Up From the Dust

Chapter 8: Conversations between Prisoners

Snape sat silently in the far corner of his cell, staring blankly into space; his face unchanging, black eyes unseeing beneath his half-closed eyelids. A layer of ice seemed to have settled over his sharp features, freezing his soul inside and locking the rest of the world, including Harry Potter, out.

He'll come out of it, thought Harry, staring straight ahead and confining Snape's still form to the edge of his peripheral vision. Reviving an unconscious Snape was one thing; snapping him out of what was obviously a precarious mental state was another thing altogether. Anyway, Harry couldn't reach Snape when the professor was in the corner. He'll come out of it, Harry thought again. He'd been thinking the same thing for the past hour, ever since Snape had regained what could barely be called consciousness after Malfoy's latest round of "playtime."

Since then, Harry had been locked in silence. Snape hadn't said a word.

He almost looks dead, thought Harry offhandedly, looking over at Snape's frozen form. Once formed, however the thought refused to dissipate. Dead… dead… dead… echoed in his head, seizing Harry with a sudden, irrational fear. Snape wasn't moving… or blinking. Close to panic, Harry threw himself at the bars adjoining his and Professor Snape's cells.

"Professor!" he shouted, rattling the bars with all of his strength. To Harry's great relief, the Potions Master's half-lidded eyes flew open at the sound. The ice that had encased him shattered, allowing the humanity to creep back into his face.

Disoriented, Snape spent several seconds searching his surroundings; his eyes settled on Harry. "What do you want?" he whispered to Harry, as the younger man knelt in front of his cell. His voice reminded Harry of a dull blade: not as sharp as it should be, but all the more dangerous for its lack of control.

"I'm sorry, Professor… I just thought, um… never mind." Feeling foolish, Harry sat back down. Then, in a rush, he continued.

"Is it possible, Professor, if you're repeatedly… well…"

"Tortured with the Cruciatus Curse?" sneered Snape, completing Harry's uncomfortable sentence for him.

"Well, yes…. I mean, is it possible… I mean, Neville's parents-"

"Potter, the Longbottoms went insane under the Cruciatus because they were too weak to withstand the curse. Those who can't take the pain simply drift away – it's the only way the weak-willed can escape."

Harry found Snape's statement on the Longbottoms extremely uncharitable and unsympathetic – typical for the professor, but surprising considering the two sessions of brutal torture he had just been subjected to. Harry opened his mouth indignantly to defend his friend's parents, then abruptly closed it again, remembering the fugue state Snape had just spent an hour in.

For once in his life, Harry had an insight into the way Snape thought, and actually understood the reason why Snape had said something awful. Snape was condemning the Longbottoms because he was in danger of sharing their fate. Even as Harry watched, Snape's eyes began to regain their previous glazed expression- an expression that Harry liked even less than Snape's unpleasant commentary.

"So!" said Harry loudly, startling awareness back into Snape's face. Harry was thankful for Snape's responsiveness – he didn't want to be trapped in this basement with a corpse or its breathing equivalent. "I didn't know you were married."

Snape snorted and looked down at his left hand; his wedding ring glared traitorously back up at him.

"It was an arranged marriage," he said venomously.

"You never used to wear a wedding ring…" Harry continued.

"It is not really a concern of yours, Potter," said Snape, bristling.

"I was just-"

"Quiet!" snapped Snape, getting wearily to his feet. "You are only making this ridiculous attempt at conversation because you don't want a living corpse in the neighboring cell. I assure you, I'm not that easy to break." Harry didn't quite believe Snape; the professor's erratic shifts in mood were not helping to support Snape's point. Turning away from Snape, Harry listened to the man's footsteps as, head bowed, he paced the cell.

Unfortunately for Snape's pride, he really was in no condition to be walking around, especially bent over under the low ceiling of his cell. Defeated, Snape sat back down, back-to-back with Harry, the bars of their shared cell wall between the two men.

"If you haven't caught on from Malfoy yet, I'm married to the woman who attacked you at Hogwarts," he said dully.

"You've been married to a Death Eater all this time?" asked Harry.

"No…" said Snape with exaggerated slowness, as if he were talking to a small child. "She's been officially dead for the last decade and a half. Unfortunately, certain people in my life have the annoying habit of refusing to stay dead."

"But – she cursed you – all of us – at Hogwarts! You were hurt really badly!"

"I didn't say I loved her, Potter, or that she loved me. Most of the time, she just tolerated me – and I endured her."

Uncomfortable, Harry let the silence stretch out between him and the professor. An idea suddenly struck him, and he turned to face Snape's cell.

"Professor?" he asked.

"What is it, Potter?"

"Teach me about that curse. You know, the one I couldn't fight off," said Harry. "Please," he added belatedly.

For a moment, Snape was silent, and Harry assumed he was being ignored. Snape let out an "oh well, I've got nothing better to do," sigh, then turned around as well.

"It's called the Corpus Imperius," he started. "Control of the body, without touching the mind."

