Into The Light

Author\'s Notes and Warning: This will be a dark fic. It will contain BDSM, rape, torture, character death, and physiological trauma.

Do NOT read it if you think this will upset you.

I, apparently, cannot manage to write a single piece of fiction without including some minor OOC humour, and as a result, this piece starts with it, but it does not continue in that vein for long. Everyone who has read this through for me has commented that the beginning is not indicative of the tone of the piece, but as I rather like the ridiculously irrelevant trip into Snape\'s mindset, and as this isn’t a commercial piece where one worries about such things as a word count, it’s staying.

This piece will include Hermione’s PoV, but not for a while yet, simply because she is too incoherent to be utilised. Just a warning so people don’ get too attached to seeing things through Snape\'s eyes.

This chapter was beta-ed by the Amazing! Alexandria!

And lastly, I own nothing you recognise, and gain nothing but extra stress by this endevour.

Into The Light


Although not many knew it, Severus Snape had a large insecurity complex.

Not that he was insecure about that fact, mind you.

It was something all Slytherins worth their salt with their feet and egos still grounded suffered from. If you knew you had achieved your end by manipulating others to give it to you, you became uncertain of whether you were worthy of the thing itself. After all, you hadn’t done anything to earn it; you’d just made others think you had. He remembered trying to explain the concept to Lucius once in his third year, while the man who had graduated the previous annum had invited him for a drink in The Three Broomsticks.

“Say,” he had cast around for an example relevant to their situation while the blonde haired god of their social group had sneered at him, with what was obviously limited patience. “That a teacher gives you a verbal exam. In your final year. As part of your N.E.W.T.s.” He maintained eye contact in a frantic bid to make him understand, which was only partly motivated by the fact that if Lucius thought Severus had been wasting his time then Lucius would take out his annoyance on him physically.

“And you don’t know the subject matter, at all. But by using certain phrasings and intonations, not to mention some subtle flattery, you succeed in not only getting the teacher to pass you, but also to give you an outstanding grade. Perfect ending, best case scenario, right?”

An impatient nod and Severus hurried on. “But what then if you’re offered a job on the basis of that grade, because you’ll need to use the knowledge you demonstrated in that exam - it means you don’t deserve the job.”

Lucius’s sneer became a full out smirk. “Well,” he drawled, “if you’re in such a position that you have to get a job,” this jabbed insult did not pass without pause or notice, “you could manipulate your superior into giving you an assistant and then you could hand all the troublesome bits off to him, or you could argue that they shouldn’t be your responsibility in the first place.” Severus tried not to roll his eyes at Lucius’s unshakeable belief that there was no one in the world he couldn’t bring around to his way of thinking.

“Alright,” he said, shoving his shoulder length hair – the same style that Lucius had, if a vastly different colour and texture – behind one ear. “Let’s say a new girl transfers into my year. And she’s stunning. And being a respectable witch, she’ll only have anything to do with those of pure breed.” Lucius was nodding now, the fact that a pretty girl was obviously in the equation sparking his interest.

“But say some mudblood – erm, Lupin, for example – really, really wanted her, so he, by various ways of behaviour, appearance and outright lies convinces her that he’s pure, and sleeps with her. Now, just because he’s managed to get her into bed, doesn’t mean he’s worthy of her, right?”

Lucius seemed to have once again missed the point, and was now swelling with indignation. “Is this your way of telling me that there’s some poor mistreated girl we’ve got to stick up for, because a ruddy mudblood got the better of her?”

Severus hid his amusement at the sudden chivalrous streak that was showing itself, and neglected to mention the number of unsuspecting females Lucius had tricked into bed via unscrupulous methods. “No,” he sighed, “there isn’t, it was an example. Don’t worry about it.”

The memory had stayed with him throughout the years, although the smaller details had faded. And the theory had taken new significance throughout his life. He’d never tried explaining it to anyone else; there was no need for it. But the feeling of not being worthy had grown. If you manipulated your way through life, at some point you started feeling that you were not worthy of that life.

He couldn’t quite believe Dumbledore, and others, had forgiven him for his hapless eight months in Voldemort\'s inner circle. Something inside him – a very large something in fact – kept thinking he’d tricked them into it, and any day now they’d wake up, see him for what he really was, and he’d be left bereft and alone.

The same went for most other positive aspects of his life. He couldn’t quite believe that he no longer had to pinch every knut he had until it screamed for mercy – quite the opposite in fact.

He couldn’t quite believe that he had a secure job, one where, even if it didn’t bring him bliss every waking moment, he was valued and good at what he did.

He couldn’t quite believe he was now, officially, third top in the world when it came to potions masters. And as numbers one and two were doddering old folk nearing their 170th and 173rd birthing days respectively, with neither enjoying the best of health, there was a very real possibility he’d be number one before the year was out.

The list could go on forever.

He was overly suspicious whenever he was notified of a pay rise.

