What the Thunder Said
Disclaimer: I'm tired of typing it, so it stops here. Anything you recognize belongs to the Great J.K. (Or, if I credit it in the A/N, some other source.) The plot is mine. I'm not making a dime off this.
Chapter Four: Night Blindness
Hermione felt a lump rising in her throat as she reached out a tentative hand, canary sleeve draping ungracefully over her wrist, to touch the mannequin. "Dental records?" she whispered. Dumbledore merely nodded. "Oh."
The Headmaster had turned a gaudy red paper weight into a picture perfect copy of Hermione Granger, right down the freckles that lightly dusted her nose and cheeks, the mole on her left forearm, and the tiny birthmark—a small quill, Hermione had decided in her first year—on her hip.
Picture perfect, except for the obvious fact that this odd mirror was not breathing. "Oh."
"You understand, then, what you must do?" She swallowed the thick lump in her throat and looked up at the old man.
"Who-who will know otherwise?" she asked quietly, cursing that rough voice and her trembling hands.
"Only myself and Severus here. Even Madame Pomfrey will be… brought around." He grimaced there, but shook his silvery head and steepled his delicate fingers. Hermione felt her head starting to spin. Her friends! Her parents. Oh, Heaven help her, her parents. Her brown eyes shone with desperation.
"How long will we have to… you know?"
At this, Snape looked up as well. He had been studiously regarding his own folded hands. Hermione noted the faint scowl that occasionally tripped across his features, but he had remained silent through her entire coaxing.
"Indefinitely."
They both stopped breathing for an instant. Realizing the futility of keeling over on the spot, they merely nodded unhappily. They would do what had to be done.
Dumbledore stood up abruptly. "Well, then. You'd best be off." He managed a cheerful smile, blue eyes twinkling. "Enjoy your holiday, both of you." He snatched an empty flowerpot—pink and orange plaid, of all things—from one of his shelves and thrust it at Hermione. It had been one of a pair; the other—purple and green polka dots—remained sadly on the ledge. "I've always thought flower pots made lovely house-warming gifts. Goodbye!"
He swept up dead-Hermione in his arms reverently, beamed at the two, and dashed from the office. They both sat in stunned silence for a bit.
And then, before she realized what was happening, Snape was up out of his chair and sweeping towards the door. Hermione gazed after him helplessly. He merely paused at the threshold, gave her a nasty look, and bit of a curt, "Do hurry up."
She got to her feet weakly, nearly tripping over the hem of the nasty lemon-tinted dress, and scurried to keep up with him. Down the spiral staircase he went, swooping across the broad, empty hallways, in the direction of the potions lab. Finding the classroom was second nature for Hermione. Even though she had graduated three years prior, her feet were still tuned to the intricate maze that was Hogwarts.
Still, she had to run to keep up with his far longer strides. Hermione hitched up her robes, fought down the wave of nausea, and wordlessly followed.
~*~*~*~
She fell behind, eventually, and he seemed not to care. She knew that his quarters were in the close proximity of the potions classroom, though, so she made for the dungeons as fast as her shaking legs could take her. She had felt strong—as strong as could be expected—curled up in Professor Dumbledore's comfortable armchairs. Now, however, Hermione was beginning to understand the physical toll of her time in captivity.
Don't think about that, she told herself harshly. Getting a new grip on the hideous yellow frock, she plunged further into the bowels of the castle.
She stood outside the locked potions classroom for a moment before noticing the portrait at the end of the dark hallway, swinging slightly on its hinges. Perhaps he had left it open for her; chances were, in his haste, he had forgotten to close it behind him. She hesitated for a moment.
Hermione Granger had never counted on touring Snape's personal quarters. She studied the portrait; in all her years at Hogwarts, she had never once noticed it. A very solemn-looking woman, draped in black, her face slightly illuminated, peered back at her. She pursed her lips slightly but did not speak. She cleared her throat politely, however, when Hermione, steely-eyed, pulled back the portrait and clamored over the high step.
If the small sound in the back of the woman's throat was meant to warn Severus of impending visitors, the warning was lost on the man. The rooms were in tumultuous disarray.
Hermione softly closed the portrait behind her; again, the Potions Master paid her no attention. He stood in the middle of the room, arms flung wide, wand held high. She watched in silence as he called down the hundreds of volumes from the shelves that ringing the living room; they neatly stacked themselves in boxes that seemed to appear from no where. Once securely packed and closed, the boxes shrunk to the size of small jewelry cases.
And when the books were done, he stalked into the next room—presumably the bedroom—and fell to work.
