Not So Fast
Eulalie Moire
Disclaimer: The usual: it all belongs to J.K. Rowling, genius that she is. I'm just borrowing and I make no money. And besides, if I did own anything, I'd want it to be Remus...and the twins.
It did not all happen so fast. It was not all one big blur. She did remember exactly what happened. She had stood and watched, seen it all, had it burned into her memory in exquisite detail.
She herself had not cracked, not in three days. Say what he would for Gryffindor courage, she would have liked to see most members of the other houses pull that off. She had not cracked—no, not said one word except to scream out her agony. And she must have screamed out his name once or twice, because they knew, knew what no one else, except probably Dumbledore, knew.
His problem was that he had denied it, said they had never been lovers, said they had never touched each other. "Tell that to the woman screaming your name down in the dungeons." The look on his face had been enough to cast suspicion on his credibility, and Voldemort had more than the right to interrogate anyone he suspected of lying to him.
If the perusal was casual, if the seeker had no reason to doubt, Occlumency worked just fine; if Lord Voldemort assaulted your mind with all his considerable power, intent on unmasking all of your lies, no power in heaven or hell could save you. Certainly, no power in heaven or hell had saved Severus Snape. There were some things he pushed back far enough that they remained hidden; there were other things that the Dark Lord never thought to seek, and still others that, upon finding, he deemed too insignificant to investigate. Even so, he found a wealth of unlooked-for knowledge in the mind of the newly-discovered double agent. What he did not find, what he sought most of all, was the location of the Order's headquarters. (There were some things Kreacher had been ordered to keep secret, regardless of whom he served; this was one of those things.)
It was, in fact, to discern the location of the Order's chief hideout that the Death Eaters had apprehended her in the first place. She was tortured, raped, beaten for three days; she said nothing. She was brought before the Dark Lord on the night of the fourth day, after Severus' treachery had been discovered in the morning. He lunged for her mind and she recoiled, physically and mentally, to little avail. She was only a mediocre Occlumens and now was not the time of mediocrity. She took the only refuge she could find, transformed into the familiar ginger tabby. The Dark Lord could not break the mind of a cat; after all, what was there to break? A cat knows nothing, and her true mind, by whatever magic, was locked far away from the pouncing, fish-loving cat-brain. She did, however, hear the effeminate yet terrifying shriek of rage that followed.
Death Eaters are, as a rule, Slytherins. Slytherins are, as a rule, not clever with Transfiguration. Such talents are usually reserved for Gryffindors, or perhaps Ravenclaws, who are clever at most everything. But, truthfully, even in a room of the best Gryffindor wizards, she would have surpassed them all in Transfiguration. The Marauders may have been the youngest Animagi at Hogwarts, but they were not the most talented, or the most powerful. All this to say, the numerous efforts to return her to her bipedal form, even by the Dark Lord himself, were unsuccessful. Of course, there were a number of potions that would have done the job nicely—even strong magic cannot resist the right chemistry—but such potions were Snape's contribution to the organization, and right at that moment, Severus would—rightfully—not have been trusted to make Voldemort coffee.
Voldemort, after the failure of several intricate schemes, had come to see the truth in the old adage that the best-laid plans often go astray; he had, therefore, revamped his strategies. He now felt that the simplest plans were often best. Reflecting this attitude, his plan for his guests was quite simple: Torture Snape until either he broke from the pain and revealed all or she broke from seeing her lover tortured and returned to human form. It was an excellent plan.
It did not all happen so fast. It was not all one big blur. She did remember exactly what happened. She had stood and watched, seen it all, had it burned into her memory in exquisite detail. Every curse they threw at him, every contortion of his body, every moan, every howl, every rivulet of blood from some place it never should have been was emblazoned on her psyche like a brand. The Dark Lord did not waste his breath asking questions or making demands. No, he only laughed, laughed hysterically, maniacally as he vented his rage at the grossest betrayal he had ever encountered from one of his thralls.
Severus stood proud at first, then fell to his knees when his legs spasmed out from under him. Eventually, he crumpled altogether from the strain of the curses and the beatings and lay flat on his back on the cold stone floor. His blood pooled and clotted beneath him while above him a circle of torch-wielding Death Eaters leered and laughed.
One particularly vicious blast from the Dark Lord's wand sent Severus' body arching up like a bridge over the lake of his own blood. He rested on the toes of his boots and on his fingertips for an instant...and then another...and then another...and then fell smashing back to the stones. His urine now joined the pool of blood in which he lay. His head smashed into the floor with brutal force and his skull cracked open—a clear, unmistakable sound of breaking bone and a particularly hellish cry—and there was more than mere blood under his matted, sweaty hair.
So, no, it did not happen so fast. In fact, it happened in slow motion. Every millisecond dragged out until it felt like a day, maybe even a week. She yowled, struggled free of Lucius Malfoy's grip, and ran to him—to his body, rather; he was already dead by the time her swift feline feet carried her the three yards to where he lay. Inside she was crying, snarling, hissing with bereavement, misery, and anger. Outside, all she could do was lick his face gently, try and clean some of the blood off.
Voldemort had not meant to kill the traitor. Snape was useful, irreplaceable even. His talent with the cauldron had been a blessing to the Dark Lord countless times. He had intended to have what he wanted out of the two Order members, then place Snape under the Imperius curse and retain his services. He had not meant to kill the man and when he did, he stood momentarily still with the shock of this sudden turn of events...and remained still for a moment longer, trying to remember a spell to save the Potions Master's life, return him from the dead, or, at least, gather the knowledge from his smashed brain. It was in this moment, with the Dark Lord still as a statue and his minions looking to him for orders, that her thoughts turned fully to anger. Her small body whipped around, prepared to run at Voldemort, leap on him and bite out his snake's eyes...and saw him frozen.
The decision was not so hard, comparatively. He had stood the Cruciatus for eleven hours and never once looked at her, never once called out for her to give in and reveal their secrets, never once even called her name; he had, in short, done nothing to make it harder—if that was even possible—for her to hold out, to do what she had known she must. And she had stood and watched it all.
It was not hard, comparatively, to take advantage of that frozen moment to lunge, not at the Dark Lord but at Bellatrix by his side, Bellatrix who held her wand. She had, after all, stood by and watch the man she adored most writhing in agony for half a day; she had, after all, just seen him die alone on a cold floor. She had kept silent through all of this. She had put the good of the wizarding world ahead of her own happiness, her own ethics and morals, her own humanity. So, comparatively, the decision to leave his body was not hard.
Her sharp little teeth grabbed her wand—and she could not resist drawing a long, deep scratch down Bellatrix' regal white hand—and tore out of the circle of Death Eaters, across the stone floor, up the stairs, and out of the ruined Riddle House.
The Death Eaters stirred, shouted their dismay, and begged orders of their lord, who was yet bent on reviving the valuable commodity at his feet. It was only another moment before he snapped back to reality and shrilled that the fools should go after her! They obeyed, but to no avail. It had been the work of a second, two at most, for her to transform and Apparate away, then again and again and again, just to confuse their tracing spells—which they did indeed attempt. Even in her weakened condition, she made it back to 12 Grimmauld Place before she collapsed completely. Later, Lupin would tell her how he had found her lying just inside the door and how they had summoned Fawkes to carry her to Madam Pomfrey.
Well, and Madam Pomfrey had soothed her wounds and given her teas to regain her strength, but it was beyond even Poppy's magic to make her feel again.