LOST PERSPECTIVE 5
READ MY MIND
By Bellegeste
Author's note:
To Avery: Good point about Hermione and the French. There is a brief explanation in the final chapter of LP4, when I'm talking about Hermione's infatuation for Snape. "Ever since Luna had mentioned the book (i.e. Lily's book of French poetry,) Hermione had secretly been using 'Linguascio' and practising her French." I do refer to this again later on in this story when Hermione is talking to Snape. I just figured that it might be the kind of intellectual approach that Hermione might take if she wanted to feel closer to Snape. (I started learning Russian once, for the sake of a misguided relationship. Didn't last long though! The Russian or the relationship.) The French thing is relevant also in that it influenced the part of Africa that Hermione went to. I do explain later, but I'll think about putting an earlier reference in, to make it clearer.
When I wrote the chapter in Post Mortem where Draco visits Snape and asks him to rescue Lucius, I thought 'Oh no, is this turning into an Azkaban fic?' I have never felt the need to write a full-on Azkaban story, and have never read one (any recs for good ones?). So this chapter isn't intended to be that - which is why I don't go into huge detail about the prison itself. It is just an excuse for getting Snape and Draco talking (spot the contrived device!)
I'm interested in the way Snape finds it easier to talk to Draco than he does to Harry. Must be a Slytherin thing.
And, as you may have noticed, in all my fics Snape has to get injured at some point…
This is a very long chapter; it didn't break naturally, so I kept it as one.
Chapter 5 : SNAPE : DRACO
November 1996
Azkaban
It could hardly be described as a cave, more an enlarged fissure in the rock, but it would do. The important thing was the entrance was not visible from the path, which curved sharply to the right, round the projecting granite crag. By the time the Death Eaters realised that Draco was missing, he would be long gone. The shelter of the cave would buy Snape the few extra seconds he needed to subdue the boy before they Apparated to safety. He was not expecting him to put up much resistance.
Snape had been tailing the group of Death Eaters for over a day now. It had been relatively straightforward, a serendipitous mix of calculated guesswork and luck, to track them to their rendezvous at Macnair's Scottish 'bothy': a fisherman's cottage set in a secluded cove, with views out over the Pentland Firth and the icy, wild waters of the North Sea. It was one of a number of properties left unused and abandoned since the summer's debacle in the Ministry, but its coastal location made it a particularly convenient launch pad for the journey north to the islands. Snape had considered it himself, in his hypothetical calculations for the proposed breakout.
By the time Snape arrived, later that evening, a group of at least eleven Death Eaters had already assembled. He settled himself unseen, at a safe distance, in the lee of an upturned skiff, to watch and wait. At intervals throughout the long night, hooded figures materialised out of the darkness and slipped anonymously into the peeling, weather-beaten building. By dawn their numbers had swelled to seventeen. There was no sign, however, of Voldemort.
Snape edged closer to the shack, flattening himself against the wall, and clasping his cloak around him as the freezing wind snatched and dragged at the material. It was pitiful - they hadn't even 'warded' the hut for sound: he could hear every word. No wonder they'd wanted his help - he was dealing with a bunch of amateurs! Macnair was playing host; his Gaelic twang sounded out above the rest:
"Aye, aye, dinna fash yerself. Pass yer tassie, man - get a drop of the auld 'athole brose' inside of ye. Or mebbe a wee dram? Uisge beatha's what ye need to warm the cockles on a clarty night like this. Once ye be up on Eilean Eas you'll be wishin' yer'd taken more'n a tot o' whusky… can I tempt ye wi' a bannock?" (ed. Footnotes at end.)
Snape sniffed in disgust. What did they think this was, a ceilidh? But he had heard enough; he now knew the point from which they planned to launch their assault on Azkaban.
Snape's initial hope had been to snatch Draco from the group before they left the mainland, but he quickly realised that this would not be possible. There were too many of them, and Draco was never alone. With almost twenty men crowded into the croft, no one was alone. They were sitting ducks, thought Snape in frustration. If only Draco were not with them… What price the life of a single schoolboy, when weighed against the chance of eradicating an entire cell of Death Eaters? He deplored Ministerial policy which would only authorise the deployment of resources to defend the prison itself, rather than stage a pre-emptive strike on its would-be attackers. If only the Malfoy boy had not been there, the Order might have been able to blitz the place… But, in any case, Dumbledore had felt that an unprovoked assault on a supposed off-season 'sea-angling party', had it failed, would have been impossible to justify. The headmaster was getting too cautious in his old age, Snape decided.
