LOST PERSPECTIVE 7

PAYBACK TIME

By Bellegeste

Author's note: This story was either going to be four very long chapters or sixteen short ones. Chapters Two and Three go together, so I'll try to load them both today.

I was tempted the write this whole story in a pseudo Samuel Beckett style – just for fun – but came to my senses just in time… I left in a couple of snippets, though, because it seemed a good way of highlighting the minimal amount of detail Snape, Harry and Hermione give Dumbledore as compared with what actually happened… I liked the idea that they each had their own reasons for concealing the truth…

CHAPTER 2 : Strangled

Professor Dumbledore stared long and fixedly into the embers. Only the occasional glimmer of orange amidst the whitening ash betrayed the residual energy of the evening's fire, its force disciplined, garrisoned within the grate. As for that other fire - Dumbledore's eyes blazed with the recollection of those untrained, un-marshalled hordes, rampaging through Snape Cottage; the frenzy of destruction, the riotous, white-hot flames out of control. What if he Floo-ed there now, what would he find? The charred relics of a lifetime, defiled and blackened, the ashes of the past? Oh, the building could be restored - magically, physically, stone by hand-hewn stone, with wands, with labour and hard graft… something could be done. The Cottage would be reborn. But what kind of a Phoenix would Severus prove himself to be?

Absent-mindedly he reached out and stroked Fawkes who had taken up a sympathetic perch on the arm of the chair. The great bird craned his majestic head up, allowing the wizard to chuck and smooth his sinewy neck, the scarlet feathers gleaming with a lustrous, golden, rich, Pharoahic sheen.

"What a mess, eh, Fawkes? What a mess. As if that poor boy didn't have enough to worry about."

The phoenix cocked his head and gave a low, crooning call.

"Quite so," agreed the professor.

x x x

He had heard three equally unsatisfactory versions of the evening's events: from Snape himself, from Harry and from Hermione. Which of them, if any, was telling him the truth? What were they hiding? Who were they trying to protect? And why? Dumbledore eased off his slippers and stretched his bony, bare feet towards the residual warmth of the fire, wiggling the circulation through to his stiff, crooked, cold toes as he pondered this latest - what did one call it ? A 'riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma'(1)? Throw in a 'dilemma steeped in the bile of a crisis' and you just about have it, he mused…

It is not often that one is calmly sipping a mug of late night cocoa (with extra cream and chocolatey sprinkles, and a dash of Old Jamaica - it was Christmas, after all), serenely taking stock of the day - and what an unexpectedly eventful Christmas Day it had been; he couldn't remember one quite like it; certainly not in the last hundred years… - when three distraught people arrive by emergency Portkey right in the middle of your sitting room. Three people to whom he had bidden a kindly farewell not four hours since, and who had been then, if not 100 fine, at least recovering, safe and thankful to be alive. Whatever had happened in the interim? Their guarded explanations had reduced to bullet points in his mind.

Harry: Hermione woke me up.

Hermione: I heard a noise.

Harry: I went to check –

Hermione: To see if Professor Snape was alright.

Harry: There was someone in the room.

Hermione: He ran away.

Snape: The intruder was disturbed by Harry's arrival and fled.

Harry: So I chased after him.

Hermione: I went in to see if Professor Snape was alright.

Snape: I was fine.

X X X

…A noise woke her. She didn't know what time it was. For a moment she was disorientated by the unfamiliar, impersonal surroundings, the murky darkness diluted only by the swab of greenish, antiseptic light that slid underneath the door. The bubble-enclosed candles in the room had been extinguished and the dimmed crystal spheres were now bobbing up near the ceiling like giant, floating frogspawn. She blinked stupidly at the straight-backed row of waiting room chairs, and then over at Harry's slumbering form. The noise was coming from Snape's room: a gasping, gagging sound.

"Psst! Harry! Wake up!" she whispered.

"Uh…huh?"

"Harry! Snape's coughing. You'd better see if he's all right."

"…'s a nurses' job…" Harry slurred, groggy and unresponsive.

"No, Harry - you go. He sounds awful, like he can't breathe. Give him some more potion or something."

"Can't you do it? I've just got comfy." Harry was dopey, loath to move, his body leaden with the reverse-alchemy of deep sleep. After spending the previous night in a barn, it was luxury to be snuggled into something warm and soft that didn't stink of sheep.

"Me? Go trotting into Snape's room in the middle of the night? I don't think so! Oh, come on Harry - wake up!"

"I'm going, I'm going." He shoved his feet into his trainers and began fumbling clumsily with the laces.

"Harry, you don't need your sh-" Hermione nagged urgently.

"Keep your hair on; don't panic. Don't know why they bother to have nurses…" Harry grumbled, screwing his eyes against the sudden harsh brightness of the corridor. Still half asleep, he stuck his head round the door of Snape's room.

"Do you need a dr- ? Whoa! Watchit! Hey! You there! Hey! Stop!"

