AN: Thanks to wendynat for beta'ing.
Yes, it's been another very long break between chapters, and I'm sorry. This time I promise that the next chapters will be forthcoming much sooner...they're already in process and I have a good dose of HBP panic giving me a kick in the pants to get it done. Thank you for still reading, and I would love to hear what you think of it.
"That's it, today was the day that Fudge was giving his speech at Azkaban."
"Very good, Miss Granger."
Despite the snide comment, Hermione's eyes did not flick to Snape's face. Instead, her gaze was trained on Dumbledore, waiting for something. It wasn't reassurance, for she didn't really expect that anymore, but she still wanted a sign that this was real, a cue for how to act next.
Many observers might have said that they saw Dumbledore age before their eyes. Hermione felt differently—it was not that he become older looking, but that something in his essence changed. The demeanor of the jovial headmaster slipped from his face, and his eyes became set: grim, businesslike, turned elsewhere. He looked like a general now, not the jolly headmaster they were most used to, and Hermione felt a slight shiver of intimidation.
He rose to his feet, and she felt that some question in his mind had been decided. "I will need to be leaving now. Minerva, Severus, Remus—I'd like to have a quick word with you in the other room first."
They filed out of the sitting room, following Dumbledore into some back room. This left Harry, Hermione, and Ron with Tonks. If the Auror was annoyed at being left out of this conversation, she didn't show it, but only looked amused. "I guess I'm on kid duty now," she said. "Do you think we should play games or something to keep you lot entertained?"
So while Dumbledore and the others were making important judicial decisions and discussing whatever official matters were currently on the table, Hermione sat on the floor and played Exploding Snap. Her mind wasn't really on the game, so it was no surprise when she finished last, though she did manage to get away without any singed fingers, unlike Ron and Tonks. This was one of Fred and George's test decks, and apparently they had gone overboard on flammability--not an unusual occurrence with them.
Hermione was still sitting in a half circle in the living room with them, waiting, when Professor McGonagall finally emerged from the back room and announced, "Professor Dumbledore has left to speak with his contacts in the Ministry. He should be back in a day or two, provided all goes well."
Provided all goes well. And what are the chances of that? Hermione wondered, but didn't ask. She wasn't she certain really wanted to know the odds they were facing, not when there was absolutely nothing she could to do to change them.
"Until then, he has left me in charge, and I intend to take this responsibly seriously, as I assume you would expect."
Tonks got to her feet, surreptitiously rubbing slightly ashy palms on her pants. "So what do we do now?" With her foot, she slid a small pile of cinders behind her, rubbing them further into the grimy carpet.
Professor McGonagall took in the aftermath of the Exploding Snap game in one sweep of a glance, and looked rather bemused. "Now we do all that we can: we wait." She settled down into an armchair and summoned a fire in the empty, long-unused fire grate with a flick of her wand. As they watched, she then took out a small handbag and summoned a pile of knitting easily five times its size. She sat there in the armchair as if she had no intention of ever moving, working on a tartan scarf and humming some unfamiliar tune.
In this short time, Tonks had already disappeared into the kitchen, perhaps to talk to Remus; Hermione hadn't seen him since he had gone into the study with Dumbledore. That was for the best, she supposed, as she wasn't sure that she had anything to say to him, and probably wouldn't for some time more. She was wondering if perhaps she could disappear upstairs into her room, but it seemed that even Snape couldn't slip away: he had acted as if he were about to vanish back into his cubbyhole of an office, but McGonagall caught his eye and crooked a finger. "Join us for a little while, Severus?"
Sour faced, though probably no more than was ordinary, he reluctantly joined the small crowd in the sitting room. Ron now appeared to be playing Solitaire with Exploding Snap cards while Harry watched. Harry occasionally added a comment or bit of advice--"No, Ron, I think that one should go there"--but mostly he seemed lost in some broody thought that blocked everything else out.
Hermione hated waiting like this, for some nebulous event that could be days away. And she didn't even have a book! Without something to occupy her mind, it was interminable. She chewed on her lip and counted breaths for a little while, a meditation that was in some Muggle magazine she had read the previous summer, while stranded at her parents' dental office for a day. In and out with the breath, just let your thoughts drift through your mind like clouds in a clear blue sky. The problem was, she simply didn't want to be alone with her mind right now.
