11. Drawing Closer Circles
Hermione woke up early with a terrible aching back. Added to her normal PMS syndromes, she didn't feel too well. The Common Room was empty safe of her; no surprise there, as it was only around 5 a.m. Even though, it was so early, Hermione couldn't go back to sleep anymore, her whole body ached dully every time she tried to turn around and she felt sore, although she didn't move at all. The fire had died down considerably, but it was enough to keep her warm. She groaned, as she sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the couch. Smiling, she folded the blanket that one of her best friends had given her, proving once again that she could rely on them, no matter what nor when. Hugging herself as she made her way to the showers, Hermione longed for Draco. Ever since cruel destiny, or rather, Voldemort had ripped him away from her, she had wanted to turn back time, to get him back, to even hear him again. Now that she had indeed heard him, even felt him once more, Hermione felt elated. The rational part of her mind was shut down, telling her that Draco was dead, telling her that he was no more alive than a magical painting. But Hermione only accepted the advantages of Draco being the ghost he now was; or would be. She would hear him, would be able to even touch him; even though, she had no idea how that worked. Normally, ghosts weren't supposed to be able to feel and touch, they were mere souls, trapped between life and death, not belonging fully to one side anymore.
Hermione shrugged this all off as unimportant. Hagrid's parents, after all, couldn't have been more different. What could one possibly say against the relationship of her and a ghost? It was the Wizarding World, after all, such incredible things happened at a daily basis, didn't they?
After a long, refreshing shower, Hermione headed to Dumbledore's office. Feeling a bit drained after having used magic the day before, she walked briskly, not being aware of the pair of invisible eyes, following her every step.
Harry hadn't slept as much as Hermione, and when Hypnos had let him finally gracefully into his sanctuary, Harry had been haunted by alien memories, rushing through his mind, disordering his own thoughts. Each time, he had jerked awake, not knowing where he was immediately and why exactly he dreamt about being Snape. In fact, it was a bit unnerving. Why would Harry fantasize about being his hated Potions Master? He'd rather be anyone else; Ron, Neville, heck, even being Hermione would be better.
Shuddering, Harry pulled the sheets tighter around his body, thinking about why he really had those dreams, those ... Harry frowned, as he recalled the conversation with Dumbledore the other day. He was positive that the headmaster had tried to hint that Snape had indeed gotten more memories back than intended in the first place. Maybe those memories were the dreams Harry had had this night. But this would mean also that there indeed existed some sort of link between Snape and himself. Ugh. So much for not wanting to be Snape. Try as he might, though, the unwanted memories wouldn't stay in the back of his mind, and Harry's head busied itself with interpretations.
The first memory had shown Snape brewing a potion in some murky dungeon, definitely not at Hogwarts, though. And even though, Harry had not only seen the rooms and Snape, he somehow could hear Severus' thoughts, too, hearing in his own head, as if they were his own. Hadn't it been such a freaking thing, Harry would have been thoroughly mesmerized at how complicated Snape's mind worked. How could the greasy git concentrate on brewing Veritaserum as if it were the simplest Cheering Potion and in the same time thinking about Lucius and Voldemort and what they were talking about behind his back?
Hermione had once told them about how extremely intelligent individuals thought in seemingly impossible ways, seeing patterns in the most incredulous riddles, connecting apparently randomly taken thoughts. Harry couldn't help but be awed at how Snape seemed to absolutely play everything that he knew about a potion ingredient in his mind, and he never lost track of how many stirs he still had left. Not that Harry was envious, each his own.
'Lucius Malfoy,' a soft voice had whispered into his ear and Snape had immediately known that the blond had talked about him. Was this why Snape was always so paranoid? Maybe it was some kind of psychological malfunction, heightening his already innate suspicious nature. Or maybe this was some sort of premonition? Maybe Snape knew in fact always when someone planned something behind his back?