The furniture was being left, it seemed; the simple chairs, upholstered in cream linen, had been untouched by Reducing or Packing charm. Hermione crossed the empty living room, tucked herself up in one of the chairs, and waited with her chin resting on her knees.
It struck her that the chairs were in beautiful condition; then again, it also struck her that Severus Snape probably did not have many callers.
All of the curtains had been drawn and the room was rather dark. The built-in mahogany shelves were now cleared, the desk had been rummaged through considerably, and the coffee table was overturned. Hermione felt a pang of something in her chest; sadness, perhaps, for this home that he was giving up.
Guilt, again, which she immediately pushed from her mind. "Don't think about that" had become a sort of mantra.
He started in the doorway between bedroom and living room, seeing her for the first time. Hermione looked up wearily as he dumped a new set of tiny crates into the pile that was collecting in the middle of the floor. He then did something entirely out of character, at least from Hermione's perspective. He stalked across the smooth flagstone floor, dropped in the opposite armchair, and closed his eyes.
They would be leaving soon—they had no choice—but they both seemed to appreciate the need for a final, quiet moment.
"I am going to Gringotts," he said at last, coldly. Hermione cut her eyes at him and arched an eyebrow.
"That does not seem particularly wise," she said tersely.
"Do not assume to tell me," he snapped, "what is and is not wise." She was too tired to argue the point and merely glowered at him. If he wished to explain his dubious motives for venturing out into the wizarding world, he would do so in his own time.
"I intend to empty my account," he said finally, noncommittally, "and exchange the Galleons for Muggle currency. And then I will make some brief purchases in Diagon Alley before returning. You will wait here for me."
Typical Snape. Again, the Granger Glower kicked into high gear.
"You owe it to me, then, to tell me where we're going."
"I owe you no such thing. I will be back in a few hours. Follow me; it is not safe for you to wait here. I have little doubt that the meddling fools I call co-workers will be down shortly to share, tearfully, the oh-so-devastating news that Hermione Granger is dead." His voice was dripping with disdain and hard-heartedness.
Touché.
She had almost—almost!—forgotten what an absolute prick Snape could be. He had saved her life, after all. Upon actually meeting and conversing with him, though, this redeeming factor was overcome by the surge of absolute hatred she had for the man.
He might as well have left her to the Death Eaters; she had a feeling that she was going to kill herself, living with him. And death by Dark Lord would likely be far less painful than a slow Snaping.
Wordlessly, Hermione stood and, with as much dignity as one wearing a tattered Hufflepuff Quidditch uniform could muster (which honestly, was not much at all), followed him.
~*~*~*~
He was leaving her in the dark, drafty passageway connecting his quarters and the clearing just beyond Hogwarts boundaries. He locked both entrances. He felt a twinge—just a twinge—of guilt, and then promptly decided that the silly girl was safer there than anywhere else.
In fact, were they neither of them likely to go insane, they would probably be best to simply hole up there for a few years while Voldemort ravaged the land.
Severus had been able to forget, momentarily, Miss Granger's decidedly annoying mannerisms when she was bound and captive. She was much easier to manage after three years of absence and three weeks of torture. And when she was naked and bruised and battered, it was slightly easier to forget what a prissy, know-it-all brat she was.
Merlin help him, he was starting to believe in karma. Or, more specifically: bad juju.
He had Apparated to Diagon Alley after securing the Hogsmeade-end entrance and carefully concealing it in the underbrush. It was late afternoon, and as usual, the shopping crowds were beginning to die down. He almost wished for a pre-Christmas crush; it would be easier to lose himself in a crowd.
Of course, Severus had always had trouble blending in. Luckily, as he had suspected, even the Death Eaters weren't stupid enough to camp out in the single largest wizarding shopping mall in Britain. He hadn't been smote into the ground on appearing outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, and so chances were, it would be an uneventful trip.
Chances were he was being watched, though.
His first trip was to Gringotts. He merely passed the key across the counter to one of the unpleasant goblins. "Vault 211," he said calmly. The goblin peered at him over the rims of silver glasses. Severus frowned at him severely. "I'd like to close my account. Have all but twenty Galleons converted to pounds."
The goblin was far from happy—they were more eager to take money than to give
it back—but he complied wordlessly. For the first time since Severus could
remember, he was spared a nerve-rattling trip to his enormous vault. He merely
took a seat beside the great silver doors and waited for Smidel—if he had read
the gleaming nameplate correctly—to return.
In a quarter of an hour, Severus was leaving the gleaming white bank with the entirety of his life's savings in his pockets.
