Summary: (Crossover) Harry Potter/Witcher
AU: [HG/SS] Hermione disappeared from a hospital after a massive freak storm and explosion hit London, and the Grangers never got to take her home. In an altered past, Lord Voldemort releases both Death Eaters and monsters en masse to take out Muggles and magical alike to further his own purposes, and everything is going exactly to plan— well, until it isn't.
Beta Love: The Dragon and the Rose… if she can find me.
(Was that ever in any doubt? - Dragon)
A/N: This was last written back in January of 2020, so I am posting it as EAD since it was never published or finished. I was binging on the Witcher 3 and its soundtrack back when I wrote this, and my love of the series came from the game long before Netflix made a series of it. I have not had the honour of reading the source material as back in the day, it was only in Polish.
Warning: This is being published for Evil Author Day, and I have no intention of finishing it as I have so many other stories I need to work on and so many dang bunnies to wrangle.
Silver is for Monsters
"People"—Geralt turned his head—"like to invent monsters and monstrosities. Then they seem less monstrous themselves."
― Geralt of Rivia
The storm in London that night was beyond anything anyone had ever seen in recorded history, and it was scaring many families into trying to evacuate the city if it weren't for the lightning and wind that seemed even scarier to face than sheltering at home.
It had come out of nowhere.
There had been no warning, no broadcasts, no predictions even from the conspiracists or lay meteorologists.
Worse, it took out the electric, ripping through the area as it made the the UK reel as its more densely populated areas were sent to its knees. Traffic jammed in the arteries of the big cities, public transit shut down, and the air traffic controllers screeched to a halt.
It was like a bomb had gone off in the heart of the UK and taken out everything that had ever known the touch of energy just ground to a halt.
For panicked hours, the very pulse of England was only evident in the rural areas—areas where candle lanterns and more "primitive" generators and woodburning stoves still reigned.
In the dark of the city, where a blanket of darkness made even the stars seems bright. The hospital staff stumbled around in the dark of the maternity ward where frightened mothers attempted to comfort their newborns even as they attempted not to be rattled by the storms.
When the power came on, the nurses and doctors moved to check on their tiny charges and their mothers, and one nurse found Mrs Granger passed out in exhaustion. They rescued the infant from her chest, gently tucking them into the bassinet. She checked the band on the baby's ankle and frowned. She went to the light of the hall to check the text. She rubbed her eyes and squinted, and for a moment the text seemed to shift and move, swirling into something that was foreign and seemingly impossible.
A crack of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning came together, and the nurse seemed startled and stunned a moment, staring into space.
"Is my baby okay?" Mrs Granger asked sleepily from the chair. "How is she?"
The nurse shook off the fuzzy feeling and smiled, checking the tag. Everything seemed in order. "Yes! Sorry, I was just reading her band. Hermione is fine. Sleeping better than the rest of us. I'll just tuck her into the bassinet for you, dear."
"Thank you," Mrs Granger said, her tired weariness tugging about her.
The storm rumbled as it made its exit, the worst of it seeming to have vanished into the night.
As the nurse left, Mrs Grangers soft snores signalled her instant descent into slumber, and she did not notice the dark forms that formed in the shadows, moving towards the crib. Dark claws and flashing teeth glinted when the lightning flashed before darkening the room once more.
They growled, swatting at each other and then peering into the bassinet.
The baby, sound asleep in the swaddle, slept on obliviously.
They snarled at each other as the biggest one took a big whiff of the baby's scent and pulled away with a jerk. It shook its head and growled.
The others looked to the biggest for direction.
The creature fell onto all fours and moved back into the darkness apparently satisfied that what it was looking for was not to be found, the others following.
There were frantic reports from some of the other mothers the next morning that they had nightmares of horrific creatures looming over their babies, but all were accounted for.
All were healthy and unharmed.
As the nightshift nurses gave their reports to the day shift, the power outage was the talk of the hospital. The nightmares, they attributed to the contrasting silence and noise of the storm that had pitched the UK into an umbral almost prehistoric darkness.
The rain was pouring down in sheets on the night when a young wizard named Severus Snape first heard the prophecy spewed by some bug-eyed witch in a shady candlelit tavern. He was maybe three steps away from apparating away when a vivid flash of lightning revealed the beasts that were slavering in the darkness, waiting to attack with eager claws and jagged fangs.
The Dark Lord's boogey-beasts.
They needed no masks to be utterly terrifying.
Barghests, the infamous hellhounds which had plagued Great Britain since Lord Voldemort had tampered with the ancient portals and summoned— a number of things out of them, but the hellhounds were only one of many, many twisted beasts and creatures that had come through since.
Now, all who did not immediately agree to join the Dark Lord were prey, and Severus had no doubt that the beasts were waiting to see if he was to become an ally or food.
A knot formed in his stomach as he thought of Lily being torn to pieces by beasts—
Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...
Lily was pregnant, and she was due— at the end of July.
The seventh month—
He was such an idiot! His pain and his eagerness to be on the winning side had blinded him to the very things she had warned him about.
Darkness and murder.
Now, he stared down at the eager barghests— proof of his Lord's unholy union with Darkness— and knew he was Merlin's own fool.
They would kill him now because he knew.
They knew he had no desire to murder an entire world.