'This would really explain some things,' Harry mused. 'And it must be cool ... Knowing when someone talks about me behind my back. Then again, maybe not, when you look how Snape seems to cope with it ... I wonder if he knows I think about him now? Probably thinks I'm planning something to spite him ...'
The second memory had left Harry slightly speechless. Snape had looked so ... Harry would have used the word 'sweet' if the boy in the memory hadn't displayed such a temper, reminding him of the moody Potions Master of his present. This memory had been even more intriguing than the first, as Harry could not only watch and see everything, but also read Snape and Danae's mind, experiencing their emotions.
Danae Snape. She had looked so little like Severus that Harry would have never guessed that the two of them could be possibly related if it weren't for the fact that Danae had felt motherly for Severus; Harry knew immediately of their connection, even before the first words were spoken.
It was an open secret that Hogwarts' Potions Master couldn't compete with Witch Weekley's Smile of the Year winners. Harry snorted. Snape versus Lockhardt – Who was the most wanted bachelor? What a difficult choice. Harry frowned. Lockhardt was an empty, vain shell and Snape was a sadistic, ugly bastard. It would indeed be a difficult choice. If there would be such a competition, if Harry would have to chose ... That was so beside the point. Back to the topic.
Severus ugly, Danae beautiful. Harry wondered fleetingly how his Potions Master would look with hair as bright red as his mother's. Would he wear red robes or still black one's? Red and black. Definitely the colours of the devil.
Snape must look more like his father.
'How must he have looked like?' Harry thought. Like Snape? That'd just be gruesome. Someone with Snape's features procreating was just plain cruel. Maybe Snape senior just passed on his looking's, though, but not his character features. Danae hadn't seemed like the woman that would cope with someone with the temper of the present Snape.
Severus' mother had surely experienced enough in her life, and Harry wondered if she was still alive. He could sympathize with her; being trapped in a confining space by one's own relatives was something he could understand only too well, unfortunately.
Harry pitied it somehow that Severus' father obviously had died so early, no-one deserved to lose his parents at such a young age. Snape's stepfather didn't seem to be the boy's favourite person. What indeed irked Harry, was that although Danae's second husband had been Severus' stepfather, his name had been Snape. And Danae didn't seem to have two surnames as it would have been usual with multiple marriages. Could it have been that Danae's first and second husband had both been Snape's?
Harry shuddered, disgusted. Definitely too many Snape's for his liking.
The sun peeked slowly over the horizon, as the other night's memories held Harry in their wake. Too much Snape in there as well. Peeks and glimpses into a life Harry had never wanted to get to know. Too sad, too heart wrenching. And Harry had almost thought that all the bad things only happened to him. He could understand, even if just a bit, how it must feel being Snape with all his impossible quirks, his life-long grudges. Harry couldn't afford developing such a personality; even though, he had also experienced enough in his short life. Some-when, Snape had taken the wrong road.
Harry would take the right one. He got up, changed quickly into his robes and left the dorm; Ron was still slumbering away quietly. The couch in front of the fireplace was empty, he noticed, Hermione was already up or she went to her own bed.
Harry strode quickly through the hallways, his mind already at Dumbledore's office. The headmaster probably had already a cup of tea and cookies waiting for him; or maybe only the tea.
"Joining the early birds, Potter?" a cold voice asked suddenly, causing Harry to stop dead in his tracks, icy chills racing up his spine. "Or why are you already roaming the school?"
Harry rolled his eyes, then turned around and came face to chest ... the boy was still too small. He craned his neck to look Snape in the face. The Potions Master did this on purpose; so much was clear. As if he wasn't already tall enough, the nearer he stood, the more intimidating he appeared in all his black bat glory. Harry didn't even flinch as he saw the hatred Snape's eyes radiated, instead he felt an overwhelming surge of pity. But the Gryffindor didn't show it, the Potions Master wouldn't appreciate it, he knew.
"I was just ..." Harry started, but then stopped abruptly. Was it a wise choice to tell Snape that he wanted to the headmaster? Snape mustn't know about the link.
