Morning Has Broken
By Bambu
All disclaimers and author's notes may be found in Chapter One.
~o0o~
Chapter Two: Research
Forty-six hours later, and without the realization it had been that long, I was thoroughly disheartened and more certain than ever that Severus Snape was in need of assistance. My desk was littered with the fruits of my labors: small vials containing specific memory strands; parchment with notes, scrawled in three colors, detailing the signs of and deterioration due to toxic addiction; several books opened to specific pages; a small sack of trichobezoars; and a flat, paper-wrapped package of charcoal awaiting my final enchantment to activate it. Placed most prominently was my Pensieve.
The Cupboard of Requirement had seen to my personal needs - food when I was hungry, apple juice when I was thirsty - and the marvelous floor-to-ceiling cupboard even transformed into a privy when necessary.
I had added a wakefulness tincture to my espresso, and even though my eyes reddened and watered at several points, I succeeded in isolating the nine instances in which I had seen Snape over the past two years, four of them in the past eight weeks.
It was as bad as I'd feared.
Two years ago, Severus Snape had been thin, sallow-skinned, and acerbic as ever. Along the edge of my desk were now four small bottles containing my memories of seeing him in Slug & Jiggers. However, during none of those sightings had he exhibited the more noticeable characteristics of withdrawal symptoms. I had coincidentally – something my one-time Divination teacher didn't believe in – seen him in the Apothecary before Snape and Boyle had decided to part ways.
My first memory of post-war Snape took place shortly following my acceptance in the Unfathomables; although, it was the last of Snape's visits to Slug & Jiggers which garnered much of my attention. I had been purchasing supplies for the department, and Snape was at the opposite end of the large shop, his tall frame carefully bent over a selection of glistening, green leaves.
Having spent the past thirty-six hours scouring my memories for images of the man, coupled with what I had discovered, it was my guess they were fresh coca leaves.
Just as my memory ended, John Boyle had begun speaking to Snape, and the conversation confirmed my identification of the leaves.
"Severus," Boyle had said, "I have other orders to fill, and I cannot continue to provide you with the quantity you ask. You'll have to find another source or supplement your work with the dried leaves."
Regrettably, I had left the shop before hearing Snape's response and the memory ended. I hadn't paid attention to the interaction then, but now it had far more significant, potentially deadly, meaning. Fresh coca leaves were marginally less addictive than their dried counterparts, and Snape could have used the fresh ingredient for a number of years without compromising his health significantly.
That particular memory was one I had revisited several times, walking next to the figure of my former professor. There were purplish circles under his dark eyes, and he appeared care-worn. His robes were old, but not shabby, and his hair, which had begun to show strands of white, had a sheen to it I didn't remember from before the war. It appeared to have been cut with a Severing Charm; the ends bearing the tell-tale marks of having been melted.
If I had noticed him then, I wouldn't have stopped to say anything. After all, we had never been friends, and, despite any desire I might have once harbored, it was highly unlikely our dynamic would change at that point. Still, after everything I had begun to learn and suspect…
I worried for him.
By the fifth reviewed memory, it was obvious Snape had substituted dried coca leaves in whatever potion he imbibed, and his rapid, physical downward spiral had begun. In that and each subsequent memory, the purplish bruises under Snape's eyes had grown darker, almost black. His robes – always the same set which I suspected were his only ones – appeared increasingly threadbare, and his mannerisms had become manic or depressed with strong paranoiac overtones.
In the more recent Pensieved memories, Snape's hands trembled and he blinked his eyes frequently, as if the light had hurt him. I would have thought it extremely odd that his hair was so sleek and his skin blemish-free, except I had just read that these were side effects of arsenic poisoning.
I walked around him more times than I could count, closer to him that I had ever been except that night in the Shrieking Shack. Time had changed things. I was taller now, an adult. He was a bit over six feet in height, and I was only five-and-a-half feet. The former disparity was now negligible. Strands of hair kept falling into his eyes, and after those thirty-six hours, my fingers had itched to brush them off his face.
In my school years, Harry had always said Snape's eyes were as black as his heart, but now I had been close enough to see that they were black with a stippling of brown.
In our most recent encounters, I was wearing the H.I.P.S. and he had passed me without comment. I never directly noticed him, only seeing his departures peripherally. Notably, in each of our H.I.P.S. brushes, Snape paused within an arm's length of my disguised-self and had drawn a deep breath. I recalled him doing the same thing that morning at Pennyweight's. It was as if he had been scenting the air… or me.
If these incidents weren't enough to spur my unwonted interference, two things further engaged my sympathies: his physical deterioration had shown all the classic symptoms of withdrawal (which were now written in red ink on the parchment to my left), and the expression in his eyes had been haunted.
Folding my arms, I laid my head upon my crossed wrists. The evidence, circumstantial and direct, all pointed to one conclusion. Snape was going to die, and die painfully if someone didn't help him.
Tears stung my tired eyes.
The oddly musty odor from the bezoars was distracting and I pushed the package a little farther from my head, remembering what Mr. Pennyweight had told me when I had returned to his shop. Threatening an inventory audit if he didn't provide me with the information I needed proved expeditious, and he was quite forthcoming. I'm afraid any professional relationship we might have had was completely ruined. Surprisingly, I didn't care.
With prodding, he had told me that on a monthly basis for the past year, Snape purchased the same quantity of bulk items: the seventh year N.E.W.T. potions list, dried coca leaves, three varieties of fresh peppermint, ginger root, and six-to-eight bezoars. Pennyweight had sold Snape Re'em blood twice, and once, almost a year ago, eight grams of powdered Chinese Fireball dragon's egg. The prices Snape had paid for the Re'em blood and dragon's egg powder were high enough to keep Pennyweight in business for more than six months.
