, to the Potions Master. "Severus, you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready … if you are prepared …" He was, apparently. And he left, ashen-faced, eyes flickering strangely.

Something tugged at Hermione's quick mind; even at a mere fifteen, she was vaguely aware of some deeper plot there. However, something else—something more immediately important—caught her attention. A beetle was resting on the windowsill.

She was fully convinced that he was a spy for Dumbledore; she was a bit peeved at herself, truth be told, that she hadn't seen it earlier.

She was also fully convinced that she would be sacrificed to preserve his cover.

She had fought—and fought hard—for three weeks now. She had lost track of time for most of it, simply focusing all of her being on not speaking a word. Now she knew, with strange certainty, that her test had ended. And part of her thanked her mother's God, thanked every being in the universe, thanked even this dark gathering for letting the end come at last. It was a terrifying thing for that once-so-optimistic little creature to want nothing more than to be finished.

Her lips parted slightly, chapped and sore and bruised. "Please." Her voice was a whisper, a croak. She felt her strength ebbing from her; it took great effort to keep her head aloft. She finally succumbed to that heavy gravity, slumping against her invisible bonds. Every inch of her body ached, inside and out. She threw the last remnants of her potency into keeping her secrets locked safely away.

Granger, that little voice called out. Granger, for heaven's sake, just don't cry.

"Please, just let me die." And her eyelids—funny, she thought, I don't remember them ever being so very heavy—eventually drooped shut.

All in all, she was very calm about the whole thing.

~*~*~*~

Malfoy the Younger had stepped back, and at Voldemort's prompted, he released the invisible bonds that held that pathetic Mudblood in place. She crumpled on the cold floor, shivering wretchedly. The rest of the assembly stirred impatiently, shifting for a better view of the little witch; it disgusted Severus. He could hear the quickening of breath and heartbeat in the cavernous chamber.

"Please, just let me die."

He felt the bile rising in his throat. He had to move. He had to say something. He had to act.

And so he did; a most scholarly man, Severus Snape was trying with all his might to not think. He managed a vicious sneer, though, and descended from the dais to peer down at the sad fragments of an old student. He nudged her with the toe of his black leather boot; she whimpered.

Severus, you are going to hell. He was not given to belief in Muggle religion, but this he understood as true. He fingered his wand in his pocket and drew it smoothly. "Crucio," he announced nonchalantly.

Granger's shrill cry shook him to his very bones.

Before hell, he was going to Azkaban. He coolly watched the young woman writhe for a few moments before murmuring a chilly, "Finite Incantatum." She laid still, eyes glazed over slightly, dry and empty.

"Miss Granger?" he prompted. She said nothing. He wasn't sure, but he imagined he saw a flicker of something behind those thin eyelids, but it was gone. She twitched, and then was like stone was again. "Miss Granger, answer me!" He prodded her with the tip of his wand—white hot, on command. She did not respond.

To hell in a hand basket. He couldn't remember where he'd heard that saying before, but it struck him as strangely amusing.

He heaved an ill-tempered sigh, perfectly pitched.

"Really, Malfoy," this he directed at Draco, "you didn't leave me much to … enjoy." Draco grinned in spite of himself, but Severus looked annoyed. Very annoyed. He gave Granger a more solid kick; she cried out before falling still and silent once more. Snape whirled on Draco, folding his arms crossly, his voice an edged snarl.

"She's insane, you imbecile, if ever I saw a half-wit. You've ruined her." He returned to circling Hermione. "I'm sure she provided a good bit of fun, but she should have been left to more capable hands. If she ever had anything useful to share—which I highly doubt in the first place—we won't be finding out any time soon. You know these Mudbloods… always weak."

"Look here, Snape!" Draco, now, was furious. "I happen to know for a fact--" And then, strangely enough, he bit back whatever he was going to say. This struck Severus as immensely odd; Draco, both in and out of school, had never been one to think before speaking. He gave a small nod, those lips twisting slightly, and conceded to Snape. "Perhaps," he said, voice tight, "you are right, though."

Severus waved a hand dismissively. "Of course I am." She was never at any of the Order meetings. She was always a favorite of that old crackpot and the other teachers—a fact of which I am perfectly sure you're aware, Mr. Malfoy—but never anything more than a pet. And I highly doubt that the girl could have cooked up anything intelligent if she tried. She was empty knowledge; book facts. You knew that, Malfoy."

He spat on Granger's crumpled, spoiled little body and turned away. "She disgusts me."

