AN: Thanks again for reading. Bit of a shorter chapter here, but a necessary one. Hope you enjoy. :)
Chapter 19: Ira
"Every fucking Monday and Wednesday from now until kingdom come. Are you serious, Albus?"
"Severus," Albus said, pressing his hands into his desk and rising to stand. "Harry learning to guard his mind is one of the most important missions any of us could be working on. It is perhaps the most important–"
"Then why don't you do it if it's so important?" Snape asked, scowling from his chair.
"I cannot face the boy until I know his mind is closed. The risk of Tom catching news of any of our plans, or worse…"
"What could be worse?"
But Dumbledore didn't reply. Instead, he withdrew and, turning his back, approached Fawkes's perch. The bird tilted his head and eyed the old man with a wet black eye. Dumbledore reached out and stroked his feathers.
"Albus," Severus said, impatience straining his voice. "You're holding on to too many secrets at once. All this plotting and planning. First Potter's your protege, the next you ostracize him. The glass balls you're juggling are going to shatter."
There was silence throughout the room. Not even the portraits made a sound, half of them pretending to be asleep, and the other half watching the exchange with silent, drawn faces. At long last, Dumbledore turned.
"I am juggling no more than I can manage, Severus. Now, tell me about your holiday."
Severus slumped back in his seat.
"The Dark Lord's disappointment at the start of break has been assuaged somewhat. The last time he Summoned me, all of his followers were present…"
His fingers twitched as he recalled the scene, unable to stop the reflex to reach for his wand to defend himself. When the third Summons of break had called, less than twenty-four hours after his curse-happy episode, Severus was prepared for another round of the Cruciatus. The Dark Lord rarely called meetings so close together unless there was something important at hand. Severus had appeared alongside his masked fellows in a circle in the middle of foggy countryside shortly before dawn. Something bright gleamed under the hood of the man next to him, and he knew it was Lucius and the telltale Malfoy hair.
"Something hadn't gone right shortly before," Snape said, and in his mind he saw a flash of red light as it sailed at his face.
"His failure to breech the Department of Mysteries," Dumbledore said, pacing to the other side of his desk. Snape shook his head.
"This was something different," he said. He was sure of it, not only because the anger demonstrated Saturday morning was too intense after a weeks-old failed mission, but also… "Whatever it is was resolved a day later. His mood was completely different."
The Dark Lord hadn't skipped through the field, but he hadn't administered a single curse. Instead, he had made vague comments and dismissed them far earlier than Severus had expected. He had wondered what the point of their Summons was if the man was only going to gloat secretly at them for a quarter of an hour.
"And he did not confide in you?" Albus asked, though he needn't have. If Snape had known what it was, he would have opened with that information.
"It is something big."
Albus turned back in his pacing. "How do you know?"
Severus looked up. "Lucius. As we left, he told me…"
The two men had taken carefully measured steps away from the circle upon dismissal, frost cracking under their feet. Lucius drew near him so that the folds of their cloaks would hide the hand he briefly placed on Severus's arm. Before he apparated away, the blonde muttered two words, which Snape now repeated to Dumbledore.
"Front page."
Halfway through her first week, Hermione wondered what had made her wish to be back. The teachers wasted no time in piling on homework. In three classes—Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Herbology—the professors announced long term projects. And still, Hermione had her additional research to consider.
Heavy snows blew in the moment they arrived at the castle doors, leaving the fifth and seventh years little option other than to study. Harry had returned from his first Occlumency lesson with a bombshell: his dreams were about the Department of Mysteries. The puzzle began to piece itself together as Harry, Ron, and Hermione read about the murder of Bode, an Unspeakable for the Ministry. Hermione's stomach sank as she flipped back to the front of the paper and watched the escaped Death Eaters' photographs jeer and laugh. Hagrid's probation was the poisonous icing on the rotten cake.
She did smile to herself upon seeing Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six and thinking of all the not-Potions she was working on with Professor Snape. She smiled even more when a note was scrawled on the bottom of her most recent essay: See me at 8. The ink disappeared the moment she finished reading it.