However this time, Snape had been waiting for two months for another order of powdered dragon's egg. The morning I saw him at the Knockturn Alley Apothecary, he had just learned the shipment was seized in Xian, China. There was no alternate source of supply.
The reason Pennyweight had been unable to fill my order for bezoars was that Snape had purchased the last twenty. It stood to reason the package Snape had been clutching in his shaking hand represented his final efforts to purge his body of the arsenical toxins. Regrettably, it seemed Aurelius Flint was correct; there was no real cure for arsenikon poisoning in either the Muggle or wizarding world.
Snape was going to die.
And I couldn't stand it. We lost too many good people during the war.
I knew him. I had once admired him.
His supposed betrayal had hurt me deeply. But even after Dumbledore's death, Snape had risked everything to continue to feed the Order of the Phoenix valuable information. Harry, Ron, and I would never have found all the Horcruxes without his help.
I owed him.
There had to be something I could do to help.
My heart hurt and my head felt heavy. Maybe if I rested for a moment.
The next thing I knew, my security spells were being breached.
"Ça va bien, 'ermione?"
It was Gabrielle.
Without moving my head or even opening my eyes, I replied in French, "Repétè, s'il te plait? Je dormais."
Gabrielle's voice was a little more insistent, this time. "Ça va, 'ermione?"
Automatically I answered in the affirmative, but realized mid-sentence that this was Gabrielle. My friend and colleague who was supposed to be in isolation during her monthly transformation for forty-eight hours.
I grabbed my wand, and flicked a non-verbal Finite Incantatem at my door.
She entered, carrying a thick roll of parchment.
My fingers absently felt my cheek, where the edge of my desk had left an impression. I must have been sleeping for awhile.
She was kind enough to give me a moment to wake fully.
While my muscles protested my stretching, I inspected my friend. She looked haggard, fragile even. Her Veela heritage was apparent in the thinning and sharpening of her features, and her hair hung in a lackluster drape of white. Gabrielle reminded me painfully of Remus Lupin post-transformation. She was twenty and looked forty.
The nurturing, sympathetic impulses which were an intrinsic part of me Apparated front-and-center. With a swift and sure series of wand-strokes, I transfigured the ladder-back guest chair into a conforming, squashy easy chair.
Gabrielle crossed the room to the chair, her movements were awkward and stiff as if she had the Muggle disease arthritis. As she sank gratefully into the chair, I noticed fresh bite-marks on the wrist of her left hand.
I found myself wondering whether the H.I.P.S. bracelets could offer some relief to her during her post-transformational state. Medicinal applications for the camouflaging bracelets had never occurred to me before. Shuffling through a stack of parchment on my left, I quickly scribbled a reminder to myself.
"'Elle, would you consider…"
"Ron couldn't reach you…"
We shared a tired smile for having spoken at the same time, and I motioned for her to continue.
"Ron 'as been trying to reach you since yesterday, but access was denied."
I blinked at her owlishly. "What day is it?"
Before she could answer, my opened Cupboard of Requirement presented me with two things: the Rowan box containing my experimental bracelets, and a luminous projection of the date and time. It had been fifty-five hours since I last saw Gabrielle.
"I'll Floo Ron presently. I'm sorry he had to trouble you so soon."
She blushed. Instead of enhancing her beauty, it gave her exhausted, young/old face a feverish cast. "Eet was no trouble. Ron eez usually the first person to see me after a transformation."
I know my face reflected my shock, and I bit my tongue to keep from saying or asking anything.
Her smile was knowing, but she answered my unvoiced question anyway. "'e insists, and I admit 'e's very reassuring."
I nodded my head. Ron could be very comforting at times. "I'm glad you let him, 'Elle."
Pushing myself up from my chair, my muscles protested and I groaned while I reached for my pot of Floo powder.
"'e's not there," Gabrielle said. "'e's been sent on assignment again… to Bruxelles. That's why I brought these."
With a glad little cry, I practically snatched the roll of parchment from her hands, and fumbled in its unrolling. Ron had really come through for me, and I knew he must have called in a very big favor. He had provided me with the entire Wizengamot transcript of Snape's trial, and all subsequent, relevant information about the object of my current obsession.
I scanned the two-paged abstract and was perusing the fourth page of Snape's sentence, when Gabrielle giggled. Heat suffused my face. I had forgotten she was there.
She pushed up from the conjured chair. "I will leave you to your research, but, 'ermione, get some real rest before you dive into the next phase. I know you. You will think more clearly after you sleep and bathe."
As she began to make her way to my door, normally two steps, but today it was four, I made a snap decision. "'Elle, would you be willing to try something? It might make you feel better."
One delicate hand pressed flat against the ebony panel of my door; it was trembling, and I could see how much the transformation had taken out of her. "I will try whatever you suggest."
She returned to her seat. And I was suddenly reminded how it felt to manipulate other people's lives. When I was younger, I found myself in the position to make those sorts of decisions. I had forgotten how heavily the responsibility weighed upon one's soul. "There's no guarantee. I'm just curious."
I snatched the Rowan box, and retrieved the platinum and gold bracelets. Gabrielle gasped when she saw them.
"No, no, 'Elle, it's not silver! It's platinum." Suddenly, the idea didn't seem quite so clever.
It seemed my second thoughts were easily readable because she responded to my unspoken hesitation. "I 'ave become, how do you say méfiante? But, I trust you."
"I think you mean cautious. Gabrielle, I won't betray your trust." Our eyes met, brown to pale blue, and I knew that we had crossed a new threshold in our friendship.
Emboldened, I settled the bracelets around her slender wrists, twisting the platinum and gold to recognize and remember her base cellular structure. It took several minutes to filter out the werewolf taint in her altered genetic structure. While I tinkered, my friend leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her platinum hair spilling over the edge of the chair and trailing on the smooth floor, a contrast of black and white.