Power was a hollow thing when all those that opposed you had to be murdered to have it. What good would it be powerful if those like Lily died for him to get it?
Dumbledore could defend the tavern, a part of him thought. But then, he could not be everywhere at once. Even as powerful a wizard as Albus Dumbledore was, far too many would die, and what Severus wanted was respect, not the blood of countless innocents on his hands.
The Dark Lord had already proven without a doubt that he wasn't above murder—
Power at whatever the cost.
The largest barghest slavered and growled with its hackles raised up, looking quite eager to rip him to pieces. Severus braced himself for the attack and raised his wand.
He would not die quietly tonight. He, too, was capable of great feats of magic, and he would prove it right here while fighting for both his own life and the lives of those who didn't even know his name.
The beast leapt, snarling, leading the way for the rest of the baying pack to follow, and Severus felt his magic gather as his fate was sealed in a critical moment of truth.
Lily might never know (or care) what choices he made on this night, but he made those choices anyway.
One vicious slicing hex—
A disembowelling curse—
Once more. And another.
Pieces of beast were flying in all directions, but instead of striking fear into them, they only rallied harder against him.
One on one or one on three, Snape felt he had it down pretty well, but he was not used to having to fight so physically in martial combat, and these hellish creatures were not playing by wizarding— human rules.
It wasn't that the magical world didn't have plenty of dangerous creatures, no. It was that he wasn't used to having so many of them unified in their fierce desire to rip him into bloody, screaming shreds.
Thanks to the Dark Lord Voldemort—
Monsters were real.
They were not things that could be reasoned with or their behaviour anticipated.
They were bloodthirsty, strong, and preternaturally fast— far faster than most mortal beings could cope with for long.
He was bleeding profusely already, his pale arms slashed to ribbons. He could barely hold onto his wand. His hair was soaked to the scalp in both beast and his own blood, matting his hair down into a sticky curtain of gore.
His breath was coming in harsh, painful gasps, his youthful stamina quickly failing.
He simply wasn't built for this sort of thing—
Hell, no wizard or witch was.
Magical battles could be quite draining, yes, but it was all about magical force of will, not dodging claws and fangs.
And Muggles?
Hah.
How could a non-magical human possibly fight off a seething horde of bloodthirsty beasts that moved preternaturally fast— hell, supernaturally fast.
Where had these unholy beasts even come from? Nothing held within any bestiary in the world was even close to these creatures.
Oh, there were similarities perhaps, but it wasn't good enough.
They just weren't— "right" for Earth.
This Earth.
Or any… Earth.
He was going to die here tonight, and no one would ever know but these terrible, unnatural creatures— the vanguard for the nightmare that was fast coming. These were the foot soldiers of something far, far worse.
And he had no one there to watch his back.
Not Lily.
Not Slytherin.
Not Dumbledore.
Just him.
Oh, well, he supposed he could summon Fiendfyre, but it would likely rage out of control and take out half the bloody town after he died.
If he attracted any more attention, it was quite likely that additional innocents would end up getting hurt or worse because the drunken idiots doing their level best to get utterly knackered at the local tavern wouldn't be able to effectively help anyone.
Knowing his luck, he'd die at the wands of the "good guys" before they realised he was on their side.
If they ever realised it.
Given his less-than-sterling reputation (in no small part thanks to James Potter and his moronic band of mates), that was hardly likely to happen.
Well, he had already cast his die—
Now it was time to see how many more of the beasts he could take out before he expired in an inglorious death.
One more down.
One more…
His other arm was numb, hanging useless at his side.
The end was nigh.
He heard yelling, sensed magic gathering around him.
Damnation—
Would it be meant to take him out?
Or an attempt to help?
A few spells tore into his vulnerable back, sending him flying headlong into a tree.
"Snivellus must've summoned these monsters!"
"Take him out, we take them out!"
Well, that answered that question, he thought, coughing up blood.
He lay crumpled on the ground, back slumped up against a tree. A river of blood trickled steadily from his nose, mouth, and— everywhere else.
Gods, but his ruddy joke of a life seemed so terribly clear in that moment, as if he couldn't possibly see anything else.
The pack of barghests were attacking the Marauders and their equally intoxicated mates now, seemingly satisfied or perhaps they were distracted by the fresh wave of enemies and were happy enough to ignore his weak, slumped almost-corpse in favour of fresh meat.
Only in the heat of the moment were the Marauders immortal, fearless, and incapable of error—
Reality soon set in, however, with howls and the gnashing of teeth as one of their numbers set upon a terrified Peter Pettigrew and ripped his wand arm clean off.
Screaming.
Such a shockingly shrill girly scream— and what a thing to notice right now.
"Wormtail!"
Hexes and curses flew in all directions. Screams rang out as people hastily sealed and barricaded the taverns and other town buildings. It was the oldest philosophy of mankind— close the doors and windows and don't let evil in. If you couldn't see it, they believed that it somehow couldn't see you.
Peter's screams soon stopped in favour of a sickening wet gurgle, and a wave of frantic spell-casting followed. The beasts fell around them, but there were so many more in the rear like endless rows of shark-like teeth. Ready and waiting to replace the fallen, the broken, and incapacitated.
The idiots were rapidly losing their minds (and their lives) amidst the frantic battle.