Voldemort had been watching with muted interest. Severus inclined his head to the Dark Lord and returned, sourly, to his position beside the throne. "I'd advise you send her back, my Lord, as a warning to others. Let them see for themselves their…" his voice twisted with disdain, "… brightest little star, Potter's playmate. Let them see what became of Hogwart's student of the century."

And the defense rested.

There was a look, though, in Voldemort's ethereal eyes that Severus did not like. Something calculating behind that red sheen. "Insane, you think?" he asked quietly. Severus had no choice but to stick to his bluff. He nodded firmly.

"Yes, my Lord. Most definitely."

"And you think she had nothing to say in the first place, Severus?"

Oh, dear. He knew something. He knew something that Severus did not. The Potions Master bravely, without hesitation, nodded his affirmation. "Most likely. I am certain of it."

"Ah." There was a long pause. Severus would later swear his heart stopped beating. The evening's second revelation came crashing over him with thundering force.

Merlin save me. The Professor recognized a test when he saw one.

They knew something. They knew something he didn't know. Malfoy's smile was growing more steadily.

Oh, but something had happened during his vacation.

"Kill her, then, Severus. Finish her."

His fingers moved to the pocket of his robe automatically. "As you wish, my Lord." He let his lips curl with pleasure; for Severus-Snape-the-faithful-Death-Eater, killing was a pleasure, an often-denied, rare treat. He fingered his wand lovingly, drawing it out of his pocket.

His mind was working frantically. He knew what he should do: kill her, and be quick and merciful and protect the tenuous link in this great fight against the Dark. Dumbledore had told him all too often that he, Severus Snape, was their strongest defense against Voldemort's attack.

And he had all but given him permission to do what needed to be done.

He felt the syllables forming on his lips, and then he hesitated.

"Kill her, Snape." There was an edge to Voldemort's voice; the endearments were gone. "Kill her now."

He paused, wand raised, pointed directly at Granger's limp form. He opened his mouth with every intention of speaking the third Unforgivable.

The spell he shouted, however, reverberating with all the strength of his lungs, was a far cry different. "Ella disappareo Hogwarts!" Hermione obediently blinked out of sight. There was a dull pause, an uncomprehending stumble of the masses, and then the sound of every wand in the room being drawn. A furious roar was building.

He was out of his fucking mind. If he was leaving—and he obviously was—he might as well do it right. He sent a swirl of fire and green death upon the closest robed figures, and then closed his eyes tightly.

"Disappareo Hogwarts!"

When he appeared just outside the gates, Hermione was waiting for him behind the sheen of heavy rain.

A gaggle of Death Eaters Apparated almost instantly. Scooping up Granger in a quick motion, Severus lunged for the gates. They slammed shut behind him instantly. Staggering towards the castle, muttering a constant stream of obscenities, he simply hoped that Hogwarts's defenses would hold.

~*~*~*~

Dumbledore met him in the foyer. It was precisely seven o'clock; the large clock was singing away cheerfully.

"They know." Severus's voice was heavy.

"Ah." He led the way towards the Infirmary, little old legs surprisingly quick. Severus studiously avoided looking at the frail bundle in his arms; his obscenities, now limited to his mind, grew even more heated. And as an outlet for his rage, he turned upon the silent Miss Granger.

He cursed Hermione Granger. He cursed Hermione Granger's parents. He cursed the whole of Magical Great Britain, if it included Hermione Granger.

Six years, down the drain. And on top of everything else, he had oh-so-skillfully managed to bring the entirety of the Death Eaters down upon Hogwarts.

They did not speak on the way to the Infirmary, which was probably for the best. Severus did not trust himself to open his mouth again, and truthfully, he was secretly thankful for Dumbledore's unquestioning demeanor. That would come later, he supposed. They reached the Infirmary with no further mishaps.

Poppy was waiting anxiously beside the door. The middle-aged mediwitch leapt to her feet the moment the door creaked open. Severus's suspicions were confirmed; apparently, Albus's foresight remained unblemished.

Snape dropped his burden on the nearest bed, not at all gently, and stalked without a word from the room.

~*~*~*~

Severus Snape had surprisingly comfortable chambers. They had been untouched in his absence, but they remained perfectly kempt and spotless. The Potions professor did not, as most students speculated, live in a dark dungeon of a room. While his rooms were adjacent to his classrooms, they were tucked in the side of the hill on Hogwart's east side. Windows and skylights had been skillfully carved out of the earth. The largest, fitted with an elegant window seat, looked out over the lake. The giant squid was frolicking merrily in the late summer sun; peering out over the grounds, however, Severus noted that the castle was eerily silent. Even over the holidays, Hagrid could always be heard, if not seen.

