Chapter 1: Half A Knut
Minerva McGonagall had never been one for heartfelt speeches – that sort of thing had always been Dumbledore's forte. She could read out the start of term notices briskly enough - she could even retain the attention of a classroom of fourth year students on a sunny Friday afternoon - but what she could not do was indulge in the sentimental with any degree of flair. Nevertheless, the task had fallen to her in the aftermath of Dumbledore's demise and so she cleared her throat expectantly.
"Firstly, thank you everyone for coming." She nodded in acknowledgement at the small assembly in the Head's office. "Albus was never one for long speeches – why ruin a perfectly good meal, was his frequent rejoinder." She paused as a small ripple of laughter broke out. "So knowing that he would hate to think of his friends deprived of food and drink on his behalf I'll keep this brief." Another pause as she took a deep breath. "When I remember Albus, I remember his fondness for Muggle sweets; I remember his absurd delight upon receiving socks for Christmas; I remember his infuriating habit of whistling snatches of half-remembered songs under his breath – in short, I remember Albus the man. You see, Albus was that rare combination of a great wizard and a great man, and when we come together every year to celebrate his birthday we ensure that not only will his great deeds be remembered and handed down for posterity but also his kindness, his wisdom and his friendship. So let's drink to old friends. To Albus." She raised her goblet in a toast.
"To Albus," her audience repeated in unison.
Professor McGonagall surveyed the familiar faces clustered around her as conversation broke out again, her smile tinged with a certain degree of sadness. Her roving gaze fell briefly on the sad figure of Tonks, gazing across the room at Lupin with a mixture of longing and pain etched on her features as Bill and Fleur's little girl swung on her arm. She tried not to let her gaze linger oo long or too obviously on Bill, but the astonishing beauty of his flanking wife served to emphasise the terrible ruin of his features and she fought to master a sudden flash of anger. It occurred to her quite suddenly that there had been no need to lecture them on the necessity to remember – for how could any of them possibly forget?
"A Knut for your thoughts," a rough voice growled in her ear.
"Moody, you startled me," McGonagall said sternly, making a fuss of straightening the collar to her robes as she recovered from the indignity of being caught unawares.
"Begging your pardon," Mad-Eye said, inclining his head ever so slightly. "Constant vigilance, that's the key," he barked abruptly, tapping his hip flask with a gnarled finger in demonstration.
McGonagall let out an exasperated sigh. "Really, Moody, I hardly think anyone is going to slip something into the pumpkin juice here."
"The Weasley twins decline their invitation, did they?" Mad-Eye said darkly, raising the remains of an eyebrow.
"I rather think they've surpassed such crudity," McGonagall said dismissively. "Five shops, a nationwide owl order service, Witch Weekly covers…"
"Seems like they put their time at Hogwarts to good use after all," Lupin broke in, wandering over with a knowing smile on his face.
"Maybe I should encourage more of my students to storm out of school without any N.E.W.T.'s, leaving behind a trail of simmering fireworks, an immovable swamp of Stinksap and two broomstick-shaped holes," McGonagall said in a pinched voice, although there was a suppressed smile twitching at the corner of her lips.
"Well, no one can ever claim that they lacked style," Lupin grinned.
"N.E.W.T.'s are overrated anyway," Moody growled, waving his hand dismissively. "Take Hermione Granger," he nodded in her general direction, "didn't do her much good."
McGonagall checked briefly over her shoulder before returning her attention to Moody, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Horace practically guaranteed her a job in the investment division at Gringotts – didn't want to know!"
Moody nodded grimly. "Some sort of misplaced pride, I suppose. It's always worse with Muggle-borns – feel they have to make it on their own."
"No, not at all! She certainly didn't object to help from Arthur and Kingsley." McGonagall sniffed disapprovingly. "With grades like hers she could have gone on to do anything she set her mind to."
"And yet she set her mind to drafting legislation on the thickness of cauldron bottoms," Lupin finished succinctly, popping an olive in his mouth. "Excuse me."
Hermione's knuckles whitened around the stem of her goblet as she watched Lupin disengage himself from the muttered conversation and wend his way toward her. Of course, she knew what they had been talking about, for it hadn't been so long ago that such conversations had been conducted unashamedly to her face.
Personally, she didn't see what was so incredible about her decision to work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – Arthur Weasley had moulded away in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office for years. She still wanted to do something worthwhile, but cold pragmatism had replaced youthful passion in the years since she had founded S.P.E.W. and she had reconciled herself to the fact that institutional change was achieved only from working within the system. No amount of pamphleteering or clever acronyms could match the effectiveness of simply turning up to work at the Ministry every day and familiarising herself with as many procedures and personnel as possible – even if her current role didn't quite hold the sort of glamour tailored for dynamic introductions at cocktail parties.
