Snape Redux

Snape Redux

By April Grey

Chapter Eleven – Voldemort’s plans

It all belongs to Rowling, except for the parts you don’t recognize.


Snape Apparated to the Dark Lord’s side.

“Good of you to join us, Severus.”

He kneeled, “I live to serve you, Lord.”

“Do you now? I’ve had some interesting reports. Are you only serving me, Severus? Or are you pleasing yourself?”

There was a movement in a corner of the cavernous room. Snape didn’t dare look up. It was dark and cold where they were and the stone beneath him had a thin covering of slime. They were somewhere underground: dungeons, an old cellar or vault of some sort.

“Bring her forward,” said Voldemort.

“We’ve done nothing wrong.”

Snape heard Narcissa’s voice and inwardly groaned, why does she even try to deny it? But then he realized that if he was about to be punished for cuckolding Malfoy, it increased his chances that Voldemort would not be looking for the traitorous memories that could get him killed.

“I have seen into Narcissa’s mind and it seems you have been playing the roué. For this there shall be retribution. Malfoy is also a loyal follower, though he rots in Azkaban, and he deserves better courtesy than you have given him.”

Snape filled his mind with guilty, lustful thoughts of Narcissa. He created decades swollen with bawdy desires and the randy coveting of Malfoy’s wife.

“Look into my eyes.”

Snape looked up into the hideous, red eyes of what was left of Tom Riddle. He opened his mind and presented the creature with every libidinous, obscene thought he could muster and connected them all to Narcissa. He felt the Dark Lord retreat in disgust.

Snape shrieked as the first wave of pain hit him and he knew nothing else for eons.

&&&

“Here it is,” Hermione shouted out to Ron and Harry as they worked on copying wedding invitations and eating an early dinner of fish n’ chips from the local shop. Blissfully, there was no Remus around to go tut-tut about walking out the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place and down the road to the shops, or as Hermione had done that morning to the phone booth.

Hermione felt safe now, as the first thing she had done when she got back from Godric’s Hollow was put on Viktor’s ring. If she had been worried about the boys asking about it, she need not have. To them, jewelry (unless it was a Horcrux) was beneath notice.

“Not enough vinegar,” said Ron. “Why are they so cheap about these things?”

“Mine’s drenched,” said Harry, still looking a bit pale from that afternoon’s emotional rollercoaster.

“Careful you two, the invitations are going to smell of fish,” said Hermione as she returned to the table carrying her well thumbed copy of Hogwarts: A History.

“You were right, Harry. It shows the cup here. It did belong to Helga Hufflepuff. And two pages over from that is Rowena Ravenclaw’s Rattle.” Hermione closed the book with a satisfied sigh and tucked into her food.

“It’s amazing that you were able to break the curse on both the locket and the cup,” said Ron with a small, sad smile. It seemed that since Hermione wasn’t decimated anymore about him, he was feeling a bit lonely. Which was fine with Hermione. She was still trying to decide between colleges in the U.K. that she’d want to apply to after the war was over.

“Yeah. So you were saying the intensity of my emotions about being at Godric’s Hollow, triggered the cup, and the cup then in turn triggered the locket,” Harry looked chagrinned.

“Yes, but by that time you were both unconscious. I managed a Protego charm,” said Hermione trying to brazen out the quickly made up lie. “Anyway, the locket wasn’t triggered before because, well, my guess is that R.A.B., whomever he was, had disarmed the locket. It took the activation of the cup for it to become active again.”

Harry lifted up the rattle. “No curse on this one so it can’t be a Horcrux?”

Hermione didn’t want to say anything, but being a know-it-all was practically a disease for her. “I suspect the cup was a Horcrux formed by your father’s death, and Voldemort was planning to make another Horcrux from your death using the rattle. Rather macabre.” She kept her eyes down and played with a soggy chip using her fork.

Harry and Ron stared at her open mouthed.

Finally Harry said, “That cup was a Horcrux created from my father’s death?”

“It’s just a theory, Harry.” Hermione was scared that he might go off the deep end again. A few very uncomfortable seconds ticked by.

“Bloody brilliant one. Then let’s think about this,” said Harry munching on his last piece of fish. “The diary Horcrux was made while Voldemort was at Hogwarts. The ring he got from his uncle, Morphin. The locket and the cup he got while working at Borgin and Burkes from that lady. We don’t know where he got the rattle. It might have been part of the inventory at Borgin and Burkes for all we know. So he would have needed just one more item after that. “However, his plans went astray when my mother sacrificed herself for me and he would have been destroyed at that point, if it were not for the Horcruxes. And then he fled to Albania.

“Well, that still leaves two Horcruxes. Nagini, in Dumbledore’s opinion, might be one, and unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for me, the rattle isn’t anything at all but a rattle. Leaving us up in the air as to what might be the last Horcrux.”