A quick glance sideways showed that McGonagall was still enraptured by her progressing tartan scarf, while Snape now had an expression of distaste similar to Hermione's own. She guessed that he hated waiting too--then again, it could have been any other of the many things she supposed he hated as well. She rested her head in her hands, trying not to stare at him, but sheer boredom kept bringing her eyes back to his face. Scowling as usual, he looked rather menacing, but at the same time…if he didn't have such a severe expression on his face, he would certainly look younger. He wasn't really that old, only in his thirties, though she had usually thought of him as much older than that. In fact, she generally imagined that he had never been young, certainly not a small child or even her age ever.
Harry knew something more about Snape than she did, though he had said very little on that matter. Even when Hermione had pressed for details, all he had said was that the other students at Hogwarts had been cruel to him, that he'd probably had a beastly life, but he was still a nasty piece of work, no excuses there.
Nasty piece of work, indeed. But what had made him that way--and did it really matter if there were some rationalization? She was still watching him, as if she could read the answers to her questions in the lines of his face. Perhaps he could sense the force of her gaze, for Snape glanced right at her now, catching her stare and returning it with a look of something between disgust and exasperation. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away quickly, focusing on a particularly dusty corner that she had not noticed before. Someone should sweep it up, but who was around to do the cleaning anyway? She supposed Remus didn't really have time to keep up with all the housework, and living there by himself, why should he bother?
One of Ron's cards exploded abruptly, more forcefully then Hermione suspected was within the regulations of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ron and Harry jumped slightly, and Professor McGonagall dropped a stitch in her knitting. Snape rubbed at his temple and looked as if he would greatly like to say something, probably of the nasty and more colorful persuasion, but just managed to restrain himself. He rose to his feet more dramatically than necessary and snapped, "I'm going to get some fresh air."
"That sounds like a good idea, Severus," Professor McGonagall said. As soon as he had left the room she shot a penetrating glance at Harry and Ron.
"Oops," said Ron. "We'll try to keep it down from now on. Don't want to, erm, upset Professor Snape."
"His nerves are a bit tightly wound these days--but then, whose aren't? Just be careful and don't give him a reason to be off, hmm?" She glanced at Ron and Harry, who nodded. "Now why don't you boys go entertain yourselves somewhere else? I think it would be for the best," McGonagall said, somewhat absently, already looking back to her knitting.
"All right. C'mon, Harry."
Harry and Ron started up the stairs and Hermione went with them. When they reached the top of the banister, she turned in the direction of her own room and explained, "I think I'm going to go rest for awhile."
As soon as they nodded and continued down the hall, vanishing into their joint bedroom, Hermione glanced in the direction that Snape had gone. She had wondered if she would run into Tonks and Remus, but she hadn't heard any sign of them. Where was Snape heading? She was unfamiliar with that part of the house, and she wasn't really in the mood for a nap or extra coursework anyway. Good idea or not (and her inclination was on the side of "not"), Hermione followed him.
He had entered a little crooked corridor with a steeply slanted ceiling, a way she had never thought of taking before. It didn't seem to lead anyway in particular, but she went after him anyway. The ceiling was low enough that it seemed oppressive to her, and she guessed that Snape would have had to duck. Boards creaked underfoot and Hermione glanced nervously around, at several closed doors and a ladder that folded down from the ceiling and led up to some attic. She half expected Snape, or someone or something worse, to jump out at her from behind one of these doors, but the corridor seemed to be fully deserted.
She went around a corner and saw that the hallway led to a door that, until very recently, must have been boarded up. Someone had pried off the old boards, though there were still fragments and splinters left, and crooked, rusty nails protruding wickedly at angles. The door was still partially ajar and light flowed in through the gaps, illuminating streams of dust motes in the air. Sniffling slightly now from the dust and mildew, Hermione thought of turning around and heading back, until she heard the tell-tale sound of footsteps ahead of her.
A few paces down the hall, the door opened into a small balcony, only partially covered by the roof. She saw Snape from beyond, looking out without seeming to notice her. The balcony was rickety: wood dark with damp patches that had had years to grow, surrounded by wrought-iron railings that had begun to rust and bend outward. In Hermione's view, they had not been pleasant to begin with, decorated with flourishes of metal that curved to end in gaping-mouthed mythical creatures surrounded by patterns of thorns and blades. The entire deck hardly looked as if it would be able to bear human weight, but Snape appeared to be safe enough. As she watched, he ventured out onto the middle without any apparent concern or hesitation.