As far as students went, Snape quite liked Draco. He was a quick learner (when he deigned to listen), confident (to the point of arrogance), and with a sharp wit - more than once Snape had had to suppress an appreciative smirk as one or another of his fellow students (Harry, more often than not) became the next cringing victim of Malfoy's barbed humour. But he was, at the end of the day, just a student.
More than once Snape had questioned the logic of risking his own life to save that of a boy who meant little to him, who would, in all probability, be taking the Dark Mark himself within the next couple of years. Draco would, by definition, become the 'enemy'. Why save him now? Why bother? The boy was nothing, a nobody, irrelevant, incidental, expendable.
Snape suspected that his desire to rescue him had more than a little to do with Harry. There but for the grace of Merlin… In his mind the two boys were in some respects interchangeable: he saw Draco in danger; he envisaged Harry in the same situation. As a teacher, Snape would never consciously have allowed any of his pupils to suffer, on principle, but there was more to it now than professionalism. By a process of transference, the protectiveness he felt towards Harry had begun to extend towards the other children.
Paternalism was not a welcome addition to Snape's emotional array. At least, not under the present circumstances. It rendered him exploitable. It was precisely this softening of objectivity, this personal involvement, that he had shied away from all these years. From the first moment he had heard of Lily's pregnancy and assessed the odds on the child being his, he had instinctively known that denial was the safest course. He had known several Death Eaters whose loyalty was bought for the price of their family's safety. They were vulnerable. And now he was in the same position, with respect to Harry and, by identification, to Draco, and… others…
Snape could not pretend that his motive for extricating Draco was more than partially altruistic. Of course, he had no desire to see the boy penalised by the Ministry, which he surely would be, were he caught. And, there again, once he was gone, the defenders would have a clearer field of operations… But it was more than that: there was the thrill of seeing live action again. It had been so long since Snape had had an opportunity to pit his wits directly against the Dark Lord. Sneaking around spying and information gathering didn't give the same adrenalin rush of pure excitement, of risk and danger. Even last summer when his colleagues in the Order had been fighting it out in the Ministry, Snape had been back at Hogwarts, checking for Harry in the Forbidden Forest. And after the sessions in the 'cellar', Snape had his own score to settle…
The conversation with Dumbledore had reinforced his resolve to take a break from teaching. Over the last few weeks he had felt lost, stale, ineffectual and so totally depressed with his existence that he didn't think anything would rouse him from the trough of apathy - until now. This mission made him feel vital and alive: in saving Draco, he was also saving himself.
Snape could well imagine that taking part in this raid might be regarded as an initiation for Draco, a rite of passage; that the boy might be under considerable pressure to prove himself. In practical terms he could not see that the presence of an untrained teenager would be anything but a liability - he wasn't even sure that the kid knew how to Apparate yet. Harry may have learned, in secret, but Snape doubted that Draco had the drive or tenacity to acquire the necessary skills without professional help.
Was he there then as a bargaining tool- a potential hostage, maybe; living currency to be bartered in a crisis in exchange for leniency or freedom?
A mile out to sea, the craggy outcrop of bare rock that housed the fortress prison of Azkaban, was just visible through the mist. Its dark, featureless mass gave no indication of the horrors within its walls; it was a single, weathered stone marking a communal grave on the site of a massacre.
Snape did not know how the Death Eaters intended to cross to the island and, frankly, he did not care. He didn't believe they could do it. He had gone over the details in his mind, time and time again, with the same result: the fortress was impregnable. With the newly intensified security and fortifications, any assault on Azkaban was doomed to failure. Even the non-Apparation zone would by now have been extended so that it encompassed the rocky shore of the headland.
In Snape's estimation, there was only one place where it would be worth attempting to breach the perimeter wards. Issuing from a fault-line in the stone stack, some fifty feet up the sheer cliff face, a wall of water fell in a cascading, white torrent, meeting the jagged rocks below in a crashing embrace of salt and spray. No defensive spell could retain cohesion amidst that perpetual flow, the ever-shifting surge of surf. Behind the boiling curtain of water would be a lacuna, untouched by the magic: a way through the outer wards. Snape permitted himself a sardonic smile, visualising his former associates and their undignified, wet, vertical, drop through the buffeting, ice-cold sluice. Just co-ordinating the 'dry' and 'anti-gravity' charms would be an achievement.
In the sombre, winter half-light, Snape heard them before he could see them. The biting wind had dropped and the crunch of their boots on the stony pathway, the scrape of a missed step, carried dully in the heavy air. They were covering the last few hundred yards on foot, unsure of where the Apparation barrier began. As the narrow track wound upwards, they came within sight: a dark procession of slowly moving, cloaked shapes, their wands held aloft to light their treacherous way, like a Silent Order of monks, votive candles flickering, proceeding to Matins.
