Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.
Time frame: GoF
- A dark place
The sound rose and fell. Long waves lapping at the shore, breaking to white foam over sand and gravel then drawing back, only to return a moment later. A never-ending, ever-changing melody that had something soothing, hypnotic almost...
But what the heck should he be doing by the sea?
That question - although it needed quite some time to worm its way into his foggy brain - somehow proved rather insistent.
Severus Snape slowly became aware that he was lying, smooth stone against his left cheek, cold under his hands. His limbs were heavy; numb like the rest of his body except for an unpleasant tingling sensation directly along his spine and a faint headache, throbbing just above his left eyebrow. His head seemed stuffed with cobwebs. Even to think of moving was too much an effort and so he simply stayed were he was, face down on the ground.
Besides, playing dead was never a bad idea when waking in unknown locations.
He would have smiled wryly had he had the strength.
Time passed. The sea hissed and breathed, whispered with many different voices. He drifted along, not really awake but not really unconscious either. The tingling sensation crawled down his back and up again, spreading slowly to his arms and fingertips only to withdraw a moment later and travel all the way down to his toes. He had not known that one's body could feel so chained to the floor. Every heartbeat, every intake of breath so overly prominent, exhausting even.
Parting his lips slightly in an attempt to ease his breathing Snape made a strange discovery. The air tasted of ... sweat. Old sweat and the memory of mud clinging to wet clothes. And above all the unmistakable smell of dry wood and broomcare, sickeningly sweet.
He dreamt. He knew he dreamt - of a room he idly recognized as the broomshed under the Quidditch stadium, with broomsticks lined up against the wooden walls, hanging from gleaming hooks at the ceiling, crates with spare handles and bundles of new twigs neatly piled at the back. He had to be dreaming because he had no reason whatsoever to be there, no desire whatsoever to invade Madam Hooch's treasured refuge; the last time he had set foot in there in fact three years ago after refereeing that Quidditch match to keep Potter out of trouble.
Strange, but in his befuddled state the memory lacked much of its usual anger.
But there was something about Potter and trouble... Something important, something he should remember, needed to remember...
Aaah, yes. Of course. Potter - true son of his father that he was - had once more managed to poke his nose into things none of his business and sneak his way into the Triwizard Tournament as a second Hogwarts champion. And suddenly the pulsing sound that had continued to roll over him all the time got a completely different meaning. It wasn't the sea. It was a crowd. A huge, distant crowd; hundreds of people talking at the same time, their voices blending together until it was one unintelligible roaring noise in the background. It was the night of the third task.
Snape blinked or better he tried to blink, his leaden eyelids merely fluttering before falling shut again. But somehow that didn't matter much. From what he had glimpsed it was dark around him anyway and actually so much easier to drift back into his comfortable reverie than to try and sort things out.
Unfortunately a tiny nagging voice in the back of his head insisted he should do exactly that.
It had a point though. How DID he get here? He had been in the top box with Dumbledore and his more important guests when the champions entered the maze that much he remembered. And watching the third task had turned out to be even more boring than staring at the lake for an hour because the magical map that was supposed to keep everybody informed about the progress behind those hedges had malfunctioned within the first ten minutes. Any attempt at repair had proved futile, leaving Mad-Eye Moody the only one to assess completely what was going on inside.
Under different circumstances Snape would have snorted disgustedly.
At least - at LEAST Dumbledore had taken great pains to explain his choices in detail this time. Had probably been afraid to find his Potions master's resignation on his desk again. But even warned and grudgingly accepting the old man's reasoning the year had been bad enough.
Whatever the advantages of having the ancient Auror around with so many strangers all over the school - Moody had never forgiven that he had not been informed when Snape turned spy for the Order. Completely ignoring the fact that actually nobody had been ... well, except one but that one was dead. Anyway, of course it was not his dear friend Dumbledore the old bastard was blaming. No, he had conveniently settled for a much easier target. To make things worse Mad-Eye might well have fallen in disgrace with the Ministry - thank Merlin for that! - but he STILL had enough influence to be dangerous for an ex-Death Eater. Especially now that the Dark Mark was coming back. Add that fool Karkaroff to the mix and you got a really explosive concoction.
Barging in on his forth-year Potions class and almost showing his arm in front of the students, really. Not without reason he had tried to avoid the man all year. Unfortunately Karkaroff - as headmaster of Durmstrang however that had happened - had of course been invited into the top box too. But even that blasted idiot had had enough sense to keep his mouth shut about certain things in the presence of the Minister for Magic himself.
Snape managed a weak frown as his wandering mind returned abruptly to the events of this evening.