“But if the cup was supposed to have magical powers, why not the rattle?” asked Ron.

“You know, if we keep going at this rate,” said Hermione putting her food wrappers in the rubbish bin, “we’ll never have those wedding invites out.”

Ron made the motions of cracking a whip and Harry laughed. Hermione got back to addressing envelopes, and wondering if she’d ever see Severus Snape again. Their kisses were still fresh in her mind and she was quite sure had he not been losing his mind, he would never have kissed her. Which seemed a shame, really. He was turning out to be a complicated and rather interesting man.

Hermione made a plan. She’d excuse herself early from the activities scheduled for the Burrow that night and head off to the barn. Though she’d only been there via portkey, she felt certain she’d be able to Apparate there.

&&&

When he came to, it felt strange. He ached in every part of his body, yet he was enveloped in softness. Even the lights were soft. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink down.

“Professor?”

He was hurting, everywhere. He sobbed, and wanting to be left alone in his pain, he curled into a ball.

Someone was holding him, stroking something cool on his face. Something cold, ice in his mouth, soothing a throat made raw from hours of screaming. How many hexes after the initial Cruciatus curse did they throw at him? His brain didn’t want to think. He sobbed again. Something soft was under his head. Regressing to childhood, crying against his mother after his uncle—no.

Softness, fragrance, he held on, clung to her. No more pain, please. Again a gentle, cool hand, holding his face, touching, he missed being touched--he turned into it as a sunflower followed the sun. More.

“Professor?”

His eyes flickered open. Lily? Not Lily, someone. His head in her lap. Leave me alone.

More gentle touches. ‘Leave me alone’ he tried to say, but only groans came out.

“This is taking a long time. I can’t stay with you. It’s nearly daybreak,” the kind voice said--he knew it from somewhere.

“I’m sorry but I’m going to have to take the information from you now. I wouldn’t do it, but you can’t talk.”

‘Go away,’ again just a groan and a sob. More sobs, someone’s crying, was it him? He hurt, oh gods, he hurt. Mother, I hurt. Mum?


Hermione got all the invites out to the owl post and, as planned, quickly checked in at the Burrow before saying she was tired and pretending to head to Grimmauld Place. She then Apparated to the barn. It was difficult to escape the activities centered at the Burrow. Tomorrow night there’d be no excuses as it was Hen Night.

In general, no one liked her staying at Grimmauld Place. And no one at all seemed to understand her need for privacy. If it weren’t for the war, she could have gotten a summer job, found a bedsit and had herself a great time. Instead she was slowly being suffocated.

And Viktor didn’t make a good alibi; he had nightly games of Quidditch. If she had pretended to go off to the games, then Harry, Ron and every other male in spitting distance would have wanted a blow-by-blow description of the match the very next morning. At least Viktor didn’t expect her to be there in the stands rooting for him.

She had nearly drifted off to sleep behind a bale of hay when she heard a faint moan.

“Lumos,” she lit the end of her wand. Following where she thought the sound had come from, she found Snape outside the barn, covered in mud, blood, urine, and excrement.

“Some party, Professor,” she said, trying to lighten the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. “What are we to do with you?” How much of that muck on him was his own body fluids? Was he injured and bleeding badly?

At least he wasn’t dead--thank Merlin for that. Whatever his transgressions, it hadn’t been bad enough for them to kill him. It was late evening and she didn’t know what to do. She had to take care of him. She gave it some thought. Grimmauld Place should be empty, since everyone was still busy working at the Burrow, cleaning and fixing it up. She could risk it. Sirius had the master bedroom (his father’s room) fixed when he was still alive, and it had a bath attached. Harry hadn’t yet worked up the courage to empty the room. And no one ever went up there. It would do.

The Order had changed the codes. Furthermore, Professor McGonagall was the new secret keeper, so Snape wouldn’t be able to find Grimmauld Place again. Hermione, though, could still Apparate him. She hoped she could at least.

She brought him directly to the master bath. Leaving him on the floor, she went to check to make sure no one else was there in the house. She used a flashing paint charm to create a “Do Not Disturb!!!” sign in glittering orange and violet neon on her door downstairs.

While running the tub, she added plenty of soapsuds. She’d had a peek at Viktor’s privates and that was all right, because they were practically engaged. This was different. The less seen and touched the better, or so it seemed to her. The least she could do was respect his dignity. She removed his clothes while squinting and used Mobilicorpus to get him into the tub. She be-spelled a wash cloth to get the nastiness off of him. She used a scourgify spell on his clothing, and unfortunately they fell apart!

Hermione found an old nightshirt in the dresser, and she charmed him out of the tub and into a bed with fresh sheets. She healed the cuts and scrapes on him, without too many peeks, grateful that she found no injury beyond her skill with a wand.