Snape melted into the fissure, counting the bodies, while the column toiled past. Fourteen… fifteen… Draco had been bringing up the rear, as Snape had anticipated - evidently they had not considered the possibility of being ambushed from behind - but now Snape noticed that the fat accountant, Goyle, had dropped back. Fifteen years in a sedentary, Ministerial sinecure was hardly the best training for terrorist activity, and the pen-pusher had grown portly and unfit, ill-equipped for a mountain hike. Damn! Would the man notice if Draco were no longer in front of him? But rather than keeping an eye on the boy, Goyle's attention was focussed on his plodding feet; his wand hung limply in his hand, illuminating nothing beyond the next tired step.
Rather than run the risk of being heard casting a spell, Snape had opted for the old-fashioned approach – manually grabbing the boy as he went by. As Draco, unsuspecting, drew level with the fissure, a black arm slid round his neck, a hand clamped over his mouth and a sinister, vaguely familiar voice hissed in his ear,
"Quiet!"
The boy was yanked sharply sideways, and the rock-face swallowed him into darkness. Goyle trudged on oblivious, convinced that he was developing a nasty blister on his left heel.
Snape had not expected Draco to struggle so much. How could he Apparate if the boy was thrashing around? It didn't help that his arm was still weak from the effects of the snake bite. He needed a firm grip if they were to Apparate jointly away from the immediate vicinity of the path - it wouldn't work if he had to concentrate on keeping the kid from kicking and yelling at the same time.
"Draco, be quiet!" he hissed, and slapped the near hysterical boy sharply round the face. There was no time for explanations. They had to get away instantly before the Death Eaters realised that one of their number had disappeared. In the moment of stunned shock that followed, Snape seized Draco, there was a 'pop' and the two of them vanished. Snape did not relax his grip until he felt his feet touch down on rough grass. He allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation that the plan had worked so smoothly.
In that split-second, as Draco sensed the wiry muscles loosen their hold, the boy dropped to the ground and rolled away, whipping out his wand and at the same time screaming,
"Stupefy! Incarcerous! Impedimenta! Expelliarmus!"
Ropes were already snaking round Snape's wrists and ankles as the stunning spell knocked him off his feet and hurled him backwards. Unable to break his fall, he crashed to the floor, his head hitting the frozen ground with an audible crack. He didn't get up.
Draco stayed down, wand shakily pointing at the inert figure, panting away the desperation that had possessed him. After a minute, when the man didn't move, Draco clambered to his feet, and nudged Snape's leg with his shoe.
"Get up!" There was still no response.
"OK, you bastard. Finite Incantatem, but I'm warning you, I've got you covered!" Draco tried to sound an awful lot more confident than he felt. Even without the binding ropes, the man lay motionless, unconscious. Feeling bolder, Draco shoved his assailant with his foot, rolled him over…
"Professor? Oh, snake-shit! Professor!" Finally recognising Snape, Draco felt a strobe of panic blinding his brain, sending his thought processes into a bleached, eerie, slow-motion spin. He looked around him wildly for help, half hoping that Dumbledore or Madam Pomfrey would materialise on cue to sort everything out. There was nothing there but bleak, windswept emptiness, a flattened expanse of scrubby heather and rocks - fading into the grey distance, a line of standing stones, looming out of the swirling mist. Draco had no idea where he was. There was no sign of the path or the steep escarpment that met the shore in those terrifying cliffs; no sign of the Death Eaters either.
"Professor Snape? Wake up! Enervate!" Draco tried the waking spell, not expecting it to work. It was the physical impact of Snape's skull hitting the rock-hard earth that had knocked him out, not magic.
"Oh, no. Wake up, can't you? Oh, for Merlin's sake! Oh, fuck it! Come on, Sir, wake up!" Draco tried shaking him and patting him round the face, but he really had no idea what to do. Nothing seemed to help. In the end he squatted down to wait, hugging his knees, and wondering how the hell he was going to explain to Dumbledore that he had violently assaulted his Potions master. It was one thing plotting to get the man arrested by a third party; it was a completely different matter to have him lying unconscious at his feet.
In many ways, it was a relief to have got away from the Death Eaters. Some were his father's friends, and Draco knew a couple of them quite well, as individuals. But, en masse, they became alarming. There was a harsh group dynamic that seemed to supplant any finer feeling, and Draco wasn't sure how far he could trust them. They had taken him from Hogwarts directly to the croft, but they hadn't told him where they were going, or what the plan was. They'd been too busy, too involved in last-minute briefings and instructions, to answer Draco's questions; they greeted each new, hooded arrival at the shack with hushed urgency, sweeping him into a huddle of secret intrigue from which Draco was openly excluded. It rapidly became clear to Draco that, if he played any part in his father's rescue, it would be as a 'spare part' and not the hero.