When she arrived that evening, he was already in his private lab brewing. She dropped her bag by the bookshelf and joined him. The room was just as bright as last time and slightly warmer than the rest of the dungeons. Her shoulders, hunched from attempting to curl around her ribcage and keep her body warm, untensed. Snape was slicing ingredients rhythmically, a root by the thick sound of the knife wedging its way through. He didn't turn to acknowledge her. She tilted her head slightly, observing the way his muscles shifted under his shirt as he repeated his movements. She had no doubt he had heard her enter, but still, when she spoke, it was quietly.
"I hear Occlumency lessons are going terribly," she said conversationally.
"Mmm."
Hermione bit down on a smile and stepped around the counter to face him. His eyes remained on his work. She settled her fingers on the workspace. It, too, was warm to the touch.
"Why are the lessons so bad for Harry? Having you enter my mind wasn't that difficult."
Never mind what happened after.
"Potter must learn how to close his mind quickly," he replied, beginning to dice the mandrake root. His voice was in lecture mode: plain, firm, focused. He worked so efficiently that his knife came down on every other syllable, producing perfectly sized two centimeter cubes. "As such, he requires a different approach. We only tested your defenses. Should I have utilized the same method with you as I am with Potter, no doubt you would not think it sunshine and daisies. We can, however, change that."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Snape spoke over her.
"But you'll have to help me with the brewing first. It's all we're allowed to discuss, after all."
His voice was heavy with irony.
"Yes, sir," she said, bowing her head.
And with that, they settled into familiar postures with him murmuring alterations in technique over her head every so often. As he added his advice, Hermione found her mind wandering to the notebook of his she'd found in their meeting room at Headquarters. She had only had a glimpse of it, but that, paired with how well she had gotten to know him over the last several months, made it clear: the man was a genius.
"You're meant to crush–what are you looking at me like that for?" he demanded.
Hermione blinked and shook her head.
"Nothing, nevermind," she said, sure that she had been staring at him, but now focused on her hands.
Only after they had completed the Hospital Wing restock–two batches of blood replenisher, three of pepperup–did Snape's shoulders untense.
"We have little time," he said, addressing the knife he was washing. Hermione glanced at the clock and was stunned to see that an hour had already passed. "If you want any time for Occlumency, we'll need to clean and talk quickly."
"Of course," she murmured, gathering her supplies and joining him at the sink. Even though they stood right beside each other, the air around him felt cold.
"First, give me an update on your holiday. Have you kept up with your relaxation exercises?"
"Yes, nightly. Ginny had a good laugh the first few days. She didn't believe me when I told her loads of Muggles do yoga."
"And your mind exploration?"
"That…was harder to do," she admitted, rinsing the bowl in her hands. "Headquarters was full of people. The only time I really had to myself was right before bed if I went up early, but I didn't want to–"
"Fall asleep, of course not," he finished, taking her bowl from her hands and drying it with a wordless spell. "Shall I suppose the same of your dueling practice?"
Hermione nodded stiffly. Over break she had focused so much on her research that she had let her physical training slip.
"That will be amended shortly," Snape continued. "Nymphadora will meet you this Saturday morning for your first self-defense lesson."
Hermione's head jerked up. "Tonks? But why didn't she say anything? She's the one who brought me–"
"You and the rest of your peers back to Hogwarts. Think," Snape said, turning his stern expression on her for the first time in twenty minutes.
Hermione bit her lower lip and nodded. Of course Tonks wouldn't have said anything in front of the others. What, she asked herself. Did the holiday turn her brain to mush? Were the twins' antics, Mrs. Weasley's cooking, and leisurely days in pajamas enough to make you forget there was a war on? Above her head, the harsh lines in Snape's face smoothed.
"You do not need to feel guilty for enjoying yourself," he said, ducking his head slightly until she made eye contact and nodded in understanding. He began to scrub a cutting board. "Nevertheless, it is time to get to work. Before term is over, I want you to be capable of both wordless and wandless magic."
"Both?" Hermione asked, brows raised.
"The ministry, the school, and your friends believe you to be underage still and as such will expect you have the Trace on your person until September. Of course, it has dissolved. However, blatant shows of magic without repercussion will cause questions. Especially after Potter's experience last Summer. For your sake, you need an alternative. If you don't master wandless magic, there are other conduits we can use if we must."
Hermione's head was spinning. "Other conduits?"
"Did you think wizards always channeled their magic through wands?" he asked. "No, it is only one tool. What is Binns teaching you?"
Just about every detail of every goblin rebellion, she thought wryly.