He suspected that the great majority of the faculty, all returned from their "holidays," was guarding the gates. Even that bumbling idiot of a groundskeeper would be fiercely brandishing his ridiculous pink umbrella.


Severus spent the majority of the morning pacing over the rich oriental carpet in his living room.

He was a liability at the school, that much was certain. Dumbledore would likely offer him asylum, but Severus knew that he could not stay within the Hogwarts boundaries forever. As long as he rested on Hogwarts grounds, the perimeter of the school would be closely watched by irate Death Eaters. Voldemort, after all, was not known for his leniency towards turncoats. The results for Hogwarts—and, of course, comfortable Hogsmeade—were immeasurable.

So he couldn't stay.

And that left the question dangling over Severus's head, taunting in its impossibility: where to go?

He sat down heavily on the window seat, his back to the glass panes. He rested his hands on his knees for a long time, his fingers gripping flesh so tightly that he would later discover ugly bruises along his legs. Six years of hard work and pain and unspeakable weariness, and he had undone it all in his dim-witted inability to speak six syllables.

He moved his hands to his head, his spine curving gracefully as he slumped into despair. Resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his large hands, Severus lost himself in the spiral of implications.

Hengist help him, he had royally screwed things up this time.

He finally slept, but only with a bit of help. He methodically mixed asphodel in an infusion of wormwood, brewing a strong Draught of the Living Death. He hated the taste of the iridescent liquid; he always had. He gritted his teeth though and made a solitary toast as he sat on the edge of his high, firm mattress.

"To ill destinies," he bit off with a laugh, and then he downed the potion and welcomed oblivion.

~*~*~*~

They really had no idea what was going on.

Dumbledore had waited until the Order was quietly huddled in his beautiful office—illuminated, in the dark hours of the morning, by a steady glow—to break the news. Hermione Granger had been Taken. And the true outrage was that they had missed this crucial bit of information for three entire weeks, and that—adding insult to injury—the Ministry had been the first to pick up on Granger's deplorable state. Poppy had cried a little, Minerva had been visibly shaken, and little Flitwick had turned purple in his indignant fury.

Hermione Granger—dear Head Girl, favorite student, precious, brilliant Hermione—Taken!

And then Dumbledore had proceeded to tell them why Miss Granger had been snatched from her comfortable flat in Cambridge. Yes, they had all agreed, it was imperative that the retrieved her, and quickly. So for a good while, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for Severus to return. Hope, in some more perceptive cases, for Severus to return.

And then they intended to go from there.

Around seven o'clock in the morning, all hell broke loose. Death Eaters, on their very doorstep! Hermione Granger, poor dear heart, in a wretched state of affairs. Severus had disappeared—to his chambers, Dumbledore breathlessly assured a worried Minerva. The Death Eaters were relatively easy to disperse, though none of the faculty doubted that the castle was being closely watched.

It was the Ministry, and the impertinent reporters from The Daily Prophet, that proved themselves most pesky.

For the most part, however, the teachers had no idea what was going on. Dumbledore was making himself scarce; he had stolen away Poppy, barred any other visitors from the Infirmary, and he had locked himself up in his office to think. In the afternoon of the second day, he reappeared briefly in the teachers' lounge.

"Someone wake Severus," he said simply, firmly. "Send him to my office." He paused. "Do not, under any circumstances, leave this room after that. I want all of you to stay here until I send word."

A few of the teachers, all anxiously gathered in their symphony of chairs, popped up eagerly. "And… Miss Granger, Headmaster?" He had already disappeared, however, and their questions were left unanswered.

They drew lots, comically enough, to decide which unlucky soul would have to wake the sleeping dragon. They had pieced together—well, Minerva had sharply pointed out—the great likelihood that their Potions Master had unveiled his allegiance in order to attempt to rescue Hermione Granger. None were too eager to jolt him back into reality.

It was Elfa Sprout that drew the shortest straw. She jammed her patched hat over her flyaway silver hair, mustered a brave smile, and hurried off to rouse Severus. She wisely took a phial of a particularly strong Restorative Draft. The rest of the assembled Order was left to fret over the Hufflepuff's gentle demeanor.

