Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching By Quillusion Chapter 13 I Apparate to just outside Hogwarts the next evening at six o’clock, looking forward to dinner in just a few minutes. Dumbledore has invited me to spend the evening at my alma mater, as Severus will be trying his hand at the henge tonight; the Headmaster has offered to find a substitute Potions brewer for the occasion, and I don’t doubt Snape is quite curious about the identity of the newcomer.   I’m surprised by how nervous I am to be back at Hogwarts- which, now that I have graduated, is no longer home for me; no, this is squarelape&ape’s home turf now. I suppose I am still a little taken aback by the things in The WIKTT Archives, even though I’ve had the book long enough now to have reread several of the stories. I was up far too late last night reading, which has left me a little tired- but I can’t regret it, not when there are such stories to read! There are volumes I have yet to touch, but the tales I’ve absorbed with such delight have changed me enough already to make me see the Great Hall a little differently. Everything at Hogwarts seems changed, even though I am the one who has red;red; things seem to carry the soft glow of nostalgia now, along with the new intrigue they hold for me as props in the stories I have seen played out in my mind. I’m a little warm at the very thought of those scenes, the more so when I know that I will be seeing my… costar, as it were, in only a few minutes.   Tonight I sit at the Gryffindor table, next to Ginny Weasley, whose seventh year is well underway. It is good to see her, to laugh and chat like the schoolgirl I so recently was, to ignore the rest of the adult world for a little while. We catch up on acquaintances, tell stories, and eat quantities of food that would set Cosmo’s diet articles on fire with alarm. Then we eat dessert. Who believes anything they read in Cosmo, anyway? I can see it now- Ten Schoolgirl Fantasies Your Teacher Wishes You Hadn’t Repressed.   I try my hardest not to be disappointed that Snape’s habitual spot at the staff table is unoccupied. Given that he, too, has a copy of the book, perhaps he’s delaying seeing me. I smile to myself; what could be in that book that would make Snape too nervous to face me?   After dinner I join the Headmaster in his study for a while, discussing the Cleve potion in greater detail. I am surprised that Severus is not there, but I do not ask about him; despite his employment as one of Dumbledore’s subordinates, he’s not the sort of man one should assume is at anyone’s beck and call.   But he is at someone’s beck and call, try though I do to forget it most of the time. Dumbledore continually glances at the clock, even as he plunges delightedly into our conversation, and I see occasional shadows in his face. He is worried, and it is only a matter of a few moments before I grasp what is wrong.   Severus has been called again to Voldemort’s circle.   There was a time when my first concern would have been over the opportunity to use the henge- if Severus won’t be here to try it, what will we use the opportunity to try? But that time is gone. I feel my heart leap up to rattle between my tonsils for a long moment, and when it settles again into my chest, it shakes the foundations of my soul with its pounding rhythm. The last time we talked about it, Severus mentioned that the reprieves were usually followed by worse treatment than before. After what he endured last time, what will happen tonight?   So it is that Albus Dumbledore and Hermione Granger sit together before a cheerfully flickering fire, drinking tea and nibbling biscuits, each pretending ignorance of the horrors that a friend might even now be enduring, each affecting nonchalance for the sake of the other. I feel like a character in a play, and I’ve forgotten my script. What will I do when I can’t ignore the ‘elephant in the room’ any longer? I crack first.   "I don’t know if I can stand Severus doing this much longer," I say at last.   "I have said that to myself every time he has gone for the last eight years," says Dumbledore softly, his face lined with worry. "I do not believe he should go again." He pauses for a long moment, as if deciding whether or not to make the next confession.   "I cannot deny that I am seriously concerned that he might not survive this summons."   I realize in that moment that I truly am an adult now; Dumbledore is making no attemo sho shield me whatsoever. He was never secretive when we were students, but I know now that we were rarely told everything that was going on.   The Headmaster is still speaking. "I am deeply worried for him; he is exhausted already, and his reserves are neacompcompletely tapped. You, my dear, are the only thing in his life that brings him joy, and you are too far away both physically and, to him, morally to allow him to draw on that joy as he would need to do to recover."   