Making tragic mistakes—
Forgetting it was all about life or death and perhaps many were not realising that…
Regardless, the end result was precisely the same.
He could hear Potter wheezing, his breathing so distinctive after a decade of torment.
Yet, Snape realised he gained no pleasure in his misery. Now, at the moment when death was so utterly close, he realised just how much it didn't matter.
It didn't even matter that Lily had savagely repudiated him.
She had never truly loved him, anyway.
It didn't matter that the Marauders were a swaggering gang of immature bullies who had never grown up— sticking to some erroneous, twisted ideal while the truth of it all still remained elusive.
It didn't matter that Dumbledore was very likely inside the Hogs Head providing aid to the cowering idiots instead of out here fighting.
Maybe he was saving someone, after all.
Maybe not.
Really, that didn't matter, either.
Perhaps, if they saved even one life to escape this slaughter in the making, it would be enough.
"Why didn't taking out Snape make his summoned hell-beasts go away?!" he heard Black yelling as he panted harshly, flinging more spells.
"It wasn't Snape!" Lupin's voice yelled back, short of breath, his voice garbled by blood. "He was fighting against them!"
"Impossible! Wormtail, get up! Get up, mate! Don't you DARE die on us!"
"Look out, Padfoot!"
Snape saw their forms seem to blur, and suddenly there was a great stag and a grim-like dog that was fighting beside Lupin.
The irony was thick enough to choke on.
Lupin, the werewolf, was out there fighting as a human as his best mates had all devolved into animals to survive.
Clarity came fast as to why Dumbledore hadn't really been worried about Potter and his gang being hurt by a werewolf. They were Animagi. What a secret to take to the grave.
They didn't seem to realise that becoming something smaller or more prey-like at the moment wasn't exactly the best idea they'd ever had.
Now, they were more injured, bloody, and far less able to defend themselves.
Brilliant, that.
He wondered what Lily would think of their latest impulsive act of stupidity.
Would she assume that he was the one who took out her precious Potter and his little cronies?
They-who-could-do-no-wrong-despite-all-evidence-to-the-contrary?
Would she even spare a moment to think of him with anything other than bitter hatred and spite?
His fingers fumbled with the vial of potion in his pocket, and he struggled to drink it, spilling some of it on himself even as he did so. It might buy him just a little more time— if he had enough time for it to take effect.
The boogey-beasts were massing again, only this time the barghest were joined by a creature that seemed to stand on two legs like a man, but that was where the resemblance ended.
Wide jaws filled with huge, jagged teeth, huge hairless bodies covered in random warts, barrel-chested, finger-like toes, and long fingers joined together with a partial webbing were the only features he could see properly enough to identify. Summoned to the battle by the sounds of the fight, long funnelled bat-like ears twisted and moved to catch every sound.
Glowing red eyes that seemed to suggest the epitome of evil, even to one such as he who certainly knew better than to judge evil by physical appearance alone.
The Marauders didn't stand a bloody chance.
One by one, they were bodily flung against the tavern's walls and roof, the distinctive sounds of their bones breaking followed by the sickening tearing of moist flesh and ripping tendons.
The greater beast let out a hideous shrieking roar as it turned and stared right at Snape.
So, this is it, then.
He had no doubt it would be over quickly.
The beast leapt, cruel claws and fangs glinting like swords in the night—
ShhhHHHHHnnnKKKKK!
The sound of ripping, tearing flesh came just before the bright glint of silver in the moonlight. The flash of movement was too swift to see, just a pale blur in the darkness, and the scent of fresh herbs mingled with hints of leather and metal.
A slender form reached out, and two gloved hands wrapped around the head and jerked sharply, dislocating the great beast's jaw even as a flash of silver slammed into its skull through an eye with an unnerving breaking sound.
Blood spattered as the movement of his unexpected saviour ripping their sword from the funnel-eared beast and twirling, cutting the beast's head off in one swift, merciless movement.
Blood seemed to sizzle against the blade, the glint of some sort of oil mixed with the beast's blood and the wound it had made. The beast's corpse steamed faintly where each slash had hit home before it finally grunted and lay still in the dirt.
The barghest snarled and circled, moving in to attack and leaping simultaneously, with the clear intent of tearing the newcomer to shreds.
The figure, their back to Snape, held their sword in one hand and quickly traced some sort of symbol in the air with the other hand, and a forceful blast of unseen energy blasted outward, knocking the beasts back in unison. Before they could get up, they traced another sign, and this time it set the raging beasts on fire as a white-hot nova formed around them and slid outward in a blinding wave.
The hellbeasts howled in agony as their bodies burned, but they didn't suffer for long. Flashes of moonlit silver swordplay neatly beheaded each one until the clearing was still and silent but for the slight heaves of breath from his unexpected saviour.
Slight heaves.
Barely but a difference from a person who had just moved a full cauldron of potion without using a spell to make it lighter—
They turned to face him, and he caught the eerie greenish-yellow glint of feline eyes— eyes whose pupils narrowed to slits and took in every bit of moonlight. Even in the dark, he could see them— and even in the dark the pupils were distinctly inhuman.
It was a female.