She then managed to get the nightshirt over his wet hair and body. The growth of dark hair on his chest was intriguing. It made her think of that afternoon when he’d kissed her. Whatever had gotten into them? You’d think Mrs. Weasley had fed them one of her special love stews. Hermione also stared at the dark mark on his arm and even touched it! She couldn’t help herself--it was so horrid.

Hermione had plenty of time to think. First Snape saves them and then he gets the you-know-what cursed out of him. Hermione was surprised, though she shouldn’t be, that she not only was feeling sorry for the poor miserable bastard, but she was feeling quite positive towards him too.

He wasn’t like Ron who was a comfort to her or Viktor who was all dashing and sexy in an animal way. Snape was just… pathetic. A bit like Neville, only he was much, much better at magic than Neville. Snape deserved a bit of kindness.

Snape groaned and she took his hand. He was moving about in the bed, struggling.

“Professor?” Perhaps he was finally coming round?

She had a glass of water with a straw, a cold compress and some ice cubes she’d conjured out of the water standing by. She put her hand on his forehead. “Please feel better,” she said. She tried to get him to have a few sips, and dampened his brow.

She could tell he was hurting, but was scared to leave the house to shop for remedies. The Order hadn’t bothered stocking up on healing or pain relief potions, and now that she thought of it, they should! She’d mention it to McGonagall first chance she had.

Hermione got onto the bed and he snuggled close to her. Then she held him and that quieted him down a bit. She fell asleep with his head in her lap and her shoulder braced against the wall.

Dawn was breaking when she awoke next. He’d practically wrapped himself around her. She was worried about a mild fever he seemed to have.

“Professor?”

His only reaction were more groans and to hold her tighter. She tried to explain to him, somehow get his permission for what she was about to do. She needed to know if he had information important to the Order. What if an attack were already planned? They were losing too much time.

She whispered to him what she was going to do and found herself in the annex--nothing had changed there. The door was ajar, typical, almost inviting her. She thought about McTavish’s words about introjects and unhealthy minds attempting to rescue themselves and wondered if he had been reaching out to her all along what with the silver thread and the ease with which she was able to slip into his mind.

Maybe he wants me here, she thought. He wants my help but consciously doesn’t know it.

She frowned. How absurd. She didn’t like the idea that it wasn’t her skill but rather a manipulation of her that continued to let her into his mind. However, she would trust people like Dumbledore or Lily much more than Snape. And wouldn’t the scenes she had seen of him lead her to understand him better, even liking him? And hadn’t she been afraid of that all along? He was a master of the art, but was he her master?

Well, based on this theory, what did he want to tell her tonight?

There was a room at the end of the cramped hallway. She heard sounds behind it. The door was silver and slightly reflective, and as she came closer it seemed to bleed. She touched it and her hand was sticky with blood. Hermione did not want to go there. She turned around only to find that the other door was gone and she was in a blind alley. She had no choice but to go through the silver door.

She looked around her. The vaulted room seemed to be at the nexus of a series of catacombs lined with stone, dripping with moisture and lit by floating torches and candles. Were they still in England? She gasped as she realized she was surrounded by Death Eaters and there in the center was Voldemort. She was terrified now. Could he see her or notice her in Snape’s mind? Well, no, he was a memory now. She should be quite safe. She looked around and saw him. He was cowering in a corner, shaking in his torn, bloody and befouled clothing. And Narcissa was there. Hermione tried to catch her breath. There was a dried bloody patch on Narcissa’s skull where a hank of her hair had been ripped out. One eye was swollen shut and multihued as was her lip and chin.

Hermione had never cared for the women, but no one should be beaten or hurt. She stepped closer to hear what Narcissa was whispering:

“I didn’t betray you, Severus. I didn’t. But after you left the house, Bella and her husband were suspicious and went to the Dark Lord. I never took the mark so I couldn’t be summoned--instead they dragged me here.

“Severus can you hear me? I came back with your Sterling Muggle money and they were waiting for me. I’m sorry.”

Snape leaned over and dry heaved.

A look of revulsion creeped over her face as she moved away from him, but his shaking hand reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could escape. “Narcissa, not your fault.” He let go of her and she ran off into the darkness.

“Give me your reports,” said Voldemort.

Even from a distance, even though she knew it was a memory, the thing that had once been Tom Riddle terrified her. But Severus wanted her to be here. Therefore, she would stay.

Two Wizards in Death Eaters robes crept up to Voldemort. Hermione recognized one as the brother of Rodolphus Lestange, the other man she thought she’d seen at the battle at the Department of Mysteries.

“Lord Voldemort,” Lestrange kneeled, “as you desired Judson and I collected six sites for you to look at. They are located all over the isles as you specified. Each is a place of ancient power and would bring you a different weapon should you choose that place. They are the Ring of Brodgar in the Orkneys, Callanish in the Western Isles, Long Meg and her daughters in Cumbria, Carn Gluze in Cornwall, Meayll Circle at the Isle of Man and Avebury in Wiltshire.”