A low-level hum told me that the H.I.P.S. recognized her. Picking up the length of holly which rarely left my side, I tapped the end of my wand on each bracelet and sub-vocalized, Gabrielle Superior.
Subtly, so subtly it wasn't readily apparent, Gabrielle's appearance altered. Her face filled out to its normal proportions, and her hair seemed to gleam with its usual luster, but those observations could easily be wishful thinking, and I refrained from counting my intuitive leap of faith a success. Still, I couldn't stop the academic part of my brain from formulating a hypothesis.
Then, when Gabrielle lifted her head to look at me, I sucked in my breath. She was practically glowing with good health. Her eyes sparkled and the movement of her neck was sinuous and graceful. She rose from the chair as easily as if she had never known a moment's pain.
Her smile was dazzling. "'Ermione! What 'ave you done? C'est mervellieux! Incroyable!" Then Gabrielle burst into tears and threw herself into my arms.
I held her and calmed her, even as my mind was hundreds of miles away in a grotty row house in which lived a terribly ill wizard.
When she took a step back, her eyes sparkled. "Whatever you 'ave done, eet ees a miracle."
I smiled, and felt horribly cruel because I was going to take her comfort away.
"'Elle—" I began, but couldn't meet her eyes, "—I can't give them to you. You shouldn't even know about them. At this stage, they're an experimental prototype."
"Je comprends."
I knew she did, and I hated to take away her succor. I caved. "Five more minutes."
She smiled and leaned back in the chair with relieved boneless grace.
Finally, and with great reluctance, Gabrielle removed the bracelets from her wrists. The effect was disconcerting. She seemed to age before my eyes, and even though I have lived in the wizarding world for more than half my life, it shocked me. "I promise," I said, and my voice seemed to ring in my office, "I will make you a pair as soon as I can safely do so."
She haltingly made her way to the door. "I will be your lab Jarvey if you wish, 'Ermione. Any relief would be welcome."
We looked at one another for a long moment. Then she slipped into the hallway and the ebony door swung shut behind her.
My mind was too tired to comprehend the implications and broader ramifications of what had just occurred, and I stared at the opaque door for a long time.
I then turned my attention to Ron's handiwork. Opening the scrolls Gabrielle had delivered I scanned the lengthy parchment, comprehending barely half the information contained therein.
Gabrielle was right. My body desperately needed a few hours of undisturbed sleep, but my mind craved answers. And there were decisions to make. I swayed on my feet, effectively putting an end to my dithering. With a quick, Tonksian spell, I jabbed my wand and said, "Pack!"
Instantly, my scattered notes, the two paper-wrapped packages, and my H.I.P.S. bracelets formed a neat little pile on the edge of my desk, while the references I had used flew to their places in the rapidly spinning book nook. I added the roll of parchment Gabrielle had brought to the pile of things I would take with me. Grabbing my outer robes, which were far less wrinkled that my skirt and blouse, I pulled a mitten from one of my pockets and transfigured it into a replica of my student book bag before slipping my neat little pile into its roomy depths.
I remembered to palm the door shut on my way out.
There was no one to encounter in the Ministry's halls, but that wasn't a surprise. The illuminated clock in my Cupboard of Requirement had read three-twenty a.m. My eyes were gritty and every bone in my body ached, and as was the case every time I pushed myself to the limits, my scars hurt. Normally, I didn't notice them, but my right leg was stiff as I passed through the Atrium and made my way to the Floo network. I was too tired to Apparate, and there was no line of waiting witches and wizards at this time of night.
Tossing the grainy powder into the only fireplace with a fire, I said, "Hermione Granger's Library," before stepping into the flames.
The trip was disorienting, and I was so tired I practically fell into my guest-room-cum-library. I tripped into the reading chair in front of the fireplace and braced myself on its plush arm before dumping my things onto the seat and obscuring the patterned fabric my mother had chosen for me on my seventeenth birthday. Of course, I hadn't seen it until after Dumbledore's death, but I kept the chair because it reminded me of my mum, and the memory no longer brought me pain.
Waving my wand toward the hall, I heard the sounds of the tub being filled.
Discarding clothing along the way, I was nude before I reached the bathroom. The steaming, fragrant water enticed me, and only then did I realize that I smelled dreadful. The wall sconce flared to life when I stepped into the small, pale blue bathroom, and I was very glad I didn't have a magical mirror when I looked at myself in the reflective surface. Dark circles punctuated my red-rimmed eyes, and my usually bouncy hair hung around my face in a frizz.
Placing my wand on the narrow strip of shelving next to the tub, I stepped into the hot water and sighed with relief. The ache in my right leg subsided as my fingers massaged the fist-wide scar tissue, a reminder of the final battle. My tap was Charmed to add herbal combinations dependent upon my needs. The distinctive fragrance of Devil's Claw and Horse Chestnut Flowers, both of which eased residual curse symptoms, permeated the air. There was also chamomile, and something else I was too tired to identify.
Arching backwards, I dunked my head in the hot water before lathering and rinsing. Clean hair made always me feel better. Next, I scrubbed my body with absent-minded efficiency, pausing over three, fading finger-shaped bruises on my bicep, a remnant of Snape's touch.
If these had been other circumstances, I might have indulged in a little tension-relief. As it was however, I simply drained and refilled the tub, soaking my aching muscles in the clear, fragrant water. Then, with my head resting against the porcelain and my eyes idly tracking the steam rising from the tub, I thought about Severus Snape.
The terms of his sentence weren't as stringent as some and more restrictive than others. Draco Malfoy for example, had survived the war, but had been banished from the wizarding world. I knew he had converted some of his funds into good British pounds, shillings, and pence before he left. Snape, on the other hand, was required to remain in Britain submitting to bi-annual interviews for the next five years. By the time the ex-spy turned fifty, he would be a free man.