She was dressed head-to-toe in skin-tight leathers that did not appear to hamper movement (that much was clear from watching her) and her exposed skin was as pale as the moon. Locks of cool moonlight-hair that made the telltale paleness of a Malfoy seem almost swarthy by comparison framed an equally fair complexion. Wild curls framed her face in front of her ears, but the rest was secured behind her in a lush ponytail, out of sight and out of mind.
She knelt by his side in a flash of movement, all fluid grace, just like a cat.
She said absolutely nothing as her hand pressed firmly against his neck, searching for a pulse. Her feline eyes stared into him, and he felt as if she was somehow staring deep into his very soul.
A sound of clattering footsteps and a door being forced open broke the eerie silence.
Yelling and a number of loud voices told Snape that the other would-be rescuers had finally discovered their bravery now that all the monsters were dead—
Shocked cries of horror were now mixed with several orders being barked out amongst the new arrivals. Cracks of Apparition were sounding off as the Aurors arrived fashionably late to the party, one unlucky member of which landed in a pile of steaming barghest guts and slipped onto his rear in an undignified slide of blood and gore .
They were all focusing their attention on the gravely injured Potter, Black, Pettigrew, and Lupin.
The silent female's eyes narrowed as she wrapped his arms neatly in cloth bandages and seemed to wait for them to come looking for him—
He wanted to tell her that wasn't going to happen. No one came to his aid, ever.
Well, that wasn't exactly true anymore, now was it?
She had.
She poured some kind of fragrant, herbal-smelling liniment over the bandages, and it stung at first, but then a strange, almost pleasant numbness spread up his wounded arms. She wrapped up his arms again as well as part of his chest, caring not for the fact she had to rip a hole into his robes in order to do so.
All the while he couldn't stop staring at the hilts of two enormous, very obvious swords strapped securely to her well-muscled back.
Swords.
There were holders obviously designed for bottles and vials strapped onto her belt, and he could smell the scent of expert potion work, even though the scents involved weren't quite right to his nose. A bottomless leather pouch at her hip held still more items.
He tried to speak, but she jerked her head sharply, giving him a warning look with her large feline eyes and placing her index finger lightly against her lips.
Usually, he would have indignantly resisted squelching of any kind, but she had just saved his life.
She stepped back into the concealing shadows, utterly silent, if not even more silent than a ghost.
He wondered if she was abandoning him at last, but then he heard quick footsteps coming closer.
Whatever was she waiting for?
"Anyone else, Raleigh?" a loud voice called out.
Multiple sounds of Disapparation signalled the departure of the Aurors who had side-alonged Potter and his crew for emergency medical attention.
"Get back 'ere, Raleigh, that young Potter bloke said there was only his friends."
The portly man, who positively reeked of strong alcohol, belched and shuffled back towards the tavern. "Thought I saw sum'tin, ay? Guess I was just seein' tings."
As the sounds faded, Snape realised his rescuer was staring back towards the tavern, scowling darkly.
Perhaps, he thought, she had believed they would come and offer him aid as well.
It was a strange thing, not being able to read someone.
Typically it was as easy as breathing, even without Legilimency.
He knew she was unhappy, but not exactly why, and even that was but a barest turn of the lips on a grim line. Her cat-like eyes were not the window to her soul, unlike most other people. Her mind was very much her own and as remote and alien as another world.
She carefully cleansed her sword of blood by wiping it first on the hide of one of the dead barghests and then with a piece of cloth. He could tell the ritual in it, but then he felt it—
There was a tremor of magic as her hand moved over the blade. Runes in a language he had never seen before glowed on the surface of the metal that he was sure was goblin silver— or something that was really, really close.
A noisy scuffle of feet in the brush caused her to turn, and in a flash the silver sword went back into a scabbard only for her to pull out another one— the metal on the new sword was darker and steel, but no less well-cared for.
Still, she said nothing, not even bothering to tell him to be quiet, not that he needed the warning.
"Though' I heard sum'ing," the drunken wizard slurred again.
Raleigh, Severus remembered his friends calling him. Friends was probably a bit too generous. Drinking fellows. People who wouldn't judge him for being a drunk.
"He'sh a Dark wizard," Raleigh slurred. "Better to let 'im die." He pointed his wand at her. "Mebbe yer a Dark witch too. Mebbe a rih' nice bounty on yer purty 'ead."
His wand hand was barely straight, but Severus knew intent was the more dangerous factor.
The woman, however, did not move. Her sword was poised with the blade down, but her body was tense as a coiled spring and ready, one hand stretched out forward just slightly, fingers moving in the dark, barely seen.
The drunkard's curse came quickly and recklessly, and Severus struggled to throw up a shield in time—
In his mind she was a Muggle, despite the unmistakable hint of magic about her. Witches didn't carry swords.
Swords were—
Primitive.
Uncouth weapons of Muggles.
His spell went up, but the woman's arms crossed in front of her, and the spell hit her straight at the wrists. She grunted, and the blast amplified, and she pushed it outward and back at the man.
He only survived due to a drunken trip backwards on a trailing vine.
Blind, stupid luck on his part.
The woman's sword was at the man's throat, and her face was as unemotional as stone. Her intent was clear.
Move and die.
Simple.
The drunk did the only thing any self-respecting idiot with a wand could do: he immediately pissed himself, babbled incoherently, and dropped his wand in the dirt.