He had a tendency to swear at any new potions he came up with that didn’t produce undesired side effects.

Anybody who tried to give him a compliment received a death glare, and was on his bad books for life.

Any piece of post that he received that was obviously neither a bill nor a rejection notice from Potions Weekly was regarded with utmost mistrust and opened at arms length. Often with tongs.

On the rare days he rose from bed to discover his fly-away hair having one of it’s supposed-good days, it was still waxed, greased and mousse-ified to within an inch of it’s life because there was no way Severus Snape had good hair days.

And, frankly, he’d eat his mirror, along with every other reflective surface in the school before he admitted to himself that he was one of those men who looked better as they aged.

It was this type of sentiment that was swarming to the surface now as he stared at Hermione Granger from where he sat behind his desk, to where she stood in front of it, somewhat hesitantly holding out a rather large bottle of Old Ogden’s finest.

“What,” he said slowly, in what he privately termed to be his Calm Before The Storm voice, “did you say?”

The girl swallowed, obviously nervous, and said “I wanted to thank you for all the help you gave me with my potions O.W.L, sir.”

It was here Severus discovered his conundrum. If he took the bottle, he would be accepting thanks from Granger for something he did not do. If it had been any other student, he could have quite happily have bent the rules a little for himself, admitted, yes, he helped them, and been one bottle richer in terms of his drinks cabinet.

But Granger would be the one student he had done nothing to help. She had come to class frustratingly already knowing the answer to any question he cared to ask. He doubted he had ever taught her anything in her life she had not already discerned from a textbook. He’d never given her less than a perfect grade on homework, had never even expended ink to do anything other than put a tick and write the letter ‘O’ in his smallest handwriting in the bottom corner of her parchment. She might have gotten the highest potions score in over 3 centuries (Although she’d only beaten him by 2%, he’d been happy to note), but for all intents and purposes, she had been entirely self taught.

Besides, he couldn’t quite believe he’d been instrumental in helping her get such an astounding grade.

And for this reason he could not do what was socially correct and take the whiskey, mutter some generic version of ‘You’re welcome’ and send her on her know-it-all way.

But to refuse her gift would mean he would have to explain why he was doing so to her. Which would mean he’d have to – ugh! – compliment a Gryffindor. Not to mention leave himself open for some serious psychiatric-analysing by a 16 year old. And the rumours that would surely follow about him going soft, swiftly followed by the attempt to mutiny in his classes and house that would result.

Something inside him was swearing at her, loudly. He’d been teaching for over a decade, why did the first one to thank him for it have to be her?

And so he was stuck, and sat looking at her is if she’d just said something incredibly stupid. Or clever. But given his responses to her statements in class, she probably thought it was the stupid one.

“Sir?” she sounded worried now. Oh Circe, now he’d be known as soft and insane.

Going with the lesser of two evils – she’d kept Lupin’s secret, but he severely doubted she’d have the inclination to keep his, even if it wasn’t quite as spectacular – he held out his hand. “You’re welcome, Miss Granger.”

She gave him a shaky, false smile, shoved the bottle at him and turned to go. He looked at the whiskey with surprise. He’d assumed she was going to shake his hand, not plonk the alcohol directly into it. But of course he was the Greasy Git, so should he really have expected anyone to willing touch him?

In a split second, he felt relief that all his suspicions were justified – his life really wasn’t that great.

But it also hurt, that the only student that had ever been thoughtful enough to say thank you was too scared of him, or disgusted by him, to shake his hand. And he wanted to change that, just a little.

“Miss Granger, congratulations, by the way.” It was out of his mouth before he had even realised what he was doing. She turned in the doorway, and smiled at him.

A full out smile. One with no hidden messages or emotions behind it, but simply done because she was happy. Even Dumbledore’s smiles weren’t like that – the old bastard was as manipulative as any Slytherin.

“Thank you, sir.” She kept smiling, and disappeared around the corner.

Some part of him wanted to respond to that smile, and bask in it. He wanted to tell her just how much she needed to take this back, he didn’t need it, she’d done it all on her own, that she was brilliant.

But it was a very small part, then same part in fact, that used to make him follow Potter and Black around while he was at school, hoping to be included, or even noticed by their group. So thankfully, he was accustomed to squashing it.

But had anyone walked into his office in the following five minutes, they would have found him still half stood behind his desk, scowling at a whiskey bottle.




That smile she’d given him, once upon a time ago, was on his mind now. It wouldn’t leave in fact, looking down at the scrawny, dirty slip of a woman they’d liberated from Malfoy’s dungeon.

They’d thought she was a pile of rags used to clean the fireplace at first. Technically it was, that was what she’d been sleeping under, been unconscious under rather – too dehydrated and lacking in nourishment to stay in the world of the waking. It had been Severus that had nudged the old scraps of fabric so they slid off her, and he’d stared in amazement at his old student, whom he – and everyone – had thought was dead.