The cynical part of my brain interjected the thought, if he lived to see fifty.
A catalogue of information unscrolled across my mind: Severus Snape lived at number seven, Clotho Lane, at the corner of Spinner's End; he was self-employed as a local potions brewer, which explained his standard purchases at the Apothecaries; he was aloof and a loner, both of these comments had been annotated in the Auror reports; he was unmarried and had few, if any, friends.
I knew from experience Snape was a keen observer, hence his effectiveness as a spy. He was also analytical and held very high standards. I didn't know whether he was spiritually inclined, or if he feared not living up to the high standards he imposed on others.
The heat seeping into my muscles had relaxed me, and before realizing the danger of doing so, I had fallen asleep. My last conscious thought was that Valerian had been the unknown infusion in the water.
As I slept, I dreamt.
A werewolf changed into a man… into Remus Lupin as I had first known him. He was slender and tired looking, but he was alive. He looked in my direction and began to speak. I thought it was me he was speaking to, but then I realized he was speaking past me, and I turned into the misty white haze of my dreamscape border. Moving slowly through the mist was a wizard with long red hair and a fang earring dangling from one ear. The hideous facial scars which Fenrir Greyback had given him were gone, and Bill Weasley smiled at Remus, passing me as if it was I who was the dream and not they.
I attempted to walk toward them, but my body drifted rather than moved purposefully. At least, I was able to get closer. After a time, I became aware of other body forms in the haze, but none became corporeal or recognizable. Finally, Remus and Bill appeared to notice my presence.
When I thought they might speak to me, Remus said, 'No, Gabrielle, you are to stay."
I looked for her, but Gabrielle wasn't there.
"Remus—" I called out. It was an utterly futile attempt to draw his attention.
Next to Remus, Bill nodded his head earnestly. He spoke. "Stay for Ron, ma petite soeur. He loves you, and you deserve some happiness."
Then, abruptly, in that surreal way dreams sometimes unfold, I found myself in a small, dimly lit room, with clerestory windows near the ceiling. I knew this room. It was the potions classroom from my schooldays.
Swirling mists of white undulated over my feet, obscuring the floor. I turned at the sound of liquid bubbling. There within arms' length was a stone workbench, and suspended above a magical flame was a small number two cauldron. Steam rose from its depths. Standing behind the cauldron was Severus Snape, head bent over the cauldron. He was dressed in his intimidating teaching regalia, and his black hair hung like curtains on either side of his face, obscuring his features, except his nose.
I ventured a step closer and he looked directly at me. His black eyes were snapping with the force of his personality.
"Valerian and Chamomile won't help me, girl. Where's the dragon's egg powder?" Suddenly, his wand was in his hand and he began to stir the potion with it.
"But, Professor, that's a Class A Non-Tradeable item. You can't use it."
"I didn't expect you to have the courage to do what's necessary. Don't you think I know it's an illegal item?" He grew enraged and his hands began to shake. His once-pristine attire seemed to dissolve, revealing the shabbier robes I had seen him wearing in Knockturn Alley, only far worse. I could see his elbows peeking through the threadbare cloth.
I stepped closer. "This isn't the way. I can help. I know I can."
"What I need can't be found in a book." His eyes dulled and his hair grew sleek and shiny as he spoke. He added a pinch of reddish powder to the potion and golden sparks shot three or four inches into the air.
Fascinated, I drew closer, peering over the lip of the cauldron. It was filled with a dark, viscous fluid. Small flecks of gold and crimson rose to the black surface, swirling as the liquid cooked. Nausea clamped my stomach as I recognized the Re'em blood I had seen in Pennyweight's.
A silver ladle dipped into the boiling potion, and Snape lifted it to his mouth as if to drink. His face looked cadaverous.
I gasped. "No! You can't drink this, Professor. It will kill you."
The ladle shook in his hand. He looked at me through red-rimmed eyes, and, for once, his expression was naked. "I'm already dead, Miss Granger."
He drank the potion before I could knock the ladle from his hands. I seemed to move as if through sticky marshmallow fluff. Still, I stepped toward him, through the space which had previously held the worktable.
I watched him begin to fold in upon himself. I tried to pull him toward me, but he was as insubstantial as one of Sybill Trelawney's crystal ball readings. "No! No, Professor Snape. Don't die!"
Tears tracked down my face and I stifled a sob.
He raised his head.
My heart clenched at the expression in his eyes.
"Why would you care?" he asked.
I jerked myself awake.
The water in the tub was cold, and I was crying.
Immediately, I pulled the plug, and wiped my tears. There was no telling how long I had been asleep, but my fingers and the bottom of my feet were shriveled. I sighed in relief that I hadn't drowned.
The gleaming length of holly felt strange in my wrinkled hand, and I cast a Warming Charm on the towel before wrapping it around me. One quick twist of my wrist and my hair was dry, then I tucked my wand behind my ear, reminiscent of the late Luna Lovegood.
With a sense of urgency, I passed through the short hall to my bedroom and quickly dressed, choosing jeans and a Celestina Warbeck t-shirt. Only later would I realize that the image on the back of the shirt was from her biggest selling hit, A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love. I covered my Muggle clothes with standard day robes, and pulled on trainers. Next, I swiftly gathered a few extra things which I would take to Spinner's End, summoned my book bag, and stuffed them into its depths.
I wasn't waiting any longer to check on Snape.
Stopping in my kitchen to fix a quick snack, I made toast and a triple espresso while adding some essential staples to my magically expanding satchel. Depending on his mental and physical state, it was unlikely Snape had been eating properly and I wanted to be prepared.
I ate quickly, leaning against the granite counter Ron thought terribly Muggle, and stared at my distorted reflection in the window box over my old-fashioned sink. After shoving the last bite of toast in my mouth, I brushed crumbs off my shirt, and then, with a non-verbal spell and a jab of my wand, tidied up.