He was not wealthy, as most students speculated; while the Snape family had once been old and revered, the small sum Severus had been awarded was far from a fortune. However, he had found that he had little to actually spend his money on. Save for the books he was ever-collecting, the great majority of Severus's paycheck went into the bank.
He was not wealthy, but he had a pretty penny saved up. With a favorable exchange rate, he was set for years to come.
Years. That was a frightening thought.
He ducked into Flourish & Blotts. Again, luck was on his side; the girl behind the counter was a pale blonde thing who had graduated from Hogwarts a few years back. A Ravenclaw. He couldn't place her name, but her eyes widened slightly at his appearance. Chances were, they had not been on pleasant terms. Even better.
He selected a book on disguise and cosmetic charms. Wand Wonders with Wendy Witherspoon: Charms for the Cosmetically-Challenged. Giving the wide-eyed, lithe Ravenclaw his most Snapish frown, he wordlessly paid for the ridiculous tome and swept from the store.
If he remembered correctly, Sena Elliot—ah ha! that's the foolish child's name—was Ravenclaw's most notorious gossip. By closing time, all of Diagon Alley would know that Professor Severus Snape had purchased a book of beauty charms. He had to bite back a sardonic smile.
There was a well-hidden water closet in one of the alley's crannies; two, to be precise, labeled witches and wizards in an unruly font. He ducked in to the latter, locked the door behind him, and carefully did not touch a thing in the unkempt public bathroom. He began to leaf through the pages of the ridiculous book, discarding the Flourish & Blotts signature paper bag in a nearby receptacle.
Three-fourths of the glossy manuscript was devoted to witch's maintenance, and Severus was in no mood to study the finer arts of Waxing Charms. He hastily turned to the back of the book, flipped to the section on haircuts, and set to work.
Ten minutes later, he was sprinkling a few longish locks of hair—turned silver, post-severing—on the floor beside the trashcan. Clues, in case those dunderheads were too thickheaded to pick up on the others.
He tucked the book under his arm and reached for his wand again, not even pausing to scrutinize the work of his wand. He muttered the spell and Disapparated to the grove. Not given to sentimentality, he pointedly did not give Diagon Alley a last once-over; chances were, no matter how long fate imposed this exile, some things would never change.
~*~*~*~
She was asleep, of all things, beside the neat stack of miniature boxes. Severus paused for a moment to study her restless features. She had pulled her knees up inside the cover of that ridiculous canary jumpsuit, wrapping thin arms tightly around herself. And he noticed that it was, in fact, slightly chilly in the tunnel.
He considered picking her up; it seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. She whimpered, though, a flicker of fear passing over her face; she twitched, her mouth opening slightly in some unspoken plea. He frowned.
No, he didn't exactly fancy totting her half way around the globe. However, as he was not a fool, he did not intend to wake the sniveling child up either. She would talk his ear off, demanding little chit that she was.
After that unsettling brush with Voldemort, after the disconcerting events of the prior days, Severus was finally coming into his own again.
He had the better part of the afternoon pondering his—their—predicament. Where to take the foolish little snit? Where was he expected to wait out Voldemort's reign—holed up with Granger, no less—in some semblance of peace and security?
He thought first of Heidelberg. He had had an aunt there when he was a boy, and as far as he knew, the flat was still abandoned. However, Severus knew all too well that the Dark regiment in Germany was growing larger every day. Besides, the idea of being cooped up with know-it-all Granger in that tiny apartment made him want to scratch his obsidian eyes out.
Italy, then: it was relatively neutral, still. Rome was still secure, and some of the smaller Italian villages would be untouched even in the darkest days of war. Still, he had no intention of Apparating into a strange country with only a few broken phrases of Italian to his name and no idea of where he would be spending the night.
Sitting on that plush bench in sparkling Gringotts, it came to him that he had very few options. There was one shining, logical choice. It happened to be the choice he was least willing to acknowledge.
But when he thought of choices, he realized he had none.
He flicked his wand in Dearest Head Girl's direction. "Mobilicorpus," Severus murmured. A separate charm lodged the sum of his earthly belongings in his pockets. He strode purposefully towards the trap door at the end of the tunnel, climbing quietly back into the clearing.
He pointed his wand at Granger. She disappeared obediently, still lodged in some unhappy dream. Severus decided he was spending all together too much time blinking that child in and out of trouble.
Dumbledore—smiling sagely—had professed no desire to know where the reluctant duo was off to. He would. Albus, obviously, already knew.
He frowned in the direction of the castle, just in case that beatific crackpot was still watching, and disappeared as well.