They’d had good reason to, in fact. Both Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley disappeared from Hogsmeade during the first visit of their sixth year. Weasleys body had been later discovered hanging by a loop of its own intestine from the front gate. Unfortunately, it had also had a sticking charm applied to it, so Minerva, in her near hysteria, had not succeeded in getting it down before Potter was treated to seeing what his best friend had been reduced to.

He had been inconsolable when inspections of the pair’s diaries had revealed that their trip had been to get supplies for Potters own belated, surprise birthday party, to make amends for him never having had a celebration before.

Despite on-going searches for 18 months, it was widely assumed that Hermione had shared Weasleys fate, even if they could not find the body. Finally, six months ago, everyone, including her parents and Minerva, who had seemed to have aged a decade since her protégé had been seen for the last time, had agreed it would be better to focus on the war, rather than putting effort into what they all knew was a futile search anyway. There had been a sombre memorial held in the rose garden, with a commemorative plaque, and heartfelt eulogies from every member of staff and nearly every member of her year, not to mention some from others. Severus had kept his mouth shut throughout, feeling as if he had not known her well enough to encroach others who were mourning and saying goodbye, but also that he could not let her go without some mark of respect.

He’d put the bottle of Ogdens beside the cherry tree they’d planted for her, a silent acknowledgment that he still owed her and her memory for the smile, and the gift.

And now, here she was, alive and it seemed he would have a chance to pay off the debt after all.

The war was officially over. Potter had defeated the Dark Lord earlier in the week, and now a final effort was being put into chasing down the last few rogue Death Eaters. Aurors were everywhere, and Snape was given a couple of juniors as assistants and put to work trying to chase down any of his old circle in hiding places he might know about.

Of course Malfoys underground storage rooms and dungeon were the first places he checked, for all he doubted anyone of them would have been quite that stupid.

They’d stumbled down the staircase, after Snape had finally remembered which corner of which rug you were supposed to tap thrice to gain entry, and found the place full of boxes. Mostly containing photo albums it would seem.

So much for the great Malfoy collection of Dark magic and wizardry.

They’d checked them all anyway. Box after box, book after book of some combination of Draco, Lucius or Narcissa smiling prettily at the camera lens. Finally he’d left the other two to it and checked the rest of the house for anything amiss, and then returned to see how they were getting on.

He’s slipped as he negotiated the stairs again, and managed to smear some type of soot all over his left hand and wrist. Spying the rags in one corner, he’d walked over to wipe himself off on them.

He had not been able to believe his eyes at first, not quite believing that there was anyone under there. Certainly not that this sorry creature was the bright eyed, bushy-tailed (figuratively speaking) student he’d once known.

She was naked, painfully thin and covered in bruises. He could have counted her ribs, and the vertebrae in her spine. At some point they’d shaved her head, but it had started to grow back now, so she had a couple of inches of greasy, uneven rats-tails hanging over her head. It made her ears look ridiculously vulnerable.

She was chained to the wall via a short length of chain, and a manacle that was done up so tightly around her right ankle that the skin in the area had started growing around it, enveloping it. One glance told him it had probably been put on her at the moment of her capture and not removed since. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow.

“Sir?” One of the juniors behind him called. Finley, his name might have been.

“Both of you, I want you to go upstairs now, and find out which fireplaces are still connected to the floo network. Then open a connection to the infirmary at Hogwarts.” His voice was quiet steady, and consciously trying not to wake or panic the girl at his feet.

“Sir?” That was the other one, sounding very confused. He turned and eyed both of them, and snarled at them.

“NOW!” It was as quiet a shout as he could make it. Still the girl did not stir – that was not a good sign. As the two fumbled their way upstairs with no small amount of haste, he squatted down, removing his outer coat, and gently putting it around her shoulders. There was no reaction. Snape felt himself start to panic, and stomped on the unhelpful emotion. Drawing her against him with one arm, and producing his wand in the other, he cradled her against his chest as he pointed it at the point on the wall where the chain was attached and muttered

“Reducto!”

He had not miscalculated the force of his hex, and the wall exploded just enough that the chain came free, but there were no dangerous flying chunks of stone as a result. He was wrapping her up more firmly in his coat when he heard feet on the stairs again. He scooped her up into his arms and turned.

“Sir, we got the one in the main parlour going, what’s-”

“Out of my way!” His snarl wasn’t quiet now, he was fairly sure that nothing he did at that moment would make the least bit of difference to her. He hurried up the staircase, noting with dislocated thoughts that the bundle in his arms didn’t weigh anywhere near what it should. Pomfrey‘s head was in the fire as he entered the room.

“Severus what- oh my god!”

“Out of the way Poppy, we’re coming through.” He could feel her heartbeat, just. It was uneven and so very weak. He barely gave the mediwitch enough time to get out of the way before stepping into the green flame, everything in him praying that they weren’t too late.