4. Burnt
There was a snake in his dream.
He hated snakes.
He hated snakes in the same way that he hated werewolves. They were innocent creatures really, he knew this, intellectually. Animalistic instincts guided their desires and behaviours. He'd given this a lot of thought. They were not evil creatures, at least not in and of their own. No, it was not their nature that he hated.
What he hated was the way in which they were utterly, utterly terrifying.
The dream was of the kind where one knows one is asleep but yet is unable to wake. He was aware that he was in his bed, that he was tangled up in sheets, and that he felt clammy. He could even keep up a reasonably lucid internal monologue. But all the same, he was powerless against the dream-snake, could only attempt to run from it, even though it seemed that every step forward brought him two steps back.
Somehow though, it had occurred to him in his dream-induced dread, that something seemed wrong. Something else entirely. Something wrong that was not related to beasts of any kind. There was something familiar about it, something…
A smell…
His body released him and he was awake.
Smoke.
He instantly jumped from the bed, staggering with light-headedness from the drop in blood pressure.
Why was there smoke in his bedroom?
His wand was on the nightstand, and he took it, casting lumos to aid him in the search for his clothes. The spell failed; sickly yellow flicking and dying at the wand's tip.
Bugger it.
He put it in his pocket as he dressed haphazardly. The smoke got thicker as he entered the hallway, nearly enough to suffocate him. It was difficult to see and he tripped on a loose floorboard, falling hard on his knees.
Lower down, it was easier to breathe. From his new position, he was able to spot the flames coming up from the stairs.
How on Earth could bricks and mortar burn?
It would be impossible to get to the ground floor without protection, and to put out the fire he would need an aquamenti of Dumbledore's proportions. Or the Dark Lord's, alternatively. They were both powerful and he wasn't about to be picky. Hell, he'd even take Potter at this point. He knew though, with certainty, that his own spells wouldn't do.
Surely, this fire had to be magical?
He turned about, hurrying back into the bedroom with aim for the window. It was stuck, of course, rusted in place, but urgency gave him strength and as he put his shoulder to it, it gave way into the night, rattling on its hinges. He looked down. There was no moon and he could barely make out the ground, blinded as he was by the light from the fire. His bedroom was on the first floor but he knew that the fall was longer than he would have liked.
He couldn't risk taking flight. His magic was too unpredictable these days, and that particular spell would not be dark in its intent.
Below the window, in his back yard, was an old dilapidated shed. Many of the planks on the roof though, were rotted and broken, and they would probably not be able to hold his weight. He hesitated until a racket from behind made him turn his head. The door to his bedroom was catching flame, the brass handle already glowing red from the heat.
Were someone intending to finish him off?
He squeezed through the window, holding onto his mother's lace curtain. Once out, he let himself carefully down on the roof of the shed, managing to balance precariously on two of the roof boards while supporting himself on the rain gutter that led water to the ground.
As he let go, the boards promptly gave way, depositing him on the shed's floor, arse first. He even managed to bite the inside of his cheek in the process, and could feel the coppery taste of blood on his tongue.
"Well, fuck."
With all of this falling down that he did, he would probably need a multitude of painkillers, come morning. Too bad they were burning together with his home.
Slowly, he got to his feet, brushing off his fingers. Well, he wasn't one to mourn over spilled potions. He'd done enough of that at Hogwarts, teaching first-years. The house could go to hell. His books however, were an entirely different matter.
He quickly forgot about the books though, as someone suddenly seized him around the neck, pressing something hard and pointy into his throat, just beneath his jaw.
The attacker was about to talk, he faintly sensed that they were drawing breath, but the feeling of restriction of the movement of his head (Cage!) together with something pressing into his throat (Fangs!) was just too fucking much.
Mad with panic and rage, he tore the wand from his attacker's hand, his force so fierce that the wood snapped and showered them both with yellow and blue sparks.
The attacker was on him in an instant, apparently expecting resistance. It was a large man in his early twenties wearing muggle jeans and a T-shirt, his eyes grey and angry. He had taken hold of Severus' coat and his right wrist, wrestling to keep him from reaching the wand in his pocket.
Apart from the time when he'd been eighteen and had been drawn by Lucius into a drunken brawl at the Leaky Cauldron, Severus hadn't been in a fist fight since primary school. There had been many a son of a millworker on Spinner's End in his youth. Hardened sons of hardened fathers, most of them infinitely brawnier than the browbeaten bookish boy of number 32. They had all kicked the shite out of him.
If he only could reach his wand, he'd show them.
His vision suddenly swam as a staggering blow hit him straight in the gut. He doubled over, all of his efforts concentrated on regaining his breath. His attacker unfortunately, was clever enough not to stand by and gloat. He raised his knee quickly, catching Severus' nose. The impact was hard and a sickening snap rung in his head as his nasal bone broke.
Bloody buggering fuck, not again!
He realised that this probably would end badly. Beaten to death by a stranger, without even the curtsey of knowing why, just outside of his own home, and with muggle means. It would be extremely humiliating.
Humiliating, and a very suitable end to his life.
For a moment, all he could do was to cling to his attacker's arm, holding on like a babe to its mother.
But it was then that he saw it.
There, on the young man's skin, on the inside of his lower left arm, just above the wrist, was a magical black brand. It was eerily similar to his own.
The world stopped. His mind raced.
Was this man a Death Eater attempting to deliver justice to the Dark Lord's traitor? Impossible. He would have been a mere child at the end of the war.
Had the Dark Lord himself returned?
Never had he felt such fear. There would be no mere kicking to death if the Dark Lord got hold of him. He would be tortured in the worst ways imaginable. Stripped of his sanity and dignity. Cast away to rot.
"Did you get him?"
Another young man had entered the back yard, and his intended assassin looked away.
The distraction lasted only a second, but it was enough.
Severus clasped his wand and cast sectumsempra, intending harm and destruction, and the power of his spell was such, that it nearly tore the young man in two. The other boy fled, panic contorting his face into a primal grimace as he disapparated.
Severus watched the body, unable to move. The nauseating tang of blood filled his nose, and mouth, and lungs, reminding him who he was.
He sat on the ground.
Tremors were creeping up on him as the adrenaline rush faded. His fear was just as great as before.
If the Dark Lord had returned, Hermione would be in danger, just like he.
Perhaps even more.
He had to see Potter.