It was several minutes before Snape regained consciousness. His eyes flickered open, closed again; he blinked, tried to focus, groaned; gingerly touched the back of his head; felt blood.
"I didn't know it was you, Sir. Honest, I didn't. I wouldn't have… I thought you were attacking me. It was too dark. I didn't realise…" Draco blurted a string of excuses.
"Shut up, Malfoy."
"But you grabbed me, Sir! How was I supposed to know? If someone gets you round the neck in the dark and Apparates you into the middle of fuck knows where, what are you supposed to do? Wait for them to cut your throat? I was protecting myself, Sir!"
"Yes, alright, Malfoy. Just shut up, will you?" Snape couldn't listen to the boy's ranting self-defence. His head was splitting; his vision exploding into star-bursts of pain.
"You could have been a Death Eater or anybody! They might have been kidnapping me! For all I knew they might have been going to throw me off the cliff! You could have said something! Grabbing my throat! You're jolly lucky I didn't use Crucio - I could have, you know…"
"You're in the right place for it! Save the Ministry the trouble of sending you to prison." Snape was in no mood for idle threats.
"But you slapped my face!" Draco was petulant.
"Dragon's blood! Can't you be quiet? What the hell did you think you were doing? You almost blew my head off, you stupid boy," Snape snapped. Wincing, he pushed himself up onto an elbow, then stopped while drunken shadows careened around him, lunging pitchforks into his brain, lurching in and out of focus, blurring and finally coalescing into the overcast pewter pall of the northern sky. He felt sick. He didn't know whether to hold his head or his stomach.
"We should get out of here," said Draco, anxiously. "They might be following us. I don't think I want to stay with them. I'd rather take my chances with you. If you'd just said who you were…"
"You brainless idiot! Didn't you recognise my voice?" Snape had underestimated the extent of Malfoy's panic; it had not occurred to him that the boy wouldn't realise who he was.
"It all happened so fast…" Malfoy whined. "Where are we, anyway, Sir? Shouldn't we go? Get away from here, in case they… Can't you hurry up?"
Draco had automatically assumed that once Snape was conscious he'd be fine.
Snape tried to stand up, but was immediately engulfed by billowing waves of nausea. He sank down onto his knees.
"Just give me a minute, will you?"
x x x
Draco paced nervously, peering about him into the gloom, straining his eyes for any sign of movement, any sound, tense as an unbroken brumby, ready to bolt. He circled the stunned professor impatiently. How had he got himself into this mess? Stuck on a mountain, with Snape being totally pathetic - hell, the man was such a loser. Who'd have thought it? Draco would have expected him to be tougher than that. Wasn't he a wizard? What's he doing here anyway? Last time Draco had seen Snape, he'd been at the Cottage. Come to think of it, the man had behaved like a total head case there too. Perhaps he really had lost his powers after all? Perhaps the rumours were true. I was right to tell the Dark Lord that Snape had cracked… Draco comforted himself with the thought until it occurred to him that, under the present circumstances, it would be preferable for Snape to be sane and with powers intact.
"Draco, listen to me. This is important." Snape's speech was slightly slurred. "Draco, I think I have concussion. For a short while I shall be unable to do magic or Apparate."
"What? Oh that's great! You mean we can't get away? Short while? What the hell does that mean? How long?" Draco's voice rang with disappointment and frustration, annoyance too. "Call yourself a wizard? That was just a bang on the head - aren't real wizards supposed to 'bounce'? When was the last time you heard of a wizard with concussion? Huh!"
"That's enough, Malfoy! Show some respect! It is unusual, I'll admit, but it is the only way I can account for… …for the way I'm feeling. My defence reflex must have busy at the time… dealing with the four simultaneous curses you so kindly cast on me…
"Now, stop whingeing, boy, and listen! I need you to perform a Healing Spell."
Draco felt an ominous sinking sensation in his middle.
"OK, Sir," he said, dubiously. "What is it?"
"What's what?"
"The Healing Spell. What is it? How does it go?"
"Don't you know?" barked Snape, irritably.
"Me, Sir? What do you think I am, a bloody Mediwitch? How the hell am I supposed to know a Healing Spell for concussion?"
"Because it's on the syllabus that Pomfrey's been revising with you for the past week!" Snape moaned in exasperation, holding his head in his hands, rocking slightly as the nausea swept through him again.