"How are you, Hermione? Still enjoying work at the Ministry?" Lupin took a sip from his goblet as he eyed Hermione over the rim.
"Oh, they keep me busy," she replied vaguely, a brief flash of surprise crossing her features as she faced her former teacher. Despite the lasting impact he had created in his short-lived career at Hogwarts he had rarely returned the compliment by maintaining an interest in the development of his former pupils. She preferred to imagine that it brought back too many painful memories, but back in the recesses of her mind, where she rarely ventured, some feelings had been allowed to smoulder independent of such measured considerations. For herself, she couldn't give a damn about Lupin's curiously off-hand manner, but she couldn't forgive him for not stepping into the role of substitute father figure to Harry after it had been vacated by the cruel death of Sirius.
"So what are you working on at the moment?"
Hermione regarded him warily, trying to gauge his intent. "Actually, I'm writing a report on Azkaban," she said quietly.
Lupin whistled softly under his breath.
"It's typical junior minister fodder – all litigious responsibility, zero glory. Nobody wants to think about the Dementor problem. In fact, I don't think anyone even wants to think about Azkaban at all these days."
He raised an eyebrow. "I always thought that was the whole point of Azkaban – to send people away to forget."
Hermione shifted uncomfortably. To forget… isn't that what she had promised to do? And yet… she scrunched up her eyes as the image of the dank corridor reared in her mind. She could taste the metallic chill of the air, almost hear that cold voice sneering in her ear.
"Hermione, are you alright?" Lupin said, gazing into her face with concern.
"I – yes," Hermione said slowly, opening her eyes. She eyed him shrewdly for a few seconds, seeming to weigh something up in her mind before, glancing quickly over her shoulder to ascertain that Harry was nowhere in the vicinity, she continued. "Lupin, have you ever been to Azkaban?"
He shook his head apologetically.
"I have, and it's not a pleasant place. The ceilings and walls drip with slime and even the sunlight seems to have given up any hope of breaking out. It's cold and damp and when you leave you feel as though your skin is never going to be clean again - as though gloom and depression can cling to skin as tangibly as the grime on the dank walls."
"I have heard similar reports," Lupin said gently.
Hermione continued. "And that's only the sections they air to the public. I went right down to the bowels of Azkaban; I went to the places that even the forgotten try to forget. And do you know what I found there?"
Lupin looked at her sharply, eyes burning in his pale and tired face.
"Him," she finished significantly.
Lupin clutched convulsively at his goblet and steered Hermione hastily into a quieter corner. "Are you quite sure?" he hissed urgently.
"Oh I don't think there's any way I could have mistaken that sense of humour," she said darkly.
"You know that you can't tell anyone this?" He regarded her intently, eyes scanning her face. "Least of all Harry."
"I know, I know," she said with a resigned sigh.
"Because if word of this gets out…"
He didn't need to finish his sentence. Hermione already knew that the fragile peace won in the aftermath of the war could just as easily be shattered with the news that Voldemort's most loyal and trusted servant was alive and snarking in the depths of Azkaban, waiting for unrepentant followers to rally around his standard. It was for this reason that the Daily Prophet had been banned from publishing any news pertaining to convicted Death Eaters - least of all telling obituaries which would add another martyr to the cause, despite the overall soothing effect such news may have had on the general public.
"Did he seem sane?" Lupin said suddenly, leaning forward with an expression of mingled curiosity on his features.
"I – I don't know. That's to say, he seemed perfectly capable of holding a conversation but there was a sort of unstable undercurrent and – and he seemed to expect me to come back."
"Why on earth would he think that?" Lupin said incredulously.
"Because," Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say, "he seemed to imply that he knew something about Dumbledore's death which would cast his actions in a quite different light - at least, that's the only explanation I've been able to come up with these last few weeks."
Lupin shook his head sadly. "So he has finally lost his mind then."
"But what if-"
"No, Hermione," Lupin cut her off sharply with a stern look. "There are no what ifs, there are no maybes, there are no excuses. Snape murdered Dumbledore and betrayed us all to Voldemort as surely as he betrayed James and Lily. And don't imagine that confinement has diminished his danger. He may not have his wand anymore but he's still more than capable of weaving dark magic. Leave it be."
Hermione was slightly taken aback by the vehemence of his answer. "I thought you might have an open mind – you were one of the few people willing to give Snape the benefit of the doubt when he was in the Order."
"And look where that got me," Lupin sighed. "Perhaps all along I merely hoped, rather than believed, that he was good."