The small, heavily warded cabinet nestled between floor-to-ceiling bookcases along one wall of my library was my next destination. The cabinet held a number of items I would need. A single Finite Incantatem and two Reversos later, the doors popped open for me to peruse the bounty contained on its shelves.
In addition to four types of raw ingredients, I chose two small vials containing essence of rue. A cleansing tincture, it prevented latent side effects of ingested toxins. I had never been without it since Ron was poisoned in place of Albus Dumbledore. Snape had probably tried everything at his disposal, but I remained hopeful. With one final glance, I closed and warded the cabinet.
From the chair where I had dumped my bag and materials upon my earlier arrival, I selected several items to add to my bag. Once everything was packed the expansion and weight-reduction charms would be stressed to their maximum.
I looked around my library and wished for more time to spend at home. Giving the room a last wistful look, I glanced toward my bedroom before turning my back and exiting the flat.
The Apparition point was in the small kitchen garden at the back of the renovated manor house I shared with eight other tenants. Once in place, I focused on my destination, and fueled by determination I vanished from Canterbury's chill pre-dawn.
A barely audible pop heralded my arrival at the safest Apparition point near Snape's home. I found my footing at the crest of a bank, and my nose wrinkled at the smell an adjacent waterway. It was the slightly stagnant odor of a refuse-strewn backwater. In the distance, a dog barked; it sounded like the distinctive yelp of a bloodhound
Hitching my bag more securely on my shoulder, I hiked along the overgrown verge until I found a broken point in the old railings. Before I crossed the street, I looked up the pale gray of an early morning sky. Even in the faint light, I could see tufts of weeds fighting their way between the cobblestones. Just ahead were rows upon rows of dilapidated brick houses, packed like matchsticks in a box. Here and there glimmers of light shown through curtains as women and men began the cycle of yet another day's struggle to find work in what was clearly a depressed neighborhood.
In the background, rising above the houses, was the immense chimney of an abandoned mill. It was easy to forget Snape's father had been a Muggle, but here in this forgotten corner of Britain, that realization gave me a deeper understanding of the man I was about to intrude upon.
Passing beneath a broken streetlight, my trainers made the acquaintance of an empty bottle, its clinking sound loud in the early morning. Nearby another dog barked and I ventured deeper into the maze of streets lined with mostly deserted houses.
After zigzagging for several blocks, I found Spinner's End and turned left. At the corner of Clotho Lane and Spinner's End, the mill's chimney loomed larger. Most of the houses at this end of the street were boarded up. Nearing the last house, magic tingled upon my skin. Early warning charms perhaps.
A low, flickering light peeked through drawn curtains on the bottom floor of the two-story house. I stepped carefully along the brick path leading to the door, and hesitated for a moment before knocking.
My nerves had at last decided to announce themselves, and my stomach knotted with anxiety as I questioned my reasons for being there. It reminded me of when Harry had taken me on his Firebolt to show me how fun a Wronski Feint was. When the flight was over, I had dismounted and kissed the grassy field before promptly throwing up. Harry had never been able to coax me into riding with him again. Now, of course, I would never have the chance. Quite suddenly, I missed my first, best and dearest friend, and fervently wished he were beside me to hold my hair while I purged my fright.
Before I could reconsider, I knocked on the front door. How would Snape greet me? Would he even recognize me?
I waited.
No one came to answer the door.
I knocked again; this time, a little longer and a little harder.
My nerves hummed and my hands shook.
After five minutes, I decided to see if there was another door. I walked along Clotho Lane to the mews running behind the houses of Spinner's End. Each house had a small, walled-in garden behind it, and in the growing daylight, I found Snape's back gate. It was off the latch. Taking that as a good sign, I stepped into a garden which would have given Neville Longbottom, had he lived, an orgasm. There were plants everywhere. A small group of terra cotta pots contained kitchen herbs, but the remainder of the plants was magical in origin and most were used in potions.
I followed the neat bricked path to the back door. It was wide open.
Well.
Never let it be said I turned down such an invitation.
I took a step closer and peered into the small kitchen where dishes piled on counter tops and a small breakfast nook nestled in one corner. The narrow window to the right of the door gave additional light to the room, revealing that it had once been painted in bright oranges and yellows. It reminded me of my great aunt's house, except this kitchen needed a thorough cleaning.
It was empty.
Uncertain what to expect, I drew my wand and stepped into Snape's home.
A soft menacing voice filled the still room. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for being out after curfew."
I gasped and turned, meeting Snape's bloodshot, deeply shadowed eyes. He stared at me, then in one of the more melodramatic moments of my life, the bloody man swooned.
He crumpled into a heap on the dirty linoleum floor.
For a wildly inappropriate fraction of a second, I bit back a laugh at the absurd Mills & Boon scenario. Equally swiftly, I abandoned mirth for the very real emergency lying on the floor. I thought, Mobilicorpus, flicked my wand and Snape's body rose into the air.
Towing him through the kitchen toward the closed door which I surmised led to the rest of the house, we passed through a narrow butler's pantry, and then into what was a small sitting room. There was a candle-filled lamp hanging from the ceiling, with only four of its candles lit. The room was sparsely furnished; an armchair and threadbare sofa positioned behind a spindly table in front of a small unlit fireplace.
My throat tightened as I gently lowered Snape's skeletal frame to the sofa. I looked around briefly, taking stock of my surroundings. There were wall-to-wall bookcases, which had clearly been filled at one point, but now showed gaps among the shelves. I wondered how long he had been pawning his books for income.
The condition of his home frankly shocked me, and I would say cleaning hadn't been a priority for some time. Empty potions vials and other paraphernalia littered the room; two or three books were turned face-down upon the spindly table. Stains of unknown origin gleamed on the wood's surface. Despite the room's need for a good scouring charm, I had more pressing matters to consider.