"Fine. I must have missed that class," said Draco airily, getting his wand out and twirling it. "OK, I'll do it for you, Sir- just tell me the incantation."
"I can't remember it!" snapped Snape, anger cloaking his shame. "That's one of the symptoms - memory loss. For once in your life, Draco, concentrate! If we can't Apparate out of here, it'll be a long walk, and I'm not sure either of us would make it. Don't you ever pay attention in class?"
Draco thought hard. Now Snape mentioned it, he did remember The Pom drivelling on about wiping up spilled potions because you might slip and hit your head and… yes, she had referred to concussion! He felt proud of himself. But she'd mentioned a lot of other stuff too - and it was all so trite and safety conscious: this is risky; that is dangerous; this is a potential hazard; that would be deleterious to health - blah, blah! No wonder he'd switched off. She'd said… something about Arnica and Plimpy scales…? No, it was gone. What he did recall though was that he'd had a brilliant idea that day for putting an Intensified Repulsio Hex on Potter's cauldron, so that any ingredients he added would instantly leap out again…
"Sorry, Sir," he mumbled.
"You'd better start paying attention now," said Snape grimly. "Don't worry about the Death Eaters - you are hardly their top priority at the moment. Face it, Malfoy, you're an encumbrance. They're probably glad to be rid of you…"
Charming! thought Draco, even though he knew, deep down, that Snape was right. He would only have been in the way.
"Malfoy - " Snape continued. His voice was sounding very strange. "It is possible that I may lose consciousness again. In that event… it will be up to you… Oh, for Merlin's sake, boy!" He had seen the white panic returning to Draco's eyes. "You are equipped to cope, Draco. You have your wand; you already know the basic survival spells: Modified Protego and Impervius for shelter; Incendio, obviously; and Point Me. If the worst comes to the worst and you're lost, head south. I do not wish to be alarmist, but you should be prepared. Now, shut up and let me rest for a while." He sank back shakily to the ground, his eyelids closing.
"NO!" cried Draco, a memory flashing a warning light in his mind. "No, Sir, you mustn't! Madam Pomfrey said that people with untreated concussion can lapse into a coma. Or something. Your brain'll swell up until it trickles out of your ears!"
"Malfoy!" Snape rebuked him with another moan. "Your imperfect grasp of medical fact… is surpassed… only by your perverse compulsion… to sensationalise the truth."
"No, I'm serious, Sir. You've got to stay awake. Talk to me! That's it - that's what Pomfrey said - you've got to keep talking…"
"Talk? To you? What leads you to believe, for one moment, that I would have the remotest inclination to talk to you, boy? Do you think I'm mad? I may be concussed, Malfoy, but I'm not insane. I'm just tired. Leave me alone." Up until this point, Snape had been perfectly coherent, but now he felt himself starting to drift… it was an effort to keep his eyes open.
"Let's talk about Potions, shall we?" suggested Draco, frantically. "Or about, er, snakes, Sir? Or that horrible lizard thing you've got at your Cottage. Harry says it drinks snot… Sir?" Draco searched desperately for any topic capable of holding Snape's waning concentration. "Talk to me about Harry!"
"Harry?" There was a flicker of interest.
"Yes, Sir - it must be bizarre, suddenly finding that Potter, of all people, is your son. Isn't it, Sir? Isn't it weird?"
"I have a son. Harry is my son. I always wanted a son," Snape murmured faintly.
Draco was alarmed; Snape's confusion scared him. He knelt next to the Professor and shook him by the shoulders.
"Try to focus, Sir. Tell me about Harry. Why do you hate him?"
Draco was taking a risk here, being deliberately provocative: he would never normally have dared to ask this to his face. But the gamble paid off: Snape slid back towards consciousness.
"Hate? Who says I hate Harry?"
Well, he does, actually. Everybody does. It's a well-known fact.
"Does your father hate you, Draco? No. Do you hate him?"
"Sometimes. Well, not really, Sir. No, Sir."
"No. Do you l-… - like him?" Snape had paused before one 'L' word and substituted another.
"Whew! I don't know, Sir." Draco hadn't expected this kind of talk.
"You don't know?" Snape's voice had faded again to a whisper. "You see, Draco, what you feel for your father is… a combination of… duty, obligation, loyalty, familiarity, admiration, affection..." He listed the attributes like so many toxic chemicals. "Relationships are largely a matter of habit. Harry and I - we have not had that luxury. We have been thrown together in exceptional circumstances.."
That's one way to describe it!
"I get why Harry might hate you - " Draco declared boldly. The cautious, expedient deference he had always felt towards Snape at school seemed to have been left behind within the bounds of Hogwarts.