"You weren't totally alone," Hermione said in a quiet voice. "When I think of all the times I defended him to Harry!"
Lupin shrugged. "If he could deceive Dumbledore then he could deceive any one of us." He paused. "Which is why I don't drink at the Hog's Head any more!" he finished brightly.
Hermione thought that this was an extremely odd conclusion to his statement but then she caught sight of Tonks hovering at his side and understood the need to terminate the conversation at this oddly frustrating juncture.
"Wotcher, Hermione!" She grinned. "Don't mind if I steal my husband back for a few minutes?"
Hermione shook her head, forcing a smile on her face. She rather wished that Tonks hadn't chose that particular point to materialise – but then she was not exactly famous for graceful co-ordination. There could be few men alive who could claim to know Snape as thoroughly as Lupin; fellow student, colleague, ally.
She wasn't stupid. She knew that this was exactly what Snape had intended in his cold and calculated way – for all she knew he could have had that little speech rehearsed for years before someone from his old life just happened across his cell. And yet who else would have gone away and allowed such an exchange to trouble their mind? Not Ron. He would have scoffed a chocolate frog upon leaving and not given another moment's thought to the encounter. And Harry wouldn't have even stayed beyond the first 'hello' – except perhaps to gloat. That only left Hermione Granger, the insufferable know-it-all rigged up with some kind of Pavlovian response to questions which rendered her quite incapable of leaving one unanswered. Damn the man.
( & )
Hermione paused, trying to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing as she stood poised on the threshold to commitment. It was not yet too late to turn around and go home; she could easily inform the guards that she had collected all the supplementary data she needed and never return to this accursed place. Except that she knew she was not going to do that - she knew there was a reason why she had ignored Lupin's warning and her own better judgement to come here again. Taking a deep calming breath she ploughed forward into the darkness, stopping just short of Snape's cell.
"Took you long enough to figure it out, didn't it?" an amused voice drawled lazily. "But then I knew you'd return eventually."
"You sound awfully sure of yourself," Hermione said frostily, stepping up to the metal bars.
"So where are my special privileges then?" Snape barked without further preamble.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Special privileges, where are they? I assumed that your adult education had stretched to the realisation that there's, ah, no such thing as a free lunch – at least not among Slytherins," he sneered.
"Do you really think you're in a position to issue ultimatums?" Hermione said meekly.
"You've been mulling my words over for weeks and weeks – an intrigueing puzzle which almost takes you back to those exciting, heady days when you were clashing wands with the Dark Lord himself and generally immersing yourself in a life or death struggle against the encroaching tide of evil rather than the encroaching tide of household dust – so don't tell me that I don't have something you want."
"Oh forget it," Hermione said contemptuously, making to turn away.
"Alright, alright! I'll settle for some hot water – for now. Make the necessary arrangements and I'll talk."
An hour later and Hermione was sat drumming her fingers boredly on an interview room table, wondering when Snape would deign to roll up – it was not as though a convict who had had perpetually greasy hair even when he was at liberty needed this long to fix his toilette. She looked up as she heard the unmistakable sound of clanking irons emanating from beyond the open door.
The flanking guards grunted in acknowledgement as they thrust a thin, stooping figure onto the facing chair, deftly running his chains through a metal hoop on the floor before shutting the door behind them with a loud bang.
Hermione took the opportunity to examine her former Potions teacher across the table. His hair hung in tangled knots around a gaunt and sallow face peppered with patchy black stubble. The thinness of his face served to further accentuate his hooked nose and there were prominent lines framing his mouth which she couldn't recall from his Hogwarts days. Yet despite his physical diminution he had lost none of his presence, resonating an icy intimidation.
He regarded her in turn, eyes burning like black coals. He saw merely what he wanted to see; he saw the cowed and pliable girl from his Potions classroom rather than the witch she had become.
"I suppose you want to know why I killed Dumbledore," he said slowly when he finally spoke.
Hermione bit back the obvious retort – she was certainly not here for her health.
"It's a long story," he said affably, settling back in his chair with a certain degree of satisfaction as he marvelled at the novelty of feeling clean.
"I've got time," she replied tersely.
"Oh, but of course you have," Snape smiled ingratiatingly, revealing a line of uneven yellow teeth. "I merely worry that I might omit to mention certain details due to my own state of fatigue."
"What do you want?" Hermione said coldly, quickly wising up to Snape's ways.
He waved his hand. "You can arrange for an appropriate dinner before you go. But for now I would like a cigarette."
Hermione goggled at him. "You think I'm going to let you near anything remotely flammable?"