I grabbed one of the empty potions vials, transfiguring it into a pillow before raising Snape's head. I was shocked by the silken texture of his hair even if it was consistent with arsenic poisoning. I gently lowered his head to the pillow. His brow glistened with sweat and his body odor was sour. I shook my head at his state, and pressed my fingers against the pulse point under his jaw. His heart beat too swiftly and he was too hot, but he seemed to have fallen into a restless sleep.
He reminded me of strongly of Gabrielle, looking older than his years. He was in his mid-forties, but looked ninety.
I returned to the kitchen.
Early morning light filtered through the dingy windows. I wasted a few moments to levitate all the dirty dishes into the sink, and cast Scourgify on the windows, the table top, and the counters. Taking more precious time, I set the dishes to wash before rummaging through the Charm-cooled refrigerator. There was nothing remotely edible to be found, and one shelf was filled with strange ingredients Snape kept on hand for potion brewing. I cast a Bubble-Head Charm on myself and disposed of the noxious, rotting food.
I quickly put my bag on the kitchen table, a shaft of light spearing through the newly clean window. It seemed as if time and misery had leached any cheer that had once been in the house. I didn't understand how anyone could have lived there without becoming heartily depressed.
I glanced toward the sitting room. Enough said.
Several of the dishes and glasses were clean by this point, and I quickly unpacked my bag, putting the eggs and chops into the refrigerator. I then pulled out the cottage loaf, onions, a tomato and two bananas, placing them on the table, before removing the package of charcoal from the bottom of my bag.
I flicked and jabbed my wand over the bag of charcoal, activating it and limiting its target to only the undigested toxins in his stomach. I knew that if left undirected, the charcoal would interfere with any other intervention I might use. I silently thanked Aurelius Flint for the loan of two books on antidotes.
Snatching a now-clean glass, I put three grams of magically activated charcoal in it, and pointing my wand, said, "Aguamenti!" A clear stream of water filled the glass, the charcoal swirling in an inky black cloud.
Sometimes, Muggle remedies worked hand-in-hand with magical ones.
I heard Snape cry out from the sitting room, and I practically ran to his side, shoving the small table out of the way.
He was convulsing.
How the glass of magically activated charcoal made it safely onto the table I'll never know, but I dropped to my knees to hold Snape. He was so thin, and shaking so strongly, it frightened me. He moaned in pain, his words unintelligible. It was impossible to tell whether he was conscious or not.
I had seen death too many times to want to see it again. I wanted to ignore the symptoms of an advanced-stage toxic withdrawal, but his hallucination in the kitchen had already told me I was probably fighting a losing battle.
However, I had once been a Gryffindor and I was still a bossy know-it-all. I would be damned if I gave up on Snape without a fight.
I held him until the convulsions subsided to twitches and moans.
"It's all right. It's all right. I'm here."
He didn't struggle, and his reddened, puffy eyes were mostly shut.
I thought he was semi-aware of his surroundings, and pressed the glass to his parched lips. Snape drank, grimacing at the taste. He automatically chewed the crunchy bits while I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a long way from a cure, but the magically activated charcoal would absorb some of the toxins in his digestive tract.
"Have you forgiven me yet, Lily?" One long-fingered hand touched my face gently.
Words failed me.
It was obvious to me who he thought, or hoped, I was.
I had put the clues together in what should have been my seventh year at school. Slughorn's drooling praise for Lily Evans' talents, and the half-blood Prince's crafty inventiveness had married with what Harry saw in Snape's Pensieve. Snape had been a brilliant, lonely, bookish boy, and it seemed perfectly logical that a vibrant, beautiful girl had befriended him.
Snape's hand reached around my neck, his fingers threading through my chin-length hair. His breath was stale and I involuntarily wrinkled my nose. He pulled me closer to him, and the tone of his voice grew hard and filled with self-loathing. "Of course, you haven't. I killed you. I killed your precious Potter, and that baby… your baby. I promise you, I will avenge your death."
Before I could make up a soothing lie, his eyes rolled back in his head and he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
Remembering it was Snape's half-heard information that led Voldemort to choose James and Lily Potter to persecute, and Voldemort had offered to trade Lily Potter's life for that of her child.
As I returned to the kitchen to find a pot in which to make a potion, I realized Snape was the reason Voldemort had made the offer to Lily. Her blood status had never mattered to Voldemort. He was like Horace Slughorn in that respect, and separately, an utter hypocrite. Were he not already dead, I would've wanted to kill him all over again.
Rustling around in Snape's kitchen, I found an old set of cookware, some of which contained the skeletal remains of insects and had obviously been unused for a long time. I bit my lip and rolled up my metaphorical sleeves.
Pulling out a pot and a fry pan, I set them both on the hob. Once again, I cast Aguamenti, filling the pot half-full. I pulled out my package of trichobezoars, and separated three of the ruminant hairballs from the rest. Dropping the stone-like hairballs into the water, I also added red clover, peppermint, and eight drops of the essence of rue. A quick swish of my wand lit a small magical fire under the pot. Shortly, the mixture would come to a gentle simmer.
With the potion well in hand, I turned my attention to a meal for Snape. Even if I had to spoon feed him, he was getting a bit of an onion scramble down his throat. According to one of Flinty's books, the sulfur content of the eggs and onions would help neutralize any arsenical compound it encountered, or the charcoal had missed. Snape's bloodstream could use all the help it could get. There was no butter in his fridge, but I found a small bottle of Vermouth in the poorly stocked pantry, and used that to sauté the onions. I added the eggs and managed a credible, small meal for Snape.
I wouldn't dare feed him too much, too quickly.