"Indeed. Do enlighten me with your insights, Malfoy."
Yeah - talk about 'just cause'… You bang up his mother - one of the perks, is it, of being a Death Eater- then you ignore Harry's very existence; and when you finally get the chance to do something about it, you make his life hell… Not that he didn't deserve half of it, mind! But what kid would want you for a father…? Draco almost said it out loud, but he knew that would be dangerously over-stepping the mark.
"Oh, nothing, Sir. I'm sorry."
"Too damn right you're sorry! Watch your tongue! Why concern yourself with Harry anyway? The two of you are not friends." Suspicion glinted in Snape's dimmed eyes. "Malfoy, if you are taking advantage of this situation to procure ammunition for use in your rivalry against my son…"
"I'm not, Sir. I'm just talking!"
"I don't need to talk. I need to sleep. Go away and do something useful. Collect firewood; try to assess our location. Just leave me alone."
x x x
A low rumbling volley carried its ominous tidings through the slate grey dawn, making Draco jump. Was that an explosion? …gunfire?
"They're shooting! Professor! Sir! Wake up!"
"I'm not deaf, Draco." Snape was already listening. "Shooting? Wizards don't use guns. Don't be ridiculous! That sounds more like a storm."
"Ohhh." Malfoy whimpered, his gaze travelling fearfully skywards. He'd hated storms ever since he was little - he'd been mucking about on his dad's broomstick one day, practising on the quiet, when the rain began: he didn't think anything of it at first, until the lightning bolt that virtually blasted him out of the sky…
"Astraphobic! That's all we need!" Snape muttered, observing Draco flinch as the next roll of thunder growled up the mountainside. "Don't bother to deny it, Draco, I can see you quaking from here."
"Deny what? I didn't do anything, Sir."
"If you're so anxious to talk, you could at least try to listen. You're afraid of thunder and lightning, aren't you?"
"No I'm not!" Draco did deny it, vehemently.
"If you say so." Snape leaned back against the rock, his eyes closed. The nausea was more manageable that way, if he kept his head still, if he didn't have to focus on the agitated boy, who would insist on circling him like a hungry vulture.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Malfoy, sit down! I'm not carrion yet!"
"What, Sir?" The man's coming out with gibberish, thought Draco. Better keep him talking…
"When Harry went through that Archway thing…" he began, thinking this could well be a fruitful subject, but Snape interrupted him:
"Perhaps it's time we talked about you, Malfoy."
Draco gulped, his bravado wavering as the tables were turned.
"Me, Sir?"
"Would you, perchance, care to explain, Draco - while you are in this conversational frame of mind - how you came to be my son's accomplice in his misguided quest for 'revenge', eh? Or, indeed, why you then saw fit to take matters into your own hands, and engineer my arrest? Hmm? Quite the young arbiter of justice! What have you got to say for yourself, boy? Not so chatty now, are we?"
Draco stared at his scuffed shoes, and chewed his lower lip, trying to piece together a defence. It was unfair - Snape's reasoning wasn't as blunted as he'd thought. He felt that Snape had tricked him.
"My father…" he faltered.
"…is a criminal. It's time you faced up to the facts. He's in Azkaban because he broke the law and he got caught - and this time he couldn't plead the excuse that he was under Imperius." Snape put it bluntly.
"It wasn't an excuse!" Draco protested. For the second time that day he pulled his wand on Snape, and shouted accusingly:
"It's your fault he's in prison now. You're a traitor. You betrayed him. He wouldn't have been caught if it wasn't for you. You've always had it in for him. It should be you in there, not him. You didn't even have the excuse of Imperius, and they let you go free. You bought your own freedom by spying on my father! And then you went and betrayed him again last summer!"
"I wasn't even present at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries," Snape pointed out, with a sigh. He really didn't feel up to arguing with the defiant, distressed teenager. "Put the wand away, Draco. It's not about personal animosity towards Lucius - he was once my friend, after all. Though, recently… But I take issue with his principles and his methods - can you not see the difference?"
"Same bloody difference, as far as I'm concerned," the boy snarled.
Snape was experiencing a disconcerting sense of déjà vu - Malfoy's wounded, hostile attitude reminded him overwhelmingly of Harry.
"Draco, what have I ever done to you?" he asked, more gently.
"Nothing, Sir," the boy mumbled. Damn! That was pretty much the same question Harry had asked him, and he hadn't had a decent answer that time either.
Just then the sky glimmered with lightning, the flash diffusing through the low clouds, quickly followed by another echoing clash. Draco let out an involuntary yelp.