As it was, they needn't have worried too much; Elfa was rather resourceful on her own. She found Severus's door unwarded. She slipped into his quarters quietly and first filched a piece of parchment from Snape's desk. She scribbled a note—See the Headmaster. –E. Sprout. She added a quick, apologetic postscript a few moments later—(Really, Severus, I did not want to do this. I hope you enjoyed your nap.)—and then tiptoed into his bedroom. She pinched his nose, pried open his mouth, and dumped the entire contents of the glass phial down his throat. Leaving the note conspicuously pinned to his shirt, she darted for the door.

Elfa was down the hallway and around the corner when she heard the first groggy, grumpy groan. She returned to the teachers' lounge directly, as Albus had instructed, with a satisfied smile on her weathered features.

The other teachers agreed that it would have been downright hilarious under other circumstances. They optimistically stored the tale away for another time, each imagining sitting at the head table in the Great Hall, affectionately prodding fun at their prickly Potions Master.

~*~*~*~

Hermione Granger—three years out of Hogwarts, now, and quite grown-up—still felt very small sitting in Albus Dumbledore's study. It was easy to imagine herself still a student; in fact, she wanted nothing more than to imagine herself a mere pupil. She had gotten into a spot of trouble, but like always, Professor Dumbledore would swoop to their rescue with a twinkle in his eye and a ready cup of cocoa.

He would make things right.

She was strangely dry-eyed. She hadn't shed a tear since waking up that morning. Madame Pomfrey had been nothing but sunshine and kindness, doting over her lone patient all day, guarding the Infirmary with she-wolf ferocity. They hadn't spoken much. Poppy had wisely let Hermione alone.

Dumbledore had asked her only briefly about her experience, gently, before Severus had appeared in a swirl of dark robes and scowls. And she had flatly told him what she remembered—yes, she was fine, she was perfectly all right, and no, she hadn't told them what they wanted to know.

He believed the last bit, and the rest she repeated like a sort of a mantra: "I'm fine, Professor, really."

That, honestly, was where Grown-Up-Miss-Granger differed from Adolescent-Hermione. A few years ago—hell, a few months ago—her lip would have trembled and she would have poured her little heart out to the kindly Headmaster. And now she sat in silence, her shoulders straight, studying the fireplace as she listened to the conversation she was only minimally engaged in.

Severus sat beside Dumbledore's desk; the two were speaking in somber tones.

"You think he knew, then, from the beginning?"

There was a derisive laugh. "Looking back, I am quite sure, Albus, that he found out sometime between my last meeting … early June, I think … and this one. He knew. I was too blind to see it at first."

From the corner of her eye she saw him slump, dejected. Dumbledore was stroking thoughtfully at his beard.

Snape had already recounted his own story. Hermione doubted that she had been the only one to notice several gaping holes in his tale—what, precisely, had he been doing for three hours?—but as the Headmaster did not call undo attention to this, neither did she. In fact, she realized the much of what Snape was saying she knew already.

She absently kicked at the frayed hem of the old Hufflepuff Quidditch robe. It had been the only garment even remotely close to her size that Madame Pomfrey had been able to find. Hermione, under different circumstances, would have hacked off the extra five inches at the bottom of the robe. Or better yet, Transfigured the garment into something wearable.

Of course, they had broken her wand when they took her. Strangely, the memory of that graceful ash wand being cruelly snapped in two, dragon heartstring torn asunder, hurt just as much as any physical wound. More, perhaps. It made her ache.

The conversation called back to her; they had finally gotten to what they all wanted to talk about: Phase Two.

"I have to go," Snape said callously. Hermione glanced at him again; strangely enough, she found herself feeling sorry for the man. And—don't, Granger—a bit guilty.

Even to her, it was obvious that just where Snape planned on going wasn't quite decided yet. The Professor's eyes narrowed and she looked away.

Hermione had expected Professor Dumbledore to argue. She had all but formulated his response in her head. To her great surprise, he merely nodded. And then the two men turned their attention on the Girl in the Canary Yellow Dress.

"I'm going home."

Home, of course, was the flat in Cambridge. It overlooked the Cam, and she had watched tourists punting down on the river in rented boats in the spring and summer. Lovely little two-bedroom apartment, cozy, filled to the brim with books and quills and half-finished parchments. Home.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Snape glanced at Dumbledore, arched a dark eyebrow, and seemed to say to the old man, The ball is on your side, now. Wax Santa.