By the time the eggs were done, the potion was simmering gently. I circled my wand, widdershins, three, six, nine times before adding the next ingredient. It was juiced Mandrake rhizomes. They were something Meg Croaker had experimented with for a couple of years. No one outside of the department knew about her research. I had helped cultivate the first three crops, for which she'd given me several containers of the juice in recompense. I dribbled seven drops of the juice into the slurry liquid. After the seventh drop, the liquid turned pale scarlet.
Exactly the shade it was supposed to be.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had modified an existing antidote, and hoped it would prove life-saving. Literally.
The Seven Percent Solution, as I had named it rather facetiously, needed to sit for nine minutes to reach efficacy.
That would be sufficient time to feed Snape. I entered the sitting room carrying his small meal only to discover that he wasn't there.
I almost panicked.
The sound of breaking glass and muffled shouting drew my attention, but a quick search for another entrance to the sitting room proved fruitless. I opened the front door, but didn't linger - Snape's cursing was coming from inside the house.
Every wall in the sitting room was lined with bookcases, and even though my bibliophilic heart itched to give his shelves a once over, my pressing concern for Snape had me raising my wand, pointing it at the shelves to my right, and murmuring a spell Gabrielle had taught me, "Révélant brume."
Instantly, radiant golden mist erupted from the tip of my wand and snuggled against the bookshelves like clingfilm. I watched for the telltale signs indicating a passage, and sure enough, approximately ten feet from me, the mist was sucked through the slender openings carved into a bookcase, leaving a perfectly rectangular, negative outline of a door.
I crossed to that bookcase and pressed. The hanging case swung forward, and using my fingers, I pulled it the rest of the way open to reveal a narrow staircase leading to the first floor.
Having already pushed my way into his house, I didn't hesitate at the foot of the stairs.
Finding him was quite easy.
I followed the noise, and discovered his potions lab; once a functional workroom, but now a deplorable mess. The room was dimly lit by two windows – clearly Charmed to filter light - and two of the walls were lined shelves housing glass jars, one wall of shelves held a variety of potions and the other ingredients, both dried and suspended in variegated liquids.
It was the potions workbench which caught my eye. It was in the center of the smallish room, and most of the paraphernalia it held had been broken or swept to the side, leaving a considerable amount of broken glass and spilled potion on the hardwood flooring.
I was appalled that a brewer of Snape's skill would be so foolhardy. I couldn't tell from where I stood what the lumpy mess was, but if there had been more than one type of potion in the bottles he dashed to the floor, they could become caustic or volatile.
Sorting my list of priorities, I decided to sort the mess before dealing with the wizard. His upper body was slumped across the potions table, and he was shivering.
"Evanesco," I said quietly. Broken pieces of glass and the ruined potions evaporated.
Snape's head snapped around at the sound of my spell. Even in his dysfunctional state, he was breathtakingly fast on the draw. Between one beat of my heart and the next, he stood an arms' length in front of me with his wand aimed between my eyes. "Come to gloat, Granger?"
"What? Why would you think that?" Relieved that he knew who I was, I dropped my wand arm, but didn't sheathe the length of holly which had served me so well and for so long.
His hands started to shake and he gripped his ebony wand until his knuckles were white. "Gryffinders always come to gloat over their defeated opponents."
"No! They wouldn't. I—"
He interrupted me. "Cormack McLaggen. Demelza Robins. Jack Sloper. Katie Bell. Lee Jordan. Dennis Creevey. They have all paid me a visit over the years. Mr. Jordan saw fit to spit on me."
I took an involuntary step back, my free hand flying to my mouth. He had just named the only living Gryffindors he had ever taught, other than Ron and me. "You don't understand." I shook my head. "I would never ridicule you. I only wanted to help."
He took an intimidating step closer, but I refused to back up. I recognized the cold glint in his eyes; it was how he had looked at me in school. But during the height of the war, I had thought we were past some of that ingrained prejudice. Unaccountably, my feelings were hurt that we hadn't.
"Never? You never called me a greasy git, an overgrown bat, a vampire… a murderer?" His voice dropped to a whisper on the last word.
I shook my head again, my curly hair bouncing around my jaw line. How had he reduced me to a stammering schoolgirl in a few short sentences? It made me angry to revert so easily into our teacher/student dynamic. "No! You know I never called you names. Stop evading the issue. I came because I know you're ill. I want to help you."
"I don't need help from a little girl." He spun, nearly knocking into me as he lurched toward the worktable. It seemed his anger had used up whatever benefits the activated charcoal had given him.
I jerked my wand and sub-vocalized, "Mobiliseat!"
A three-legged stool skidded across the floor to his side. Without even a glance in my direction, Snape dropped onto its seat, and I retreated downstairs.
I quickly decanted the completed solution, measuring an appropriate dose into another clean glass. On my way back through the sitting room, I grabbed the plate of egg scramble, cast a quick Warming Charm on the food, and climbed the stairs.
The second I entered the potions lab, Snape snarled, "Not leaving yet? Let me speed you on your way." He raised his wand, his motion awkward and jerky.
I considered dropping the things in my hand and going for my wand; instead, I gritted my teeth and crossed the room. "I'm not here to hurt you, Profe… er… Mr. Snape."
His eyes focused on the plate of eggs and a sneer pulled at his lips. "Eggs and onions. Well, well, well. You do live up to your reputation as a know-it-all, Granger."
Ignoring him, I placed the plate on the table in front of him. The Seven Percent Solution remained in my other hand. "Since you know what it is, please eat it."
Instead he swept the plate off the table in one violent motion, and stood up, knocking the stool over. "NO! I couldn't stomach another bite of eggs as long as I live – which shouldn't be more than another day."
"But they'll ease your symptoms."
He stepped toward me, utterly furious.
In that instant, I remembered volatility was one of the signs of withdrawal.