A cloaked figure barged roughly past him, elbowing him sharply in the ribs, catching him completely off guard and slamming him into the wall. Harry reeled, blinded by a black, nauseating slug of pain as his nose connected with the brickwork. Somewhere beyond the throbbing ache that had replaced his face - was his nose broken? It was bleeding… - he heard a hissing chuckle, and the echo of retreating footsteps running down the hallway.

"Harry! Are you…?"

"Help him - " he grunted at Hermione from behind a cupped hand where blood was starting to seep between his fingers, "I'm going after that bastard!"

He was already pelting down the corridor, chasing an impression of grey features beneath the hood, a glimpse of a cloak swirling on the turn from passage into stairwell.

"Help! We need help here! Somebody!" she called out to the absent night-duty staff, as she dashed to Snape's bedside.

He had slumped sideways and back across the pillows, his bandaged hands pawing uselessly at his throat as he fought for breath, nostrils flaring, his chest convulsing in starved spasms, lungs clamouring for oxygen. The earlier smoke-glass pallor of his skin had been routed by an ugly, purplish, night-shade hue. Livid bruises were already clustering on his neck - the 'tag' of throttling fingers, squeezing the life out of him as he lay asleep…

"Oh, God! Help! HELP me!" Hermione shouted. He was asphyxiating. First the smoke inhalation and now this. Strangled? He couldn't breathe. He was going to die. This couldn't be happening. This just… could… not… be happening. Where were those damn Healers? Why didn't anyone come? Where was Harry? What could she do? Why couldn't he breathe? Calm down… calm down, Hermione… Think… First Aid…? She'd once attended a talk the local St John's Ambulance officer had given to her mother's Professional Women's Circle - but that was ages ago. What was she supposed to look for - wasn't there some sort of mnemonic? DR-something? DR-ABC! That was it! Now, what did it stand for? D for Danger. Well, the danger had buggered off down the corridor with Harry in hot pursuit. R for what? Respiration? No, didn't the breathing bit come later? Response!

"Professor Snape! Can you hear me?" she hissed, knowing it was a waste of time. No response. She hadn't been expecting one. A for Airway. For Breathing. C for Circulation.

"Help! Anybody there? HELP!" she screamed to her own lonely echo.

All her hours in the library, all those 'outstanding' OWLs… yet nothing had prepared her for this. She felt completely out of her depth, very young, very inexperienced, very frightened. A swell of panic rolled in towards her again, obliviating all logic; she felt weightless, light-headed. Get a grip, Hermione! she told herself sternly. You can do this. You can do something. You've got to. She cupped her hands in front of her face and took a couple of deep, slow breaths. Hyperventilating wouldn't help anybody. Think; come on! Forget that it's Professor Snape. Think of him as a person, just a man, just somebody. That helped. If his airway was obstructed, what could she do? It wasn't as though he'd just choked on a pretzel. That thing with a tube? A tracheotomy. There must be something simpler. Was there a wizard equivalent? Anyway, she couldn't do that - it was way beyond anything she had ever covered in basic Muggle medicine; beyond anything she had learned from her occasional chats with Madam Pomfrey. If she tried anything like that she'd probably hit an artery and he'd bleed to death instead. Hobson's Choice (2). She directed her wand at his throat and prayed.

"Respira! Spiritum duce!"

It was too late. Snape's body lolled limply back into the pillows, one hand dropping away from his neck and onto the sheets, the other sliding over the side off the bed, dangling towards the floor.

"Oh, no. No! Harry! Help me. Please! Someone!" Hermione let out a wail of despair to the deserted corridor. But her mind was adrenalin clear now. Resuscitation? She'd never had to do it before. Come on, don't waste time thinking - if you're going to try, it's got to be soon - now, in fact. She'd only ever seen it done on television - on 'Casualty' - and it had always looked suspiciously easy. And on TV there were usually two people - one to do the chest compressions and the other for the breathing… How did you do it alone? What was the sequence? How many counts? And then someone always shouted "Bag him!" and they'd fit that balloon mask thing over the patient's face… But this wasn't TV. Nor was it the time for experiments. Professor Snape was hardly an ideal candidate on whom to practise.

Knowing there was no time to lose, she tipped his head back. The vicious finger-mark bruises were darkening before her very eyes, each one crowned with a half-moon gouge, welling red, where sharp nails had pierced the skin. Matching gashes, bleeding freely, raked his face, where his assailant had lashed out, claws unsheathed. It was inhuman - what had attacked him? A werewolf?

End of chapter.

This isn't a 'whodunnit' as such… If you guess, that's fine, it'll mean you'll be more tuned-in to how they all react… Of course, it may not be who you think…

1 'a riddle…'etc. I hardly think Dumbledore would be quoting the Muggle Churchill, but this saying has passed into common parlance.

2 'Hobson's Choice' by Harold Brighouse. i.e. no choice at all.

Next chapter: DISAPPEARANCES. Harry chases the phantom assassin