This evening... He had borne the noise of the meaningless conversations all around him - from time to time interrupted by Bagman's magically magnified voice repeating Moody's constant "all's still reasonably well inside but no one has reached the Cup yet" - as long as he could. Astonishingly long, in fact. But finally he had silently slipped from his seat in the back to escape downstairs for a while. It had been time to show himself among the students and scare them back to order anyway.
Unfortunately luck was not with him tonight. On the bottom step he had run straight into Karkaroff, returning from the hospital wing, and the man had immediately started ranting about cheating and unfair treatment of his school champion. He just caught that Krum as well as Miss Delacour were still unconscious when inevitably the topic had turned to more serious things. So, since he could not get rid of the nervous wizard, he had allowed himself to be dragged into the near broomshed albeit with gritted teeth. And then...
HIS DARK MARK HAD BURNT!
Snape's eyes snapped open and he shot up, crashed head first into brooms and went down again, shielding his face against tumbling wood. Kicking and flailing he struggled up a second time, twigs breaking under his feet as he stumbled over invisible sticks. He found the handle by hitting his hand rather painfully, jerked the door open and staggered out, only a convenient pillar keeping him from falling flat on his face.
He had not answered a summons!
Panic and fear shook him like a leaf as he gripped his left forearm with crushing force. Ripping his sleeve back without thinking he stared wildly at the ugly mark on his skin, black, burning black and frighteningly clear. Full understanding turned his blood to ice.
He had not answered a summons of the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord had risen, the Dark Lord had really risen again and he - he had not answered His summons. He was dead. He was dead, he was - was dead, he was ... where was his wand?
Snape abruptly let go of his arm and started patting his pockets frantically.
Where was his... Utter humiliation and embarrassment swept over him as he found the precious instrument in its usual place. How COULD he have been so stupid and turn his back to Karkaroff? How could he EVER explain this to the Dark Lord without being hexed into oblivion if not simply killed on the spot? Yes, he and Dumbledore had made plans what to do if He should rise again; at least as much as you could make plans for the unpredictable... But none of these plans ever involved not answering a summons!
Dumbledore. He had to find Dumbledore. The old man would know what to do.
Fighting for a tiny scrap of control Snape pushed off the pillar. His legs were like jelly and swearing he wondered what other curses Karkaroff had thrown at him in his panic. Oh, if he ever got Igor in front of his wand again he would put the hexes he had learned from his mother to good use!
Stumbling from left to right Snape somehow managed to stay on his feet and move forward although swaying dangerously. His vision blurred and cleared then blurred again. The roar of the crowd filled his ears. His outstretched hands met a wooden wall and gratefully he followed it, feeling his way along rough planks. Then his fingers touched only empty air and he staggered to a halt, realizing too late that in his confusion he had taken the wrong direction. The Quidditch pitch opened in front of him and there - dark against the towering hedges of the maze - stood a bent, disfigured shadow, staring at him.
Time froze.
The noise of the crowd died away, taking Snape's breath with it.
He could not move, could not look away, could do nothing but watch as the dark figure lifted a wooden leg and slammed it back down on the ground, lifted it and slammed it down; the sound almost visible, a dull, menacing thump, thump on the grass that seemed to vibrate in his very soul. And still a beady black eye stared at him out of the lopsided face while the other, unnaturally blue, was rotating violently in any direction before suddenly fastening on him with terrifying stillness. The mismatched eyes widened, raw emotion burning deep inside as the man took another step and Snape recoiled from this gaze like from a physical blow, unconsciously cradling his left arm to his chest.
This was more than wounded pride of a stubborn man. This was more than obsessed distrust. This was far more than deepest personal dislike. This was hate. Burning, smouldering, all-consuming hate. Hate of such wild, intense madness as Snape had never seen in his life.
He turned and fled without a second thought.
And as he ran the veil around his mind finally tore apart.
"Dumbledore!"
Staggering up the last stairs and into the top box he ruthlessly forced his way to the front row where Dumbledore still sat and listened with a slightly dazed expression to Fudge's ongoing monolog.
"Dumbledore!"
The innocent blue eyes snapped up with unexpected alertness and suddenly the old wizard was on his feet just as Snape - throwing caution to the wind - cast the strongest Muffliato he could manage around them.
"Dumbledore, the Dark Lord -"
A deafening scream of many voices erupted from the stands as people jumped from their seats, cutting him short. They spun around.
Down in the pitch three things had suddenly appeared directly in front of the maze.
Cedric Diggory, lying with the terrible stillness of a broken doll. The Triwizard Cup, toppled onto its side. And Harry Potter, face down in the middle, clutching them both.