"But why–"
"We've no time," Snape said, drying his hands and turning on his heel toward the sitting room. "Come."
Hermione followed obediently and seated herself in an armchair. As she sat, her eyes fell upon yesterday's issue of the Daily Prophet. Snarling portraits in black and white Azkaban stripes jeered at her. Her gaze flicked up to Snape, who had seated himself stiffly in the opposite chair. His left hand was clenched into a fist. Hermione felt a pang in her chest.
"Sir," she said. "We don't have to–"
"You will remember what I told you on the evening you first entered these rooms," he interrupted.
There were many things, but one sentence stood out among them all. I will do what I am asked. She hesitated, then nodded. Snape inclined his head.
"In my lessons with Potter, I charge him first with clearing his mind. But such a strategy would not work for you."
"Why not?"
A ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. "Because…if anyone ever tries to capture something out of your mind, they will not be fooled by it appearing blank. Your reputation precedes you," he added sardonically.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It can be," he said honestly, brows lifted slightly. "If you allow others to know your strengths and weaknesses and utilize them to their own purposes. If, however, you use their assumptions to your own advantage, then it is a very good thing."
Hermione suddenly knew with blinding clarity that she never wished to play a game of chess against this man.
"So if I'm not going to…empty my mind…" she prompted, already baffled at what it must be like to live in such a mental state.
"Instead, I am going to search for a specific memory, which you will try to withhold from me," he said.
"But that's what you did last time," she said, brow furrowed.
"Oh, trust me," he said lowly, and Hermione felt the hairs at the back of her neck prickle. "This is going to be nothing like last time."
He gave her a moment to swallow shakily, and then he leaned forward.
"Last Saturday evening, before I left."
"But–"
"Legilimens."
Hermione was inside her mind again, but it didn't look anything like the enormous cabinet of curiosities. Instead, she had the impression of walking through a dark hallway, and then images began to flash past her. There was something she needed, something she had to remember…
Last Saturday evening, before I left.
I…I…I… The word rang out like an echo in Snape's voice, and then all the images streaming past her eyes were of him. Snape sneering down at Harry in their first potions class. Snape limping away from her and her friends, his leg mangled by Fluffy. Snape's blanket, heavy and warm and smelling of him, slipping from her shoulders. And then there he was, standing in the entry to Headquarters, her arms around him and his arms around her.
"No," she said, but she was already out of her own mind and back in Snape's armchair. Hermione was sweating, but Snape looked like he hadn't moved a millimeter. "Let me try again," she implored.
"You Gryffindors, always so impatient…." he drawled. "But I saw your Sorting. I'd wager my year's salary you were almost in Ravenclaw, so analyze first. What happened? How will you act differently?"
"I–"
"You don't need to tell me," he said, raising a finger to stop her. "In fact, it's better if you don't. Think about it for a moment and we'll go again."
Hermione nodded and reviewed the all too brief session. Unlike their previous go, the flow of memories was completely uncontrolled: they sped by, visible at all times. Though, they did follow some kind of logical procession. They narrowed to Snape quickly, and he had been hurt that night, which was reflected in one of the memories.
So what to do? Shut down all thoughts of him whatsoever? Make herself think illogically? Think of a different moment with him altogether?
"Are you ready?"
Not feeling entirely sure at all, she nodded.
"Legilimens."
Last Saturday evening, before I left.
Memories flickered past. Snape sitting in her house talking with her parents. Snape preparing ingredients only an hour prior. She saw one memory, like a screen, and she mentally plunged toward it. A jet of light shot toward her face, and she raised her wand, deflecting it, then returning with a hex of her own. Snape spun out of the way and her spell continued, striking into the trunk of a tree at the end of the clearing. They continued dueling in their complicated dance and, true to the memory, they stopped with her gasping for breath and returning the borrowed wand back into his hand.
"Not a terrible strategy," Snape said, both of them now back in the sitting room. "Diverting attention by offering a different memory can and does work."
Hermione didn't think she imagined the emphasis on the word does. Was that how he fooled the Dark Lord?
"But you need to be careful with this strategy." Any satisfaction she felt faded out of her. "Those who know what they're looking for won't be fooled, and you must pay careful attention to the prompt. I asked about the evening. Our duel took place as the sun was rising. Light falls softer in the morning, and anyone familiar with the forest will know the difference in the shadows."