Hermione could see the sweat trickling down Lestrange’s brow, and though his voice was steady, he was shaking.

“You two have served me well. With this information we shall fight Potter and the Order and win. Heed me carefully now. In three days, on Midsummer’s Eve, we shall be victorious.

“Severus, you tried to go around my back. I have punished you for your betrayal of Malfoy, and now I send you away. You shall be present to see my final victory over the son of your most hated rival. You do not deserve such honor, but I am a merciful man to my loyal followers. And you are still loyal, are you not?”

Snape attempted to crawl forward only to pass out.

“Oh, you did it, Professor, you did it,” murmured Hermione. “Even without a Pensieve. You made him think you were—“

And what was going on between him and Narcissa? Oh, it didn’t matter.

She sensed someone nearby and turned. It was Professor Dumbledore. And they were no longer in the catacombs, but in his office at Hogwarts.

“Hermione, back again?”

“I have a difficult time staying away, sir,” she smiled because it felt so good to talk to him even though he wasn’t real.

“Taking an interest in Severus, then?” He brought out a bag of sweets from his desk and offered her one. She shook her head and Dumbledore continued, “It has come to my attention that Severus has an ulterior motive for his behavior towards our Harry.”

“Really, sir?”

“Sadly, he hopes to bend or rather break a promise he made to me many years ago. While he will not take his own life directly, he is hoping that he will be able to bait Harry into doing so. I trust you can do something about that? The dear boy is not well, not well at all.” Dumbledore shook his silver locks solemnly.

“I’ve noticed that, sir.”

“I think you’ve seen enough then. Time to go. Cheers!”

Hermione was alone now back in the corridor that led from the small room. She willed herself to leave…and couldn’t. What was going on? She was confused. Whose will was at work here? Hers or Snape’s or some unconscious part of him?

“Hello?” she called wondering if there were any other introjects around. “Anyone?”

From the corner of her eye she saw a movement. She twirled around to gain only glimpse of a person’s leg as they headed around the corner of the corridor. Hermione gave chase. Turning the corner, she saw a door slowly close.

She pushed the door open to arrive at a room that couldn’t be a memory because—well, it wasn’t a memory, because she saw herself in a room she’d never been in, dressed in clothing she’d never worn. Her doppelganger looked up at her and winked!

The room was white on white: walls painted white with a white dresser and a white enamel four-poster bed with white sheets and white flooring. There were no windows. Hermione saw herself dressed in a red corset with red garters holding up black silk stockings. She was leaning over the dresser and wiggling her naked bottom at Snape—who was completely naked, quite hard, and tied up on the bed!

Hermione stood in the doorway and watched as the scene unfolded. Her alter self was just about to take his cock in her red painted mouth when he shot his cum all over her face. She smiled and licked the pearly globs of semen off of her lips.

“He fancies you, don’t you know that?” the other Hermione said.

Hermione fled from his mind as quickly as she could.

He was still sleeping. She glared at him. All the awful stuff Harry and Ron had ever said about him was true! He--he deserved to be tied up.

Hermione blinked away her tears. So she’d gone snooping a bit too far into his mind and come up with a sexual fantasy. About her! Well, no surprise that he’d kissed her at the graveyard then.

Was he serious? No, not if he were planning to kill himself, which is what the Dumbledore introject had told her. And had she met up with an introject of herself? How very odd it all was. It was likely they were working against him to save him!

Hermione sighed. He twisted in his sleep, face contorted with pain. He cried out and she held him.

He fancies me, she thought and then quietly laughed, and he likes being tied down. No surprise there! He’d been such a bully in the classroom. Not much different than the hypothetical business executive that the shop girl at Salty Dog had mentioned.

She whispered, “What am I to do with you, Severus?”

A seed planted in her heart a few days ago, took root, grew and blossomed. A tear trickled down her face and she pressed her body against him and kissed him. The kiss was long and languorous, and when she opened her eyes, she realized that he was awake. A bit scared, she broke the kiss. His eyes were gentle, and that was something new for him, at least in Hermione’s experience.

“I’m dreaming,” his hoarse voice was barely above a whisper. She gave him a sip of water.

“Yes, you are dreaming. Close your eyes.” And when he did she stroked the side of his face. He cuddled in closer to her and fell back asleep.

Ron and Viktor would be fine without her, but Severus, Severus now—not Professor, not Snape. Severus needed her and she’d find a way to help him.

Covering them both with the counterpane, she fell asleep, loving him being next to her.


A/N: Dedicated to the fanfic writers (Ramos, Fleab, IdaMae and others) who took me under their collective wings back when I was starting out. There must be hundreds of versions of the post DE comfort scene in fandom. All I can say is: that’s my take on it.


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