Still she hesitated in the doorway, not sure what she had intended to do once she was there. When she shifted slightly, the ground gave a definitive creak, and he looked back over his shoulder. Now he knew she was there, no doubt about that. "Are you following me, Miss Granger?"
Hermione's heart gave a sudden jump, and she found herself flustered and stumbling over her words once again. "No, it's just…I'd never seen this part of the house before, and I was…curious."
"Curiosity could very well be your fatal flaw, couldn't it?" Snape's mouth curved into a wry semblance of a smile, and she thought that he would very much like it if she possessed a fatal flaw.
Her tongue flicked over dry lips as she tried to think of a response. "Isn't knowledge something worth having, Professor?"
"Hmph." He snorted, and looked back out over the balcony, out onto dead lawns and the silent back doors and windows of row houses. It was a dreary, snowless winter day, and everything alive seemed to be shut up inside. Clogged drains filled the streets with water, and all the houses in the neighborhood could have used some repairs: new roofs, front steps, windows. Snape drummed his fingers on the balcony railing and spoke without looking at her. "You have no idea how many people have used that as a rationale before you--or how many would have been far better off had they never been intrigued by that one book, one idea, that one puzzle that captured their mind and wouldn't let go of them…"
Hermione leaned against the door frame, watching him. He was intent as he spoke, withdrawn, bent on some inner idea or memory that had nothing to do with the here and now, with her speaking to him. "Is this the voice of personal experience?" she asked.
As soon as she had spoken, she knew immediately she shouldn't have. With a question like that, she was pushing too far, probing too deeply into a place where she wasn't welcome. While Snape had been off philosophizing, it was like he had forgotten she was there; now he remembered and his face truly closed down. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business. I shouldn't have asked."
"No," he said flatly, though she wasn't sure which question he was answering.
"I'll leave now. I'm sorry that I intruded."
He hardly looked at her as she spoke; his face was drawn and his thoughts still seemed to be elsewhere. For some reason, she hesitated, reluctant to take those first footsteps and leave. Some part of her didn't want to go--it wanted him to tell her that she didn't need to leave, that it was all right if she was there. She wanted to find out what he would have said if she hadn't interrupted unthinkingly.
Snape leaned back against the railing, resting his elbows there as he scanned the horizon, squinting into the distance with a look of apprehension. Hermione followed his gaze, but she saw nothing worth noting, only rows of rubbish bins, hedgerows, and street lights stretching out unto a blurry vanishing point. When he realized that she hadn't left, his eyes moved to her. "What are you waiting for?"
"I--"
Her fumbling for words was abandoned before she could really begin. Suddenly Snape's hand went to his left arm, pain flashing across his face. Hermione made as if to speak again, but he held up a hand, dismissing her words. "I need to go. Now." She was in his path and he reached for her arm to move her aside, not quite a push, but enough that she stumbled and lurched forward slightly. There was a look of surprise on his face as she bumped against him, but then he moved quickly to steady her. He gripped her by the forearms and set her back on her feet, leaving Hermione wondering if she should thank him or not. She decided against it.
After this Snape looked at her uneasily and gave a little shake of his head before turning and marching down the hallway. Hermione didn't know what else to do so she followed hastily, closing the door behind her, then taking two to three quick steps for each one of his long strides. She was slightly out of breath by the time they arrived back in the sitting room, where Professor McGonagall still sat knitting.
"Minerva," Snape said curtly as he finally paused. "Summons, short notice. I don't know when I'll be back--floo Albus if you have a chance and it's safe. Tell him."
"Of course." She got to her feet, briskly vanishing her knitting needles and balls of yarn before ushering him into the study.
Hermione had hung back at the foot of the stairwell and watched this interchange. She had known enough to make an informed guess it was the Dark Mark that was calling Snape, and now she was certain. A summon from Voldemort--what did this mean? Likely Professor McGonagall's guess was as good as hers, and even if she knew more information, it was doubtful that she would share it.
She heard the door open, and before Professor McGonagall could appear, Hermione turned and hurried back up the stairs.
He knew it, he had just known that things would soon go from several rungs below mediocre to bad. Maybe spectacularly bad even, he was thinking by the time the Dark Mark on his arm began its familiar, painful thrumming and he rushed downstairs to face a grim Minerva.