Hermione snorted. "Are you telling me that he knows something as detailed as that?"
Snape, however, showed no sign of mirth.
"Where do you think the Dark Lord practiced the Dark Arts? Surely not in the castle, where ghost or mortal could find him at any time."
A shiver ran down Hermione's spine, and each of her visits to the forest flashed before her. Did he know about the clearing? Had she run through the same trees with Buckbeak that he had prepared to kill people near?
"Alright, be careful about time of day," she said bracingly. "Anything else?"
"If that memory really were to work out, you would not want to reveal the fact that you had used my wand. Revealing anything in a memory which would lead to more questions can only mean one of two things: further invasion of your mind or torture. Neither can be withstood indefinitely."
Hermione swallowed and nodded.
"Right," she sad. "So just think of a memory of you that doesn't reveal more than it should."
But as she thought, she realized that almost nothing of the past year was useable. Not that first night when he had given her his handkerchief. Not him sitting in Muggle clothes in the park with her. Not following him through Knockturn Alley to Fawley's apothecary. Those days seemed so long ago. Something hurt in her chest, almost as if she was sad.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
But she heard it as, "Are you okay?" and she heard herself say yes before her brain caught up.
"Legilimens."
Snape was fixing her hot chocolate after her dream about her parents. He was shaking her hand, agreeing to teach her to duel. She was describing their connection, saying she felt safe. The skin of his back was pale but striped with scars, over which she smoothed dittany with her fingers. His hands were pressing hers firmly into the pages of the black book.
And then something shifted.
Her hands were no longer between his and the pages, and she was no longer looking up at him. She was looking down at herself. Because she wasn't herself.
Fire flooded through the veins that weren't hers, and she wanted. Fingers that weren't hers pushed back her hair, and her cheek leant into that hand, and she was soft. Her hands wrapped around the back that wasn't hers, and her hair smelled of jasmine, and she would quit all this in a moment if only…
She emerged from her own mind gasping, as if bursting out of a body of water. Only after a moment did she hear similar panting and she raised her head to see Snape's unwavering control finally broken. Because now she knew–in a way she couldn't explain but would defend with certainty–that he had been Occluding that evening. His rigid stance and clenched fist and still expression should have told her, but now she knew because she felt it.
She watched as waves of cold seemed to melt off of him, and she stared, knowing that he had seen everything she had. Knowing that when she wasn't herself, she was him.
Her throat was dry and her legs were shaking, but she still tried to sit up straight.
"How did that happen?" she asked.
Snape gaped at her, and it would have been funny if she wasn't already too confused to feel anything else.
"I was you," she said. "It was like I used Legilimency, but I didn't, I swear. I've read about the theory, but I've never cast it. I haven't even practiced the wand movements. I–"
"I believe you," he said faintly, eyes still scanning the space between them wildly. He blinked rapidly, and then his eyes flew to his bookshelves. "I need…"
He made a movement, as if he had decided to rise from his seat, then aborted mission an instant after. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands into his forehead and began muttering under his breath. Hermione only caught a few words: "book" and "memory" and a name that sounded like "Elijah". When his knees started shaking underneath his elbows, she advanced toward him, still shaky herself, until she knelt at his feet.
"Sir…" she said, and laid a hand gently on his arm.
Immediately, he sprang back, as if her touch had stung him. He launched so quickly out of his seat that he had put several feet of distance between them before she could finish taking a recovering breath.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I–" she said, but then stopped. The ground felt hard beneath her knees, and even though a fire was flickering beside her, she shivered. "I don't know, I just–"
"You thought," he spat, drawing his cloak tightly around himself and standing upright, a towering column in the dim light. "That because we share this…this–" He gestured between the two of them with a pale hand. "–that it gave you the liberty to be…familiar with me."
Hermione's brow wrinkled. "I wasn't trying to…" She shook her head. "Look, I can't help that there's this…mental thread. We have to call it something other than 'this'," she said when he scowled. "I'm not forcing my memories on you or–"
"But you would force yourself."
The accusation landed like a whip on her psyche. Hermione physically recoiled, mouth dropping open, even as she felt heat creep into her face.
"That is not what I was doing," she ground out, just barely refraining from clenching her teeth together in frustration.
He advanced toward her in two long strides and collapsed in front of her on his knees. His face loomed, ghostlike in its pallor, before her in the darkness, and his eyes glowed eerily in the firelight.