She narrowed her eyes at him and then sheathed her sword, turning her back to the drunk to tend to Snape.
Severus saw the movement on the drunkard's part only just barely because of her positioning, but she turned immediately in a blur of motion that was far too quick to actually see.
The man was pinned up against the tree trunk with her hand at his throat, and only a few seconds later, he was tied up in rope that bound him securely from head-to-foot.
Her lip curled with obvious disdain, then she jerked the rope even tighter and swiftly side-stepped the terrified man's vomit. She took away his wand and eerily threw it to embed into one of the highest branches in one of the nearby trees. It made a strange twanging noise rather like the spring on the back of a door in some Muggle houses.
Seeming to realise that no one else was going to bestir themselves to help him, the woman pulled him up and easily slung him over her shoulder, carrying him like an inglorious sack of grain.
Snape was so stunned by this that he didn't have time to so much as open his mouth before she tore off into the night at a dead run.
Carrying him through the forest.
Like it was nothing at all.
Somehow, he had passed out.
He awoke to find himself wrapped snugly in warm furs on a surprisingly comfortable bed of sorts on the ground. Even more amazingly, he did not ache near as badly as he thought he would.
Shadows moved about in the gloom of pre-dawn, and he struggled to move, to find his wand, to defend himself—
"Peace, human," he heard an unfamiliar voice rumble. "We did not permit you to rest here just to trample you under hoof the very moment you awoke."
Severus' eyes widened.
Centaurs.
Vicious, human-hating brutes.
A flash of white against dark—
She was there.
Not a dream, after all.
She stood beside probably the largest centaur that Severus had ever seen up close, just as still and seemingly unconcerned as he remembered her.
She was real.
Then she knelt down beside a young centaur. By human standards, it would be a young child of perhaps seven or eight, but Severus wasn't terribly unfamiliar with centaurs save for the stories of them being brutal savages.
He hadn't even realised they had children.
If you believed the stories, there were only male centaurs, drunkards and rapists, all.
The woman placed her hands on the centaur-child's leg, and a brush of warm magic glowed from her hands. She bound and wrapped the wound, just as she had for Severus.
The centaur-child stomped its leg a few times and then smiled warmly at her, giving her a brazen hug about the chest.
The woman seemed to soften a bit, the tight coiled-spring tenseness in her shoulders easing a touch.
She was such a dichotomy, a being of both an intense alien resolve and a peculiar detachment which made her very hard to read and yet also quite expressive and capable of tremendous compassion.
He had never seen such utter ruthlessness and yet such gentle care. Anyone who would befriend or be trusted around the centaur was clear evidence of that.
No one that he knew of, save for Dumbledore himself, ever parlayed with the centaur.
It was why the Forbidden Forest was, well, forbidden. One of the reasons, anyway.
There were a great many reasons that were quite unknown to him, but Dumbledore had always made it clear that the Forbidden Forest was, well— forbidden.
The mysterious woman's regard landed on him, and again he felt as though she were weighing his soul for the afterlife. The Dark Lord had done much the same, only it had been more an evaluation of his possible usefulness. He felt strangely vulnerable and exposed in this woman's unflinching gaze.
It was an odd feeling having someone look him straight in the eye without either attacking him, flinging insults, or hurriedly scampering away thinking him surely a Dark wizard or perhaps something even worse. His peers in Slytherin saw him as useful, if merely as a tool to be used in their own personal schemes. He'd soon fallen in line, just as all Slytherins did, and despite what Lily apparently thought, it was all about simple survival long before it became an ingrained habit.
"Hermione," a silken voice called softly.
A dark figure swiftly entered the woodland clearing with a swirl of voluminous travelling cloak. It was lined in intricate runes the likes of which Snape had never seen before. He leaned on a gnarled, obviously well-loved, wooden staff that seemed to be somehow both alive and yet substantial enough to hold the full weight of an adult and be used effectively as a weapon.
The woman— Hermione— rushed up to the new figure, embracing him with clear fondness.
He pulled down his hood to expose a bald, human-looking male with a pointed salt and pepper beard. His cloak hung about his shoulders over highly-detailed robes, and an ornate silver amulet hung around his neck with a shimmering, flawless green amber focus containing the shape of a serpent. Silver lupine shapes decorated the edges of his robes in a fine brocade.
He looked so achingly familiar.
"Daughter," the man whispered tenderly. "Tend to your own wounds, if you would."
The young woman tched, shaking her head, and only then did Severus realise that the woman's right leg was bleeding heavily from a set of deep gashes in the form of claw marks.
And she had carried him off into the night—
Hermione tugged a smoky grey vial off her belt and pulled the cork out with her teeth, instantly downing the potion within. She winced as it seemed to shoot through her system immediately, the veins in her slender neck standing out as a pained grimace travelled from head-to-toe.
Her eyes—
Merlin, her eyes.
They glowed bright and vivid like molten pools of amber, set against the striking contrast of her moonlight-pale face.
She jerked her head, closing her eyes before pouring the rest of the potion over her leg wound. The wound hissed, steaming, and she stared at it until it stopped. Then, and only then, did she place her hand over the wound and—
Magic flowed from her delicate fingers and into the wound, and the skin closed and healed perfectly, as with Dittany.