"It's not an Unforgivable?"

Snape snorted at that. "No, Potter. The brilliant minds at the Ministry of Magic believe that the Corpus Imperius is less of a violation because it takes over actions only. The Imperius curse takes over the mind, making you actually want to do what you're being forced to do. And despite the fact that it is somewhat weaker, the Corpus Imperius is more difficult to cast and cannot be compounded, making it less useful. If one person casts the curse on you, you become immune to it as long as the first caster keeps you strung up."

Harry couldn't believe that he was having a civil conversation with Snape. Almost afraid to push his luck, he continued hesitantly. "What makes it so hard to cast? It's not hard to pronounce… it's just 'corpus imperius,' isn't it?"

"Yes, the incantation is simple. It's certainly no Erscheinungsbildsverschönerung." Harry shuddered at the memory of the German charms unit from sixth year. "What makes the curse so difficult is the somatic component; one has to split one's concentration to hold on to the victim's body. It's a lot like envisioning puppet strings on the victim's body: leave them loose and the person may not even know he's cursed, but pull them tight and he's helpless."

Harry nodded – the explanation made sense. Although he was hesitant to admit it, Harry had realized something.

Without his bad attitude, Snape would have made a very good Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

- - - -

"This brings back memories," said Ron Weasley as he entered a girls' lavatory for the first time in five years. On the floor in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, Hermione had set up her supplies and a cauldron, which was bubbling and letting off blue steam. Hermione made no sign of hearing him other than to raise a hand at him in a "be quiet" gesture. As Ron approached her, he heard her counting under her breath as she stirred the potion.

As soon as she reached seventy-seven, Hermione plucked the long-handled spoon out of the potion and dumped in the dried blood from the Potions classroom. As Ron watched, the surface of the potion became still and the color changed to a dark violet. Hermione's face was intent, her body tense as a drawn bow. As the potion began to bubble again, she relaxed and turned to give Ron a big smile.

"I think it's going to work!" she exclaimed, grinning. "I've never brewed something this difficult before – it's been a great challenge!"

Ron Weasley, who had known of the magnitude of the challenge before Hermione began, had wisely decided to leave her alone for most of the last twenty-four hours. Aside from bringing Hermione food and making sure she hadn't fallen asleep, Ron had made himself scarce.

"Oh, such a challenge… You've gone to so much trouble to save your friend. Nobody tried to save me! I died all alone, without anybody!"

Myrtle had returned, rising out of a nearby toilet and whining as she floated over to where the two friends sat on the floor.

"Myrtle, nobody knew you were going to die," said Hermione matter-of-factly. "There was no way they could have fought to save you. You died instantly!"

Not consoled, the ghost floated miserably up to the ceiling.

"Anyway, we're also trying to save Snape, and I'd bloody well like to never see him again," Ron chimed in. "So if we'd try to save someone we hate, maybe it's better that nobody tried to save you. It could have been a sign that they liked you even less."

Surprisingly, Ron's comment seemed to strike a chord with the depressed apparition. As Hermione tried to wrap her brain around Ron's twisted logic, Myrtle floated back toward the floor.

"Snape? I haven't seen him in the students' toilets in years. I talked to him once, in the prefects' bathroom."

"Since when has Snape been in the prefects' bathroom?" asked Ron.

"Oh, not since he was a student. I liked him though. He was so miserable, it cheered me up."

- - - -

Harry Potter was in hell. Or if not Hell per se, pretty damn close. Although he had no way of knowing, he and Severus Snape had been held prisoner for over a day. Lucius Malfoy had returned a third time to torture Snape, and the Potions professor lay face-down and motionless on the damp floor.

If what Harry had felt for Snape was hatred, then there were no words to describe his opinion of Malfoy. Grimly, Harry envisioned dousing the man with the contents of the piss-bucket that had been put in his cell. No, thought Harry, that wouldn't be near to what he deserves .

Snape had been out for hours, not even waking to the semiconscious state he had been in after his previous torture session. Every once in a while, Harry would lie on his stomach and stretch his arm through the bars, checking Snape's wrist for a pulse. Malfoy apparently enjoyed his new method of torture, for he hadn't varied his methods; every time he came into the room, Malfoy would nearly drown Snape, then use the Cruciatus and other curses on him until he eventually passed out from the pain. Then Malfoy would give Snape a few hours to recover, and begin again. Harry had the unsettling thought that Malfoy was probably running errands, like a law-abiding citizen, between sessions of torture.

The screams were still ringing in Harry's ears as he reached over to check Snape's pulse. No matter how sarcastic, malevolent, stubborn, and rude the Potions Master was, he was an ally and another human being, and Harry was terrified that he would die. As the time he spent imprisoned with Snape lengthened, Harry was finding it harder to hold on to the hatred be had harbored against the man.