After today's news and subsequent council with Dumbledore, Snape had been hoping that fate had let them off the hook for the rest of the day. Of course this summons from the Dark Lord could be a good thing for their side; if Dumbledore was there, he would surely have suggested that. But Dumbledore wasn't on the front lines, facing the daily fear of being exposed, of telling too much accidentally, of not playing his part well enough. He wasn't wondering what would happen if he were asked to do something truly horrific (something he'd likely done before, with little compunction)? What if the Dark Lord forced his hand, asked for too much information, forced him to truly prove his loyalty this time? Dumbledore had a war to plan: strategies to lay out, battles to prepare for, troops to deploy. And Snape was one more footman, gathering information that Dumbledore would then piece into the greater whole and use to calculate their next move. Some danger was always required; that was the price for such knowledge, but that price was his to pay. Battles were always hardest to fight when they were personal.
He shouldn't resent such activities. They were a part of paying his debt, of righting past wrongs that he had committed. Of course, he did anyway, regardless.
After the news of the probable attack on the Minister (oh, that would just devastate him, indeed) and the very real possibility that more Death Eaters were on the loose again, he had known it was only a matter of time before he would be called. But the call came even more quickly than he and Dumbledore had anticipated, and it unnerved him. They had discussed a number of things in their brief meeting with the Headmaster--strategies, methods of keeping the situation calm, which members of the Order to contact right away, what circumstances should prompt them to leave Grimmauld Place and go back to Hogwarts--but not what do if Snape were summoned. He knew Dumbledore would want to know and, even if he worried, the Headmaster would be hopeful that he could glean something useful from the situation.
But now it was time to shift into action mode--the pulsing of the Dark Mark on his arm wouldn't let him forget that for long. He had rushed to tell McGonagall, a still perplexed-seeming Hermione Granger following on his heels all the way. After his quick report on the situation, McGonagall saw him into the study and closed the door behind them. She watched as he pressed his wand to his skin, murmuring a complicated series of spells. He recited the hissing, sibilant words by rote, hardly thinking of their sound or meaning any longer, but he noticed how she winced at the sound of them.
"There," he said at last, lowering his wand to his side. "He should respond in a few minutes and take me to wherever I'm going. You'll tell Dumbledore as soon as you can, and…"
"Of course, I'll send the message immediately."
"Good." Snape put his wand back in his pocket and looked around the room, trying to reassure himself that he hadn't forgotten anything important. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "You know what to do if I don't return."
"I know," she said forcefully, "but I'm hoping that I damned well won't have to put it to use."
"It's always good to be prepared, Minerva, particularly for circumstances as probable as this."
"You sound almost cheerful about the prospect of your death."
"No, I'm resigned. There's a difference. And it would be a change of pace after all--aren't you and Albus always saying I could do with one, and some rest?"
McGonagall only sighed and said, "I know you know this, but Severus?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful."
"When am I ever not careful?" he said dryly.
She looked at him and shook her head, the exasperated, somewhat buried fondness of an older sibling that surfaced under times of pressure.
The pain in his arm became stronger and the edges of his vision began to blur. The sensation of being tugged on took over and he watched McGonagall fade into a vortex of red and black. Being summoned was worse than traveling by Portkey--by the time it was finished, he was nauseated and shaken, and black and red pinpricks of light still interfered with his vision. To make matters worse, he soon recognized the general color scheme of red and black that he was looking at--it was the Malfoy's house, a small parlor on one of the floors below ground, to be specific.
"Severus!"
He heard the voice behind him and it was all he could do not to wince. Narcissa Malfoy was hardly the person he wanted to see when he was still reeling with travel sickness and not feeling at all like pretending to be thrilled at whatever machinations Voldemort had at work.
"Narcissa." He turned to her, taking the hand she offered and holding still while she darted in and pressed a quick kiss of greeting to his cheek. "I trust that the news for you has been good this time?"
Narcissa's overall appearance was as impeccable as usual, down to the tight swathes of braid and artificial loose strands in her hair and the pearls that she was wearing (how many hours did the woman spend getting ready? he wondered), but her cheeks were flushed and she appeared flustered. She nodded and leaned in to whisper, "Yes, Lucius is free. After all, I had it on Our Lord's word that he would be set free from that terrible place, thank heavens. And now he is--such a relief."
"Indeed. We were all concerned about him--and your welfare, and Draco's of course. If there's anything I can do to help…"
The appearance of emotion was quickly swept aside; the winning smile returned and the charm was turned back on. "That's very kind of you to offer, but we've managed perfectly well. Thank you."
"It's my pleasure." Snape nodded stiffly, searching for more to say, but hoping she would soon have to move on and chit-chat with new "guests". He finally settled on, "It will be good to be among old friends again."