Why, then, did she use a potion at all if she could heal with a simple touch?
"Here, boy, drink this," the man said, thrusting a glazed clay bottle in front of him. "It will neutralise the taint so you can heal fully— fear not. What my daughter just took is a bit different from the potion you require."
Severus took the potion, eyeing the bottle but not drinking from it.
The man snorted at him, waving his hand dismissively. "Fine. Take it and heal or do not and needlessly scar and ache until it is your time to rot away beneath the Earth," he said. "I care not which option you choose. I have no tolerance for the suspicion and judgment of the ignorant and uneducated."
Severus flinched at that, both angered and shamed.
The woman— Hermione— placed one hand on the older man's shoulder. "Father," she said, her voice almost too quiet to hear. "I doubt he even knows who you are."
The older man frowned. "Has my old House become so degraded in my absence that they cannot even— disgusting! Have they all devolved into a flock of mindless sheep who would so blindly mould themselves into what those ridiculous stories claim them to be? So much for free-thinking and allowing the children to make up their own minds. See what that has done!"
"I was once a free-thinker too, father," she pointed out. "Am I but a mere sheep to be led away to the slaughter?"
The aged man slumped, sighing deeply as the winds that had stoked his righteous indignation finally puttered out. "You were never one of those mindless sheep, my daughter. You have always been as swift as a serpent's strike and as fierce as the mighty gryphon."
"Then give him a chance to prove himself, father. He has only known you for a mere handful of minutes."
"He wears my colours so brazenly—"
"To him, you are but a phantom, only spoken of in the stories of old. Undoubtedly painted as the Muggle-hating villain by Rowena and Godric at your own request. Helga alone refused to participate, if only out of her great love for you."
The man closed his eyes. "You are right, my child. I forget— how terribly zealous they all became after Rowena's fateful prophecy. And dear Helga— she deserved far better than a mere phantom."
He glowered at Severus, his dark eyes fierce as he sketched an ironic bow. "Well, boy, as you have not yet put all the pieces together, I am Salazar Slytherin. In the aged flesh, as it were. And a great many years older than I appear to be."
Hermione rolled her eyes.
Salazar Slytherin?!
It was the same face that graced almost every wall in the Slytherin common room! Older, perhaps, but not by all that much, but who was really to say when it came to a magical being whose lifespan was often measured after the first century?
Severus found himself staring blankly, unable to process what his mind was trying to tell him. Impossible. Salazar Slytherin was centuries dead. He was but a pile of dust. This was either a great and impressive imposter or perhaps some long-lost distant relative.
Salazar snorted. "So, I am but dust, am I, boy?"
Severus' eyes widened.
Salazar Slytherin was one of the world's most gifted Legilimens— rumour had it that he needed no lock of gaze or even a wand to do so.
Was he really—?
"The potion will neutralise the toxins left by the barghests and the fleder," Hermione said, answering the question he hadn't remembered to voice. "Wounds inflicted by them always fester and do not heal well. Even those that do will scar. The potion must be brewed from the bile of the beast, and for—"
She tilted her head. "Humans, it must be distilled even further to prevent your death."
"Humans?"
Hermione's smile was tight, barely a turn of lips. "Even the most generous would barely call what I am human."
Severus could only stare. Of course, she was human. In the short time he had known her, she was far more human than anyone he knew.
Her lips turned upward but only slightly. "Many would—" She gave him a slow cat-like blink. "Disagree."
Normally, it would offend him that someone, anyone, would attempt… let alone succeed in reading him so easily, but there was a pooling of awe that these two strangers (one arguably not a stranger at all) just knew what he was thinking. The Dark Lord had found him to be "worth testing" but he'd also been quite appallingly intoxicated for the first and last time over Lily Evans.
Well, now Potter.
Suddenly, Lily didn't really seem worth all the—
Everything that had happened to him since the sodding cock up he'd made of his choices after being dragged to the Dark Lord with hollow promises of power and revenge.
His wounds were really starting to ache now, and he realised he should take that potion at once.
He unstoppered it and sniffed it, curious as to exactly what went into it, but it smelled alien to his mind. Whatever went into it wasn't anything like what he was used to.
Part of him screamed at him to toss it away. He had no idea what was in it.
Part of him told him to suck it up and drink it, as it was obviously brewed by someone far more experienced than he—
And part of him realised that if Hermione trusted Salazar implicitly, well… who was he to argue with that?
Why did it even matter what Hermione thought?
He frowned, staring into the swirling blue liquid.
Oh well, down the hatch.
Ugh, it tasted like rancid goblin piss!
Okay, well, if he were to imagine—
And then, suddenly, it was a pleasant minty flavour mixed with a hint of something like lemongrass.
His surprise must have shown on his face as Salazar laughed heartily at him, slapping his daughter on the back with undisguised amusement.
"Thank Hermione for the greatly improved flavour," Salazar chuckled. "She grew tired of it tasting like rancid alghoul vomit."
Severus blinked.
She was a potioneer too?
"All vatt'ghern are," Hermione said, her expression grim. "Some are just better than others." She paused, narrowing her eyes at Salazar. "I will admit, I became much more focused on my studies after father slipped Ortolan's elixir into my white gull."
Salazar dismissed her with a wave. "I couldn't have you dying before I could teach you everything."