"It's getting closer. The rain'll be here soon," said Snape. He could see that the boy was frozen with fear, hysteria not far away, genuinely phobic.
"Give me a hand up, Draco. I'll see if I can Apparate us out of here before we get drenched. No, the other hand…" he added, protecting his right arm where the snake bite still throbbed.
Malfoy pulled the professor to his feet. As soon as Snape was upright he knew it was a bad idea. The world about him dissolved into a texture-less, tripe and avocado sludge, while underfoot the ground began to pitch and heave. The Potions master swayed, steadying himself against the boy, then cautiously lowered himself back to the floor.
"Too soon."
Draco sat down next to him.
"Thanks for trying, Sir," he said. "I'll do an Impervius, shall I? Before we get wet?"
The first, single, portentous, swollen drops were beginning to fall.
Again the lightning was a mere flicker, smothered in gabardine cloud, but this time the thunder crack was immediate, directly overhead, ear-splitting. Without thinking, Draco cowered against Snape, burying his head in his chest and, equally instinctively, Snape put his arm round the trembling shoulders…
Snape was surprised that the boy didn't pull away sooner. It was strangely comforting to have him there, leaning against him. Any human contact was a novelty to Snape. It felt uncomplicated - how different from the maelstrom that churned within him whenever he approached Harry, where every gesture, every touch was primed with a potent emotional charge.
The rain drummed upon the spell, the deluge glancing off the waterproof magic like a torrent of verbal abuse - loud and stinging, but ultimately harmless. Around them the storm swaggered and blustered, hurling its booming expletives to earth. After a while it staggered inland, its coarse threats still reverberating around the mountain. Snape felt the tension slump out of the boy's body.
"Friggin' thunder - freaks me out!" Draco said in a forced, jokey tone, sitting up with a shrug.
"It is an irrational response, Draco, to a relatively benign natural phenomenon. You should try some mesmeric desensitisation techniques; or, possibly, one might Obliviate the event that originally triggered the phobia…"
"Would you do that, Sir, when we get back to Hogwarts? I feel such a pillock…"
He was trying to pinpoint what it was about this conversation that was making him feel uncomfortable, then he realised: Snape was neither bullying nor belittling him. Draco wondered if, by some amazing fluke, his Stupefy had targeted Snape's sadistic cortex…
The Potions master was regarding him with a very strange, serious expression. Oh heck, he'd better not throw up - that would be too gross…
"Draco, I shall not be returning with you to Hogwarts."
"Oh. Oh well, later then; when you get back," said Malfoy, thinking he was referring to a short-term arrangement.
"You misunderstand me. I do not intend to return at all. I have tendered my resignation."
Not return? Draco couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was the answer to a prayer. Yet, Hogwarts without Snape would be unimaginable. He was an integral part of the place, just as much as the ancient stone walls, the moving staircases, the draughty corridors and halls. Snape was one of the sharp, bitter ingredients (as were Filch and Mrs Norris, Peeves, the Forbidden Forest, the Whomping Willow…) that added that hint of piquancy to life at Hogwarts. Without him it would be blander - easier for Gryffindors maybe, with fewer detentions, less public humiliation and a major reduction in homework, but definitely blander. Besides, who would be the Head of Slytherin? None of the other staff would want that job. Draco had never imagined he would find himself saying this, but he didn't want Snape to go.
"Why, Sir?"
"I have my reasons."
A rush of guilt seized the student.
"Look, Sir, I know what I said to the Dark Lord, but I didn't mean it. Nobody really thinks that."
"What, precisely, did you say?" Snape inquired, coldly. "Out with it boy! Spare me the prevarication," he added as Draco hesitated.
"I told him that you'd lost it, Sir. After I saw you at your house - well, you were pretty out of it… I said you were all washed up, and that he needn't bother about you; that you weren't any threat…"
"Indeed." That explained the Death Eaters' mistaken assumption that he would not follow up Draco's approach for help.
Draco had heard that tone of 'indeed' several times before, and it was never auspicious. He quailed.
"Do you wish to discover whether or not I still pose a threat?" Snape could still inject an overdose of menace.
"No, Sir."
"Very well. Are you saying that you are in personal contact with the Dark Lord?" This was not a question Draco had been expecting. Snape was side-stepping the issue of his competence.
"Not exactly, Sir. I tell stuff to my mother, or sometimes to my dad's friends - and it sort of gets back to him… But you're not, Sir. Mad, that is. You're OK. Maybe not right this minute, but generally? You don't have to resign."
"I'm afraid I do, Draco. There are circumstances… They need not concern you."
"You've not killed someone?"
"Not recently, no."