Dumbledore studied Hermione thoughtfully for a long moment. Her bruises, for the most part, had all been magicked away. She was thin, though, too thin. Her fingers trembled for a moment before latching on to the worn sleeve of the Quidditch robe.

"Hermione."

She dropped her deep brown eyes to her lap. "You can't go home, dear." She looked up then, defiant, and opened her mouth slightly to argue. He beat her to it. Dumbledore stood up quickly, taller than Hermione remembered, and rested his hands on his desk. Those blue eyes were steely, now. "It's clear that they knew you were working on something—even if they don't know exactly what—and it's obvious that they simply won't let you go back to that comfortable little apartment of yours and continue to work."

(Snape shifted in his chair at this. Dumbledore hadn't given him the specifics, and his was strangely curious to know just what Miss Granger had been doing that had landed her in so much trouble.)

"I could stay here, then, and finish the project." She set her chin at a rebellious angle and waited for the rebuttal.

"You may do no such thing," Dumbledore said, eyes glinting now, "for the same reason Severus is leaving. It's a liability for the school, and in two weeks, for the children who will be here."

"Then-"

"No, Miss Granger! There is no 'then.'" She shrank back a bit, startled. When Albus continued, his voice had softened, but she did not miss the edge of finality in the wizard's voice. She took a small breath. "Now, both of you are going to listen to me.

"You are both going away. Together."

Severus was the first out of his chair, and Hermione followed close behind. "I have no intention of babysitting a silly girl!"

And at the same moment: "My work!" A bit of color had eked back into her cheeks at the challenge to her sole desire—to go home and put this all behind, to forget. Now, however, she was livid.

They glowered at each other for a long while, and then turned on Dumbledore. The old man did not look amused.

"You are going away. And I don't want to know where; it's best for everyone if even I don't know." Hermione opened her mouth, swayed on her feet, and sat down heavily.

The old fool wasn't joking.

"Hermione, you are not to visit your flat. You are not to take anything at all with you." She glanced up mutely. "I will see what I can do about obtaining what is left of your research from your quarters for you, but it may take some time.

"Severus, you may take what you will from your study, but be quick about it; make sure that it is perfectly apparent that you left in a rush."

Hermione, at long last, found her voice. "What will I tell…"

"Nothing." She clasped her hands together tightly; they were shaking. "I have a plan. Now, Severus, if you would please sit down, I will tell you what I intend to do. And when I am finished, I intend to exit through that handsome door. When I return, some time later, I want both of you to be gone.

"Before I begin: lemon sherbet, either of you?"

~*~*~*~

Poppy Pomfrey was under strict orders from the Headmaster to stay put in the Infirmary. She was whistling a soft tune under her breath as she folded clean sheets, peering occasionally at the bare shelves of the stock closet. Hermione Granger was up and about; the girl had healed nicely, though Poppy saw that there were deeper hurts in that child's heart. And Severus was safe, it seemed.

She tried not to think about anything beyond the Hogwarts walls, at least not yet. Hermione was well, Severus was at long last free of that dark touch, and things would be all right.

Eventually.

Still, the sound in the sickbay made her jump slightly. Her nerves were raw, she supposed, from the events of the past two days.

"It's only me, Poppy dear," called Albus from the main room, "don't worry yourself."

She pursed her lips together tightly, turning with hands on hips to regard the Headmaster. He was still in the sickbay, though, hidden behind the dividing wall. She finished folding her sheet before hustling over to scold him for startling her.

He met her at the threshold, however, wand in hand. His eyes were sad. "Dear Poppy, it's for the best." Her thin mouth formed a small O, and she nodded wordlessly.

"Obliviate."

A small Memory Charm; just enough to erase the past few hours. In fact, just enough to erase Hermione Granger's awakening. The Headmaster stayed for just a moment, only to see the glazed look in her eye and the moment of blankness. And then he promptly disappeared.

Poppy blinked, lifting a wrinkled hand to her head. She shook her silvered head slightly, as if to clear the cobwebs, and promptly finished folding her clean sheets. She then headed back into the sickbay to check on her sleeping patient. They had monitored Hermione all night, and though she hadn't woken, she seemed stable.

Now all they could do was wait.

The girl lay still—oh, so still—on the white hospital bed. Poppy shuffled over quietly, in the manner of all good nurses, and laid her hand on the child's forehead.

A moment later she folded both of her hands over her thin mouth, her balance questionable as she stepped back from the bed. And then she took off at a run for the teachers' lounge, or the Headmaster's office… whichever came first.

Hermione Granger was dead.