Hermione sniffed, arching one brow. "Hn," she replied. "Everything is a very long list."
"I'll keep finding new things to add and keep it interesting," the elder wizard promised. "Tend to your hapless victim," he ordered, even though his expression seemed thoughtful. "Magic or no, he is exceedingly lucky to have survived the attacks. The spells here are— sadly limited."
With that, Salazar walked away and towards the thick gathering of centaurs on the other side of the clearing.
"Here," Hermione said, handing him a wooden bowl filled with a savoury venison stew and a spoon. "You should work on regaining some of your strength while your body heals."
It smelled far too wonderful not to eat it, and Severus did not fail to notice how she watched over him with her unflinching amber gaze. He eyed the scars that went across her jawline— claws had deeply gouged her there.
She gave a short chuckle as her fingers traced the scar. "I earned them before I could heal properly with magic— and before I could brew the right antitoxin. My body could heal it, but the scar remains. It is— expected for a witcher to have scars, and I am no exception."
"Witcher?" he echoed, baffled.
"Vatt'ghern," she explained. "Monster hunters."
"Vatt'ghern," Severus repeated slowly, "are a species?"
"A mutant," Hermione replied. "A… chosen profession."
"So, you're human."
"I was. Well, somewhat at best. But no longer."
Severus frowned.
Hermione tilted her head. "We are— mutants. Mutated at a very young age and trained to fight monsters. Most of our kind— do not survive the process. Our unique traits do not breed true, so the number of Vatt'ghern can only be increased by mutation. Often they are children taken from families that cannot care for them and a life with a chance to become a witcher is still better than outright starvation."
Hermione looked grim. "The odds are not good for one to survive the Trial of Grasses— the first and most important mutation. Eight out of ten boys die no matter how hard they train or how hard they prepare."
Severus seemed to realise something in that lingering silence after her words. "Without the mutations, the monsters win anyway."
Hermione smiled grimly. "Yes. It is much the same for sorcerers. What they possess is the ability to channel the 'source', but if not trained young, they will become babbling, drooling, near-oracles. The power is too much for most mature minds to fathom, and they are driven mad by it."
"You said boys," Severus remarked. "But what of the girls?"
Hermione smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "There is only one other female witcher, but she did not take the mutation. She travels the same Path that other witchers travel, but she did not require the mutation to survive— and no one wanted to risk it. The common belief is that if a male cannot survive the mutation any more than two times out of ten, the chances for a female must surely be even worse."
"Yet, you—"
Hermione smiled, this time a glint sparkled in her eyes. "The original formula was lost at the original stronghold, Kaer Morhen— the sorcerers that worked with the witchers there were all killed. My father came to them in the storm when the school seemed lost and unable to make more of their kind. He remade the formula— without the flaws. The chances are still fifty-fifty— but far better than it was, and females can take that risk now, should they choose to. But generally, they do not, for tradition is very strong and the rumours even stronger."
Insatiably curious now, Severus kept asking questions, inwardly happy that she was willing to speak of such secrets while still wondering why she trusted him with them. There was no doubt they were secrets. That much he could tell.
"So your own father sacrificed you, bargaining your life for a mere fifty-fifty chance of survival?"
"Nay," she said, shrugging. "He cast me into time, out in space to be fetched from a future world so the Sorcerers could not find me and mould me into their instrument. When they found me via scrying, he did fetch me again— I believe from the crib of what you would call a hospital. He raised me in secret for eleven years, and to save me from being used as a breeder for their ultimate power, he had me drink the potion— for it is common knowledge that a witcher is always sterile. I then trained in Kaer Morhen in the School of the Wolf while in secret learning all the ways of magic from my father."
"So, he is truly your father?"
"In all the ways that matter."
Severus felt like every question answered only gave him fifteen more questions, and his face must have shown his frustration because Hermione laughed. It was the first true sign of mirth she had shown since they had met.
"It is a complicated story," she admitted finally. "Many, many stories. What matters is, a great many years ago in your time, my father's best friend had a prophecy that he must travel to a place and time unknown— to save an ancient order that they might rescue a future quite unknown to them— here. He took it upon himself to disappear, casting his good name into shadow and suspicion and then he left behind everything he knew."
"Prophecies are often vague and dangerous things," Severus said, his eyes narrowing.
"Most, yes," Hermione said, not disagreeing. "But Rowena Ravenclaw was neither ignorant nor a fool, and her prophecies were never wrong. It took them five years to pick it apart and plan accordingly, and when they did, Godric and Rowena did their best to cover my father's disappearance while still giving him a place of honour in the school he helped build."
"The Muggle-born prejudice."
Hermione tilted her head. "I would not know what shape it took."
Severus sighed. "It really doesn't matter now, but let's just say that no one was inclined to go searching for Salazar Slytherin after he disappeared."
Hermione nodded her head and then stood up. "Eat. There will be time enough for talking later."
With that, she walked across the clearing where Salazar stood conversing with the centaur.
Severus struggled to sit up as something stabbed him sharply in the ribs.
He winced, pulling away the sleeping fur to find his wand neatly tucked away in the roll.
She'd known it was important to him even though she did not use one herself.
Ravenously hungry and unable to stand it any longer, he gobbled down the thick, meaty stew and wiped his face with his arm.