My eyes are wide, and the headmaster chuckles despite the gravity of the situation. "Hermione," he says gently, "I’ve known Severus Snape since he was ten years old. The man may be a peninsula with a very thin isthmus, but he’s no island, and he doesn’t really want to be one. I’ve seen how he looks at you when he thinks no one is looking. I’ve seen how you look at him. Neither of you is adept at this sort of thing, but as long as nothing dire interferes, I am sure the two of you will manage nonetheless." He sighs softly.   "At least, I certainly hope so; I think you may be the only source of hope Severus has left." Dumbledore pinches the bridge of his nose briefly in a gesture that conveys more worry and fatigue than I’ve ever seen in him before. "He’s been drawn to you since your student days- which is not, of course, to suggest that he has ever given any indication of it to anyone- including me. My knowledge of his feelings is due only to their incidental revelation during his recovery from a particularly nasty… well." He sighs.   "Despite his reputation, Miss Granger, I am sure you realize that Severus is an honorable man, and even if his position as your teacher had not forbidden him to admit it, your age would have. I don’t fault him for his feelings; none of us can choose where we will love, and I happen to know that Severus never has loved before. Loneliness was part of what initially drove him to the Death Eaters, and friendship was what brought him back. Small wonder if love should help him walk the fine line he does each time he goes. It would be a smaller wonder still if he doesn’t think he deserves you; that, more than anything, will hinder his recovery."   "If he survives the night," I murmur sadly. I can feel hot tears pricking my eyelids, but I won’t let them fall, determinedly running calculations through my mind, listing ingredients for ingrown-toenail-reducing potion, anything to keep my emotions from spilling over onto my cheeks. To suddenly have confirmation that he watches me with more than academic interest, to know he’s been watching for years, to know he doesn’t think he deserves happiness- these things will drown me if I don’t control myself.   Albus smiles at me, his expression full of tenderness, the tension forgotten for a moment. "I wish Severus could see you now," he says softly. "I doubt he’s ever had a woman cry over him before."   I start a little, to hear Dumbledore call me a woman, but I suppose I am, now. Certainly not a girl, not in body or mind, and not in spirit. And I am crying over Snape, worrying for him, desperate for anything that I could possibly do to help him. I feel a few tears escape, and quickly dash them away with the side of my hand as I sit up straighter.   "What needs to be done to help keep him safe?" I ask. I would be willing to do anything, from giving blood to being a Secret Keeper, and anything in between.   "That," says Dumbledore, "depends very much on what is happening right now."   Not the sort of answer I wanted, but the truth, nonetheless.   We wait.     It is eleven o’clock before anything happens. I have read two issues of Opus Astronica thoroughly and made notes on the articles; I have organized the contents of one of Albus’s bookshelves; I have cleaned the Sorting Hat up a bit- it talked to me for a while, which was enjoyable, as I hadn’t thought it could talk about anything but Sorting. I have even smoothed Fawkes’s tail feathers and read him a story; Dumbledore says it helps brighten the phoenix’s plumage. Fawkes has snuggled down in my lap and is watching me with liquid eyes, clearly content; I feel the same with this marvelous creature so close to me. I push away the thought that the magical bird will likely be needed for far more grave comforts before too long.   The sound of running feet approaches the door, up the moving stairway, and Dumbledore has the door open before Professor McGonagall’s face appears in the hallway. "Albus," she gasps. "Come." There is no word spoken to me directly, yet it is understood that I, too, must go with them.   We are running then, down the stairs, along the hallway, and I am too terrified to enjoy the blast from Dumbledore’s wand that sends Peeves spinning up to the ceiling when the poltergeist tries to delay us by moving vases into the hallway.   I never realized as a child that adults can run, and quickly when there is need. Now that I am an adult spurred on by fears greater than any childhood terror, my feet have wings. The two teachers ahead of me have lengthened their stride into a sprint, and I am right behind them, adrenaline feeding muscles desperate for action.   Not a minute later, we come sliding to a halt at the head of the steps to the dungeons. A soft word from Dumbledore, and they have turned into a slide, and we are at the bottom in a heartbeat.   Then we’re running again, through twists and turns and corridors only half-familiar at this speed, and the Potions classroom door stands open when we arrive.   Dumbledore is outwardly calm now, and he strides purposefully into the classroom, heading unerringly for the door to the Potions master’s private quarters. McGonagall and I follow him as he enters, only to stop in our tracks.   