"What, pray tell, were you just?" Snape snarled. "Wasting my time?"
"Taking a walk," Harry responded, frowning. "I couldn't sleep, if you must know, so I decided to take a walk."
"I forgot," Snape scowled. "Hogwarts is the personal stage for our dear celebrity. And even though every other student is bright enough – however barely – to grasp the concept of a curfew, you seem always to be the exception of the rule, don't you? How ... Gryffindor of you. You didn't even waste one thought that you could get caught, did you?"
"There is nothing wrong with being a Gryffindor," Harry said through gritted teeth. "We are at least honourable. Ring any bells?" He couldn't help but add the last part, even though, he regretted it instantly afterwards. Don't you ever dare put Gryffindors over Slytherin. "But Slytherin isn't bad, either," he added immediately, considering the fact that he almost ended there in his Sorting.
"Indeed," Snape growled, his confusion partially obvious. Why would Potter say something good about Slytherin? That just sounded strange out of his mouth. "Not that you would have any traits necessary to get into my house, Potter," he smirked. "Your qualities end where mine begin."
"Wha-? I'll have you know that the Sorting Hat wanted to put me into Slytherin House! I begged not to get there!" Harry blurted out, indignantly, before he could stop himself.
Snape took an involuntary step backwards, caught off guard. "As I said," he sneered, regaining his composure partly. "No sense of when you should hold your tongue. Now back to your tower before I take off 100 points of your house of choice for being out after curfew."
"The curfew ended five minutes ago."
"20 points from Gryffindor for talking back! Now out of my sight before it will be 50 more!"
Harry fled back to the Common Room, suddenly not so keen anymore on talking to Dumbledore. The headmaster wouldn't know about his memories, so what? He wouldn't risk it to let the information get to Snape. Harry couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that Dumbledore would let Snape know if he thought it necessary, he had also given Harry hints. Conniving old man. He didn't break a promise, but information flowed, nonetheless. Sometimes, Harry thought that Dumbledore knew too much for their all good. It was unsettling that the headmaster seemingly knew almost everything, that he controlled and nudged people in directions, but never too obviously; almost like one imagined a god would do. Dumbledore a god? Yes, a sugar-addicted, twinkle-eyed god. How very disturbing.
Harry couldn't believe that he had let it slip that he could have get sorted into Slytherin, to Snape of all people, no less.
'Brilliant,' he praised himself, ironically. 'Bloody brilliant.'
Snape had waited till Potter was out of sight, scowling fiercely. How dare that daft brat walk around like he owned the place? How dare he talk back to him? And how dare he have enough Slytherin traits to be considered into HIS house?!
Snape propped himself up against the cool wall as he was overcome with dizziness.
"No," he protested, weakly, before he went back into his teen years.
Eleven years old and far too many eyes resting on him. Severus shifted uncomfortably and prayed that the Sorting would be over soon. The trip with the Hogwarts Express alone had been hell, already had he make fiends with Black, Potter and Lupin. What a promising start. Black, Lupin and Potter got sorted into Gryffindor. Shouldn't they be the nice guys? How could these bullies have Gryffindor traits then? Finally, it was Snape's turn for the Sorting.
'Ah,' the voice said inside Severus' head. 'Severus Snape. Much to do. Much to see. Much to change, too. You have a brave and courageous heart and will do good. Why not put you into Gryffindor ...'
'NO!' Snape screamed, noiseless. He couldn't get into the same house as Black and Potter, he wouldn't survive. 'Not Gryffindor! Everywhere but Gryffindor! Please! Ravenclaw or Slytherin, even Hufflepuff. Wait, forget about Hufflepuff ...'
'I see,' the voice seemed to chuckle. 'You seem to know what you want, don't you? You are a survivor and will adept perfectly wherever I put you. You will do good, even though I put you into ...'
"SLYTHERIN!"