So much for proper manners.
If Lucius didn't simply kill him on sight, he'd have chided him thoroughly for such an atrocious display of shameful eating habits.
Huurrrp!
Yes, definitely atrocious.
A cacophony of giggling centaur foals gathered around and stared at him, whispering amongst themselves.
Severus sighed.
Wonderful.
He could move his arms again, and that was a good sign. The pain was swiftly easing, which was also a good sign. His arms weren't rotting off, and he still had both legs. That was, at the very least, even better.
He cracked his neck, rubbed his shoulders, and carefully extricated himself from the warm sleeping roll. It was, oddly, even more comfortable than the four poster bed back at Hogwarts and definitely more comfortable than the narrow pine box and manky old mattress full of broken springs that he'd had back home at Spinner's End.
He neatly rolled it back up and used the well-loved leather strap to hold it in place. He hung it on a nearby branch to keep the critters out of it. Nothing said welcome back to bed quite like a scorpion sting to the backside.
He walked past the still-giggling foals and followed the narrow path to the river. He marvelled at how beautiful it was having never wandered this far into the forest before. Dumbledore's warnings had always been accompanied by a threat of the loss of numerous points, so much that his fellow Slytherin never desired to lose.
But it was not the crystalline water and cool wet stones that made him pause the most. He saw her shadow fighting with herself, sword slicing through the air as she fought every bit as fiercely as he had seen with the real beasts, perhaps even more so.
Lightning-quick movements, leaps, lunges, ducks, and so much more flashed before his eyes. There was no sign of slowing— nor of weakening.
The leg wound she had only an hour previously was not slowing her down— or if it was, it was not slowing her down enough for him to notice a difference.
Perhaps, the beasts knew better.
Or perhaps, her magic and potions were even better than she let on.
Daughter of Salazar Slytherin and all that.
True daughter? Did it even matter?
She was raised by Salazar Slytherin, which was enough to put her eons ahead of anyone he knew. Even though she implied that she wasn't born of his bloodline— or was she? What strange branch of magic had he used to send his "daughter" into the future of a different world only to take her back again—
There were so many questions.
One thing was for sure— she was definitely an expert martial fighter, and magic seemed more of an augment than her sole dependence. Witches and wizards rarely ever engaged in such "Muggle" fighting styles. If you could kill with two words, why bother with a sword, after all?
They had never seen the likes of her, that was for sure.
They had never had to fight off the Dark Lord's beasts, either.
If you didn't have time to pull your wand or you had an unfortunate bleeding problem, well, casting spells might not save you, either.
Her moves were like a cobra's dance, deadly and smooth. He could see the phantom beasts leaping and attacking with ferocious abandon, and he could see that every fluid move that she made was from the experience of having dodged, attacked, and survived countless battles. She'd obviously seen many—
And yet she looked barely a day over twenty.
Suddenly, she was joined by Salazar, and the game was truly on.
Spells blasted as she dodged, deflected, and pressed forward.
She was surrounded by a ring of fire, but she sent a blast outward, extinguishing it instantly.
He encased her in ice, and the ice shattered as fire exploded from within and caught Salazar's beard on fire. He gestured and it went out even as he blasted her with water.
She froze it, using it to give her an up and swing her sword.
A giant raven dove down at her, and it buried itself into her face.
Her body burst into particles—
An illusion.
She stepped out behind Salazar, and her dagger met his staff, having just barely met her mark on his throat.
Gods—
He sent her flying away from him with an explosion of earth that tried to swallow her up, and she seemed to walk along the tree trunks sideways to avoid the churning earthen maw.
Salazar summoned the living fire— Fiendfyre, if Severus had anything close to compare it to— and it reared up like the rising cobra and descended upon her with a bellowing roar, even as stranglevines rose up from the ground to encircle her legs and waist, pinning her into place.
Her sword lay on the ground, well out of reach.
The fire closed in, merciless and lethal, showing no sign of sparing her.
Severus felt a deep, gut-driven to do something, throw something, yell, or perhaps kick the Founder of his House between the legs just to stop the spell—
But the fire had already descended, and he fully expected to hear the scream.
How could the man do that to his own daughter?
What good was training if it was brutal and merciless?!
What good was being fast, quick, and talented if you were DEAD!?
As the fire dissipated, then, and only then, did he see a dagger against Salazar's throat.
Salazar chuckled. "You were slower this morning."
"I was distracted."
"Distraction gets you killed."
"Distraction requires a bath," she replied, cracking her neck as she sheathed the dagger. Her sword was already back in its scabbard— both of them. Somehow between almost being set on fire and burned to cinders, she'd managed to not only free herself but put a dagger to her father's throat.
Tobias Snape was starting to look quite tame in comparison to family dynamics. He was just a drunk—
Without fanfare, she began to unfasten her weapons and belt. She waved her father off. "Unless you wish to count my scars, father—"
Salazar harrumphed. "Fine, you smell like the arse end of a barghest."
Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. "Better that than the floral court perfumes and the womanly stench of the city."
Salazar shuddered. He kissed her on the cheek and was away in a flutter of his robes, disappearing just as quickly as he had arrived.
A/N:Happy Evil Author's Day! (sorry, not sorry)