"Then what would you call it?" he asked, voice low and–if the goosebumps flaring up her arms were any indication–dangerous.
He raised a hand and she watched as it reached out and pulled gently on one of her curls, stretching until the hair was straight. She cut her eyes to him and saw that his attention was still on her hair, saw him press his lips thinly almost into nonexistence before speaking again.
"What would you call this?" he asked, and he released the curl, only to cup the back of her skull and tilt her head up to look him full in the face. By reflex, she brought her hand to his, her fingers prying at his, but he didn't let go.
And even as she experienced these things for herself, she saw them as if in a mirror through his eyes: the lump in her throat as she swallowed, the breath of air as her lips parted, the pulse of her heartbeat under his thumb. It was disorientating, dizzying. It felt like self-destructing.
"I feel…everything you feel," he said.
She came back to herself, but only felt she was watching in a distracted way as his eyes traced the lines of her face and dipped down her throat. He examined her, like a sculptor searching for the statue trapped within a block of marble. He tipped his head to the side and his gaze climbed back up.
"Your thoughts are so loud…" A wrinkle formed in his brow, and she felt an overwhelming desire to smooth it out. A fraction of a second later, he raised his brows. Disappointment and surprised battled for primacy in her mind, frustration causing her fingers to flex, pulling at the hand that would not release around her throat.
"Oh? And why should you be so…disheartened?"
For the first time since he approached her, his eyes met hers. They were shrewd and dark. For her part, she couldn't think of what to say. She couldn't find the line between his emotions and hers–though she suspected the fluttering, nervous ones were hers. And there was an ache, a sense of rightness just out of reach. If only she could grasp it…
"Sir…please," she said, throat straining under his hold.
He gave a laugh completely devoid of humor and she jumped at witnessing it so close. He was almost like a wild animal, his mouth in a snarl, his hair a mess around his face, and his eyes so bright.
"It's endless with you people," he said, and she wanted to shrink away at the coldness in his voice. "Your needs never stop, do they? 'Teach the boy Occlumency, Severus.' 'Bring me useful information next time, Severus.' 'I suffered in Azkaban. What have you done to show your loyalty, Severus?'" His fingers clenched on her throat and she swallowed thickly. "Then there's you. 'Give me lessons.' 'Protect my family.' And now–"
"Please, sir," she said, voice strangled. "I didn't–"
He released his hold and pushed her with a snarl. She cowered before him, one hand catching her body before she could fall, the other gently probing at her neck, sure there would be a bruise there come morning.
"What?" he demanded. "Didn't mean it? Didn't realize?"
"I don't know what–"
"This mental thread," he said, lip curling over her term. "Is no better than the mark I've already been branded with."
He held his arm out to her and she swallowed down a sour taste at the sight of the Dark Mark, bold and black against the white of his skin, not at all changed from her attempt to fill him with her own magic.
"I can feel your revulsion from here," he said, acid dripping from his tongue. He lowered his arm back to his side, unrolling the sleeve to cover the mark.
"Stop it," she croaked, throat sore.
"And yet," he said conversationally, buttoning the cuff of his sleeve. "No such hesitation with the mark you've made. You're not repulsed–"
"Stop, I said."
"–by this connection. It doesn't feel like yet another obligation."
"Please, stop."
"You like it. If anything, it turns you o–"
Smack.
Without thinking about it, she had thrown herself forward, reared her hand back, and slapped him across the face. Her heartbeat whooshed in her ears like she had plunged into the Black Lake. Fury unlike any she had felt before coursed through her. He stared at her, mouth open. As a pink mark bloomed over his cheek, his upper lip pulled back from his teeth like a wolf.
"Don't you dare discipline me," she spat out, waving a threatening finger in his face that shook as adrenaline took control of her body. His expression turned thunderous, but she continued. "I didn't ask for this connection. I didn't try to exploit it. And–" she added firmly when his mouth opened. "It goes both ways. I feel everything you feel."
She scrambled to her feet and felt a strange kind of triumph when he only blinked up at her from the floor, making no attempt to get up.
"I'm not the only one...confused about lines here," she said, straightening out her rumpled clothing. She tried to inject calm into her tone even as the roaring of waves crashed in her mind. "I'm just the only one who had the decency not to use it against the other."
And with that, she turned on her heel and left.