As Harry's fingers touched his professor's clammy skin, Snape's arm twitched. Startled, Harry pulled away as Snape raised himself up onto his hands and knees, then sat against the wall, his elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on his crossed forearms, his face completely blocked from view by the curtain of hair that fell forward over it. After several minutes of silence, Harry felt he had to say something.

"Professor Snape?" he asked quietly.

"What is it, Potter?" asked Snape hoarsely.

Harry hesitated, then went on. "I'm sorry about all this."

Snape snorted, but couldn't muster the energy for sarcasm. "I've been tortured before, Potter," said Snape.

"I didn't just mean that. I- I'm sorry for- for…"

"Just spit it out, Potter."

"I'm sorry for hating you so much, and for never trusting you. You've been trying to keep me alive ever since I got to Hogwarts, and yet I always hated you the most. And…" Harry broke off, not wanting to bring it up. Taking a deep breath, he went on.

"And I'm sorry for looking into that Pensieve with your memories in it. It was wrong, and I'm sorry. You can rub it in as much as you like, now. I'm not going anywhere."

Snape was silent for a long time, and Harry had begun to think he had fallen asleep when he answered. "I wanted to kill you for that, you know. I aimed that jar of cockroaches right at your head, and it was just bad aim that made me miss." In fact, Harry and Snape had barely spoken a word to one another outside of class for the entire time between that unpleasant final Occlumency lesson and their current imprisonment.

"I guess I can't really blame you," Harry finally admitted. "If someone had done that to me, I wouldn't want anyone to see them either."

Snape lowered his head again and muttered, "Of all the things I put in there, and you saw that."

"Well, there were only three…"

Snape snorted. "The other two memories take up nearly two weeks, combined. The one you saw was less than an hour long. What are the odds..."

"Well, I saw that one… and I am sorry. I was then too, but you would never have taken an apology from me at the time. You must have hated me then."

"Yes," said Snape slowly. "Yes, I did."

"Do you still?"

Snape took a long time in answering.

"No, Potter, I suppose I don't. It's difficult to hate someone when you are going to die together."

Harry couldn't think of anything to say in response to his professor's dismal comment, and the silence stretched out between them. Harry's eyes began to feel heavy, and he leaned back against the wall in mimicry of Snape's posture. It seemed wrong to sleep when his death was looming so near in the future, but Harry welcomed the feeling that was creeping over him nonetheless…

"I heard you, by the way."

Harry shook himself and looked over at Snape questioningly. Snape looked back.

"I heard you try to stop Malfoy, the first time. It was a really stupid thing to do, attempting to argue with him."

Harry's mouth dropped open.

"Yes, Potter, it was stupid, and pointless. Typical Gryffindor pride and arrogance." Snape looked away from Harry, then said almost inaudibly, "Thank you."

"Um… you're welcome," said Harry uncertainly. "I'm not as bad as you think, you know."

"Really."

"Really. Did you know I was raised by Muggles...?"

- - - -

Ron looked at the tiny vial on the counter-top with disbelief. Inside was about a milliliter of violet fluid, all that was left after Hermione boiled the potion down to its full strength.

"That's it?" he asked.

Hermione nodded as she carefully filled two tiny glass syringes with the potion, leaving only a few drops in the vial. Ron had the sense not to ask where in the world she had gotten them.

"It has to be introduced into the blood of the user to work," she explained. "That's why it's usually bonded to a blade or weapon. If it's made properly and specifically, the weapon won't dissolve after use. Did you know these potions were used in wars hundreds of years ago to transport enemy wounded directly to prison?"

Not waiting for Ron to respond, she put down one of the syringes and sat down on the floor. Ron sat in front of her as she rolled up her left sleeve.

"I'll inject you first," she said, rolling his sleeve up. "I can probably do myself if you disappear too quickly."

"Hermione?" asked Ron.

"Yes?"

"This could very well kill us, you know."

"I know."

"We could both end up at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean."

"I know, Ron," said Hermione grimly. "But we have to save Harry, or at least try."

Ron gave her a small smile, then reached over and embraced his best friend. He gave her a kiss on the cheek before pulling back, picking up his needle and holding out his bare arm. "If we do die, I'm glad it's with you."

Hermione gave his hand a quick squeeze, then began to examine his arm. As a witch, Hermione would be expected to know next to nothing about injections, but as a Muggle-born, she had at least some experience from the doctor's office. Finding a large vein on the inside of Ron's elbow, Hermione poked at it with the needle and rather inexpertly depressed the plunger. Ron let out a short "ow!" before his arm dropped lifelessly to his side. Clumsily, he tried to reach Hermione, but disorientation was fast overcoming him.

Ron fell backwards; within seconds, he disappeared.

Heart fluttering, Hermione stuck herself in the arm and lay back on the tile. Within moments, the girls' bathroom was empty, save the lonely ghost who made it her home.

A/N: Erscheinungsbildsverschönerung - roughly translated it means, "appearance beautification." Just the longest German spell I could come up with that was still one word. I study German and therefore can make fun of it and its ridiculously long compound words.