Snape sighed impatiently. "Miss Granger, my limbs are shackled in goblin-wrought irons, I am currently fixed to a concrete floor of at least four feet distance from you – what am I going to do, blow smoke in your face?" His lip curled derisively.
Hermione coloured, scurrying over to the door to make her request to the guards through the metal flap. She returned with a lit cigarette which she placed gingerly on the table and with obvious distaste. Snape leaned forward with a cumbersome clanking of chains and took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaling with an audible sigh.
"Nine years abstention and I still haven't kicked the habit," he remarked dryly, raising an eyebrow at Hermione. "One of the little luxuries in life that went some way toward making teaching you dunderheads bearable." He examined the slim white stick in his hand.
"You were telling me why you killed Dumbledore," Hermione reminded him sharply.
"Of course, there was always the option of Firewhisky," Snape continued, as though she hadn't spoken, "but then you have to have your wits about you to do what I did, and it's no good rolling up to the Dark Lord befuddled by alcohol and expecting to block your mind to his searching gaze. Another of the little sacrifices I endured – not that anyone ever thanked me for it," he sneered.
"I wasn't aware that anyone joined the Order of the Phoenix for the gratitude," Hermione shot back.
"I was fighting the Dark Lord before you even knew of his existence in your safe little Muggle world," Snape hissed through clenched teeth. "Do not presume to lecture me on matters of which you are ignorant."
He took another drag on his cigarette, fixing his cold black eyes on her.
"Dumbledore told us that you joined out of remorse when you realised that the information you passed Voldemort regarding the prophecy had led him to the Potters," Hermione said dully.
Snape laughed harshly. "Remorse? Over an arrogant puffed-up bully? I don't think so, Granger. I would have gladly danced on his grave - if enough of him had remained to necessitate one."
"Dumbledore always did underestimate his enemy's capacity for cruelty," Hermione said with a disgusted look on her face.
Snape banged his fist down angrily on the table, making Hermione jump. "I was working for the Order long before any prophecy was uttered – why do you think I only fed Voldemort the first half; the half that would almost certainly lead to his self-destruction?"
Hermione folded her arms and fixed him with a sceptical glare. "He told Harry that you were still in his employ at that time – that you only ever heard the first half of the prophecy when Trelawney was being interviewed before you were caught eavesdropping and ejected. And yet…" she paused, forehead puckering as she realised something did not quite fit, "and yet Trelawney distinctly told Harry that you were only discovered eavesdropping after her interview. So why did…?" she broke off, looking at Snape with a confused expression on her face.
"Why did Dumbledore tell Potter otherwise? Because if anyone should feel remorse over the Potters' deaths it is Dumbledore. Yes, Dumbledore," he repeated as he regarded Hermione's flash of anger. "It was Dumbledore who ordered me to provide only the first half of the prophecy to the Dark Lord – I was all ready to throw in my lot with the Order at that point, but who else could stand before him and utter a credible lie? In doing so he consigned either the Longbottoms or the Potters to their graves. A relatively small price to pay for vanquishing the most powerful dark wizard of the age, but not one of which I think Potter would have approved, somehow." He inclined his head to one side and treated Hermione to a smirk. "And I can tell you that plenty of Death Eaters affected to feel remorse at the Potters' deaths – an event which did, after all, result in the destruction of their Dark Lord and protector – but I don't recall Dumbledore speaking up on their behalf at any of their trials."
Hermione slumped back into her chair, colour draining from her face. "But that still doesn't explain why you killed Dumbledore," she said, but her tone was one of confusion rather than accusation.
Snape leaned back in his chair, eyeing her shrewdly as he took one final drag on the depleted cigarette. "No, it doesn't."
"Well?" Hermione snapped impatiently.
"As a rule, I never lay all my cards out on the table at once. It's your turn to deal."
( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( & ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) )
A/N: thanks for all the feedback – especially the constructive criticism, which I have tried to address with some minor revisions. As to comments that Hermione's current belligerence toward Snape is somewhat OOC – well, yes and no. Yes, the Hermione detailed thus far is not canon Hermione in the sense that the Hermione we all know and love from the books is compassionate, somewhat reserved in making snap black-and-white judgements and all-round impassioned elf-rights fighter. But no, in the sense that the Hermione we know from the books predates Dumbledore's murder – I think anger would be the least of Hermione's emotions upon being suddenly confronted with this spectre from the past. However, once the initial shock wears off and she comes to terms with Snape's innocence… well keep your eyes peeled.
1) Does Snape smoke? I don't know, but I imagine that maybe the odd menthol cigarette came in useful after teaching those insufferable Gryffindor brats ;)
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