"Yes," she smiled vaguely. "It must be dreadful for you, stuck at Hogwarts with that bumbling fool and all his blood traitor friends."
"Of course," he demurred, "but what else can I do to help the cause?"
"Naturally, we all must make sacrifices." Narcissa looked over her shoulder, fiddling with one of her earrings. "Oh, there's Mrs. Macnair! Must go, though I trust we shall talk more later, Severus?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Have a seat. Please, make yourself comfortable, make yourself at home!" She snapped her fingers a house elf who came forward immediately and bowed at Snape's feet with a tremor.
Already Narcissa's solicitous attention had faded and she was darting through the crowd, hands outstretched, to meet Mrs. Macnair and exclaim how glad she was to see her. Snape watched with a rather morbid interest. He didn't like Narcissa and he didn't trust her. He always had a hard time trusting beautiful women, and she was no exception. They said that long ago, the Blacks had used poisoned roses to kill their enemies, and it seemed fitting that Narcissa and Bellatrix should fit into such a tradition. Narcissa was sane at least, though at times Bellatrix was easier to deal with in her single-minded, unshakable focus. For Bellatrix it was all about the Dark Lord, her own personal demi-god. Narcissa's reasons were less obvious, difficult for even him to calculate.
He had always thought that she lacked imagination, only doing what she was told and following Lucius around, starry-eyed. She was a clever enough woman, even though she had never put her mind to any device of her own that he knew of--it was always her family's wishes, her husband's business, whatever was expected of a high society wife like herself. Pureblood mania suited her overall superiority complex, but she was no ideologue or idealist--though neither was Lucius, for that matter.
Snape sank into the chair that she had offered and let the house elf dash about, nervously bringing him tea and some small, dry looking biscuits that he left on the plate. As he sat there, idly stirring his tea with the minuscule silver spoon they'd provided him with, he heard someone ask Narcissa when the Dark Lord would be ready to see him.
"We're waiting for His command. He'll call us when He's ready," Narcissa said. "Tea, anyone?"
And they would wait just as long as the Dark Lord wanted. That was how it always was, a display of power, of his ultimate control. So they waited here in the Malfoy's perfect parlor with its color scheme of deep red and black maple. Narcissa played the perfect hostess, flitting about the room and making small talk while Death Eaters and some of the unaffiliated wives milled about. It was a social event with a dangerous edge, though Snape felt more comfortable with danger than with the high society aspect of it. Danger he was used to, but this kind of situation reminded him exactly why he loathed his fellow Death Eaters, how he had always felt like a low-class, two-bit guttersnipe among the rich and established of the Wizarding World. They had accepted him in name to suit their own immediate needs, but no amount of desperation or falling on hard times after the Dark Lord's fall from power had stopped them from looking down their long, aristocratic noses at him.
He remembered how they had sneered at his shabby robes in school, made fun of his used books, laughed at his forlorn, greasy appearance and utter seriousness in every subject. Once Narcissa had looked at him as if he were dirt, but now she was forced to offer respect in public; once Lucius had pretended that he didn't know Snape, but now they were "friends," if you could pretend that either of them had any. Now he taught these Death Eaters' children in school, was their Head of House, attending their Quidditch games, enforcing penalties when they broke the rules in ways he couldn't ignore. His Slytherin students whose parents kept them in the know believed he was on their side, spying for the Lord that their parents followed, and to whom they too would pledge allegiance soon. They trusted him to favor them, to protect them from Dumbledore and his interests, and he did most of the time. It wasn't a hardship for Snape really, to sneer and be menacing and impatient day in and day out, to be harsh with spoiled Gryffindor students, with pompous ones like Potter or loafers like Weasley…or ingratiating Mudbloods like Granger.
Hermione. He thought back to her earlier behavior, her unexplained decision to follow him, and then the abortive conversation. What had he said to her? "You have no idea how many people have used that as a rationale before you--or how many would have been far better off had they never been intrigued by that one book, one idea, that one puzzle that captured their mind and wouldn't let go of them…" Yes, he had been talking about himself, and he supposed too that he had wanted her to ask or else he wouldn't have said that.
The girl had a clever, inquisitive mind, a thirst for knowledge and an intense desire to prove herself and be the best, and she had friends in dangerous places. It was a precarious place to be in; these days more so than ever.
Snape heard the creak of doors, and Narcissa ceased her socializing to announce, "The Dark Lord is ready now."
It was time to face his other master.