There was a tantalising whiff of malpractice in the air, and Draco couldn't resist sniffing it out. He might learn something useful. His nose wrinkled in anticipation.
"I can't see why you'd want to resign. Hogwarts is a cushy number for you, isn't it? Were you sacked, Sir? Did you Hex a pupil, or poison a member of staff, or have an argument with Dumbledore? That's it! You've had some massive row with Professor Dumbledore, and he's finally given you the push!"
"I have not! Enough lurid speculation, Malfoy. I have resigned, and that is all you need to know. I intend to devote more time into furthering my research into mithridatic antidotes and cnidoblasts… There has been nothing inappropriate about my behaviour."
An unfortunate turn of phrase. In Malfoy's salacious mind the word 'inappropriate' had distinct connotations of the worst professional misconduct.
"Oh my god!" he drawled in scandalised delight. "You dirty dragon! You've been screwing a student!"
The sentence had barely left his mouth before he felt Snape's hand close around his throat, forcing his head roughly back against the rock.
"That is a slander, Malfoy. You will not repeat it. Do I make myself clear? It is not true," he hissed. "I have never… I would never…"
Snape let his hand drop, and they both sat back, breathing heavily.
Draco's imagination was now speeding through a roll-call of Hogwarts' females: Bulstrode- too ugly. Abbot- too 'boring'. Patil (either of them)- pretty, but snooty. (Would that bother Snape?) Granger- too swotty. Midgeon- too spotty. Lovegood- too batty. Weasley- too young. (But how young was too young?) Perks- too pukka. Bones- nice hair…
No, he couldn't guess. How frustrating - this was the juiciest dirt since… well, since the story about Snape raping Harry's mother… It's always the quiet ones…
Draco twisted his bruised neck slowly round until he could see Snape's face. The man looked utterly wretched. Watching him, Draco was suddenly ashamed of his initial urge to crow; he felt the dawning of a superficial, manly comradeship, and something akin to sympathy.
"OK, you haven't done anything yet, but you want to! Or you're involved, in some way… I'm right, aren't I, Sir?"
Snape did not deny it.
"It is impossible for me to remain at Hogwarts," was all he would say.
Not while Granger was still a student there. He did not trust himself.
X X X
"That Impervius of yours needs some fine-tuning," grumbled Snape damply, as the moisture started to seep through the magic.
"Are you sure you're up to this, Sir?" Draco was nervous about being Apparated by a wizard whose powers were at a low ebb.
Over the last half hour or so, Snape had felt his strength gradually returning, and the nausea subside.
"Stop griping! We'll soon find out," he retorted, wishing, not for the first time that day, that Malfoy could show a little less self-serving, Slytherin circumspection, and a little more 'grit' - like Harry, he thought again.
They had said no more about Snape's decision to leave Hogwarts. Although Draco's curiosity was consuming him like a flesh-eating virus, he had the sense to shut up. Even he could tell when a subject was too painful to pursue.
This was the hottest gossip ever! Already its spicy scandal was warming him from the inside like a glass of peppered pumpkin wine. He, Draco Malfoy, was in possession of the ultimate weapon! It was a bitter blow, a cruel irony, to realise that he would probably never use it; that, sometimes, solidarity went far deeper than you would have thought possible… And, besides, he had no proof.
"Stand still!" the Potions master ordered. "After last time I will not hesitate to use Petrificus… and a Silencio wouldn't go amiss either. It may take a couple of 'hops' - there is a limit to the range of joint Apparations. Just don't fight the magic this time - you have to trust me."
"Yes, Sir." I do, dammit, thought Draco, as he felt Snape's grip tighten around him. I do.
At the last minute, Snape let his arms slacken and he took a step backwards so that he could look Draco in the eye.
"One more thing, Draco," he said very quietly. "After I drop you at the Floo connection, we may not see each other again for some time. If, however, it comes to my attention - and it will - that you have in any way tried to capitalise on the events of today…"
He allowed the implied threat to hang in the dank morning air, swinging like a rotting corpse on a gibbet.
I wasn't going to say anything anyway, thought Draco. Not yet.
X X X
Scottish footnotes (and apologies to any Scots out there!):
1 Dinna fash yerself: Don't fuss
2 tassie : cup
3 athole brose: traditional Scottish drink made of whiskey and fermented honey
4 uisge beatha : whisky (water of life)
5 clarty : dirty, nasty
6 Eilean Eas : island with the waterfall
7 bannock : oatcake
End of Chapter. Next chapter : SNAPE : HERMIONE. Finally they are in the same room together... and they are forced into conversation. (But it's not fluffy or smutty! Sorry.)