"No!" he shouted. "Nothing will help, you stupid girl. Don't you think I've tried? Don't you think I've eaten eggs and onions to offset the arsenic for years? I could have supported the entire Scottish poultry industry over the last decade." He slumped and would have fallen if I hadn't righted the stool. With a voice weary beyond measure, he muttered, "Go away, Granger. You've had your fun. You can tell all your little friends that you tried to save the Death Eater. Go home to Weasley."
"I'm not with Ron." Why that was important to anchor in his mind I really couldn't say, but my mind had been drawing conclusions it didn't like. "You said a decade. You've been taking powdered Chinese Fireball eggs for ten years?" My voice shrilled the last two words as the enormity of his sacrifice hit me like an Impediment Jinx.
Swaying at the realization, I hastily put the Seven Percent Solution on the worktable, and steadied myself against its solid presence. "You were doing this when I was at school? My god! You began doing this after the—"
"Triwizard Tournament. I would award you house points if they mattered." He nodded his head in my direction. "For all of that, you are the only one to figure it out. Dumbledore never knew. He just thought I liked an onion scramble."
I edged closer to him. "Why did you continue to take the potion after the war? You knew it was addictive, that it was toxic!"
His eyes sought mine; they were like black holes sucking all existing light from their surroundings. "Of course I knew it was poisonous… that it would kill me. I never expected to survive. Now go away and leave me in peace. There is no antidote."
My chin quivered, but I clenched my teeth until it stopped. Then I said, "No."
"No?"
"I'm not leaving, unless there's someone else who will come, someone you want me to call." I waited for him to answer. He said nothing. "I thought not. Now, I have something which might make a difference."
He made an oddly negative sound in this throat. I braced myself for a scathing diatribe, but he was suddenly wracked with a seizure and collapsed off the stool.
"No!" I quickly cast a non-verbal Cushioning Charm on the floor.
Snape spasmed uncontrollably. His body attempted to purge itself as he retched and eliminated. The stench almost made me gag. Abstractly, I knew these were side effects of the magically enhanced charcoal. The reality was far more immediate and distressing. I held Snape's head so he wouldn't choke, and mentally whispered thanks that he was unconscious to whatever Fates might be paying attention.
I flicked my wand. "Evanesco!"
Bile and other noxious bodily effluvia disappeared from Snape's person, his clothing, and the floor. I cast an Air Freshening Charm on the room, and carefully swabbed his mouth with a peppermint leaf before searching for his bedroom. All the while I ignored the whine of fear in the back of my brain telling me it was no use, that he had been taking arsenic for a decade, and there was no cure. Every cell in his body had been tainted by the toxic substance, and I was amazed afresh at what he had accomplished in spite of his dependency. It was no wonder his deterioration had seemed so rapid to me. It had been encroaching for years.
I found Snape's bedroom, a moderate-sized room with a connecting, closet-sized loo. The floral wallpaper was outdated, but had at one time been pretty and pink. The bed was surprisingly large but unmade. Its brass headboard reminded me of a children's book my mum had read to me when I was little. In a matter of seconds, I had the bed remade, cleansed, and ready for occupation. I changed the color of the duvet to something more suitable than faded cabbage roses.
Next came searching for clean clothing. Opening the closet, I knew I had guessed correctly days before in my office. The robes he had worn to Pennyweight's were his only wizarding attire. Ruthlessly, I went through his bureau, finding pants, undershirt and a pair of very old sweatpants. After a cleansing spell and a slight transfiguration spell on the sweatpants, I ended up with a t-shirt and a pair of draw-string lounging pants. Both were black.
Then I returned to the lab. I was relieved that Snape still breathed.
Immediately, I moved Snape to his bed, where I changed his clothing. Part of me wanted to close my eyes because… well… this was Snape. Part of me was embarrassed to admit that I was curious. When I got his outer clothing off, I just stared at the pale and very lean expanse of skin. There were surprisingly few scars for a man who had been a spy. He still had an unhealthy body odor, but it wasn't as pronounced now that his filthy robes had been removed.
Unable to bring myself to remove his pants, I pulled the soft cotton trousers over his underwear. Putting on his t-shirt was terribly awkward, impossible without discarding my wizarding robes and climbing onto his bed. Hoping he would remain unconscious during the proceedings, I managed to get his arms through the sleeves fairly easily. Yet, when confronted with the faded-but-still-present Dark Mark on his left forearm, I hesitated, but didn't stop myself from ever-so-lightly tracing the lines of Voldemort's brand. My heart raced when I leaned over him to ease his head through the neck of the shirt.
Of course, he would choose that moment to open his eyes.
I froze.
He didn't recognize me.
"My Dryad," he said.
Mint-freshened breath tickled my nostrils. His voice was low and caressing, and I felt the vibrations in the pit of my stomach, and lower.
How could I have forgotten the power of his voice?
"Have you come to ease my suffering?" he asked softly.
"I have."
"I've been waiting a long time for you, Dryad. Please don't make me wait much longer."
He was delirious.
"I won't." I soothed him, and managed to pull the t-shirt into place.
His hand caught mine before I slipped off the bed, and he pulled it to his face, against his cheek. His bloodshot eyes were closed, and his hand was trembling. "You'll sort it out, won't you?"
My mouth was dry and my heart was hammering in my chest. "I will. I'll sort it out."
He turned my hand and kissed its palm. "Say my name," he whispered.
"What?"
"Oh, Dryad, why won't you ever say my name?" His eyelids fluttered.
I didn't want him to see me, to recognize me as Hermione Granger, so I leaned close to his ear and murmured, "Severus."
Almost immediately, his breathing evened out, and I knew he had fallen asleep. I gently tugged my hand from his. My eyes prickled with incipient tears and I brushed the sleek hair off his care-worn brow, leaving him to rest.
~o0o~