Professor Snape is huddled on the floor, motionless, great shreds of his robe plastered to his body with what can only be his own blood. There are places where the pale slashes of visible skin contrast horribly with the dark, glisteningly wet fabric. His left arm is tucked tight against his stomach, his right folded over it protectively, his entire body curled around itself as if to ward something off.   Incredibly, I find my volition first. I kneel beside him, fingers at his neck, and almost sob with relief to feel the rapid, if faint, hammer of his pulse against my fingertips. I nod to the other two, and then they are beside me, assessing his injuries and murmuring soft reassurances.   "Where did you finally find him?" asks Dumbledore, and McGonagall replies,   "In Death Valley. In the United States."   This surprises Dumbledore, and he looks up enquiringly at the head of Gryffindor.   "I think," comes Snape’s voice, faint and full of pain, "that it was supposed… to be some sort of… message."   "Severus," says Dumbledore, urgency and relief warring in his voice. "What happened?"   Snape’s teeth are clenched against the pain, and it is a long moment before he can gather breath to speak.   "Voldemort… wanted more of the potion." Another gasp. "Ordered me… to extract a Muggle’s soul… on the… spot." He swallows convulsively.   "I refused… for practical reasons. Long explanation." He rests for a moment, seemingly unaware that his body is writhing in pain even as he delivers what could almost be an academic lecture. His voice is fainter when he continues.   "He was angry- did the usual." I feel my heart go cold; how sad that there should be a torture to which Severus refers as ‘the usual’. But he is going on.   "He knows… the soul I’m using is not… obtained the usual way. Works differently, less effective. Same as Molly noticed. That soul has… less fear. He called me… traitor… and said he’d kill me slowly... as it seemed… I had lost my use-" harsh cough- "usefulness." He gasps for breath in a manner that wrenches my heart, then- incredibly- manages what might have been meant as a smile. "Said… he thought I had… been…" - here a long pause came as he gasped for breath again- "telling tales out… out of turn… on both sides of the fence."   This time, the spasm of pain he endures is longer, and he gags a little at the strength of it.   "The Dark Mark," he croaks at last. "He set it off, like a time bomb… only slower. Shuts down the brain… a little… at a time." Hoarse, wracking cough, followed by a grimace that might have been an ironic smile in better times.bsp;bsp; "All… except for the pain centers." Clench of teeth again, then a slight relaxation. "Only took one word… Suscito. Must have been a built-in… part… of the Mark… from the beginning."   I reach down to smooth the hair from his forehead. He is black and blue all over; I know he’s left out most of what they did to him. "Severus… do you think the Cleve Potion can cut out the reactivated part of the Mark?"   He tries to shrug, but his body is too spasmed with pain. "Don’t know," he manages, starting to rock as the agony escalates. "I’ll try anything."   It is plain to see that he is in more pain than he’s ever felt before; tears are coursing down his thin face, mingling with blood and sweat and only God knows what else. The rich, cultured tones of his speaking voice are gone, rasped raw by the screams I am sure have wracked his vocal cords in the hours just past. All that is left is a husk, his voice nearly failing him altogether each time he speaks. I know he would never willingly allow anyone to see him like this, and that is the thought I cling to as I make up my mind.   I sit up slightly, looking toward the open door at the other end of the room, which leads to Snape’s personal lab.   "Accio Cleve Potion," I snap, and one bronze-filled bottle slaps into my palm a few seconds later with the surety of the surgeon’s blade. I help Severus sit up enough to swallow some, and he gags for a moment before he can get it down. We wait tensely, knowing it will be a few minutes before we can tell if it is going to work, and I Summon a few other items to have something to do. A cloth, a bar of soap, and two basins of warm water appear as soon as they are sent for, and I gently clean off his face and hands. He can’t help me much, as his nerve endings are badly jangled from Crucio. But when I’m done, he manages to whisper,   "Thank you. I feel terrible."   I laugh at this. "Only you could manage such an understatement, Severus Snape," I say, my voice thick with unshed tears.   It is clear, by now, that the Cleve Potion has not worked. Even the pain of Crucio is not dulled as it ought to be, and I frown with concentration even as I make this observation to the room at large.   "Hermione." Dumbledore’s voice has an urgent edge, and in that instant, I have it.   "The henge," we say together, and I scramble to my feet, managing despite my haste to gently disentangle myself from Severus’s battered form.   "Stay with him, Minerva," says Dumbledore, going into the small workroom from which I Summoned the potion and returning with a steaming cauldron. A dash of Floo powder into the fireplace soon takes us to Hogsmeade, which we barely see as we Apparate to Salisbury.   I am running up the hill, pelting full-speed into my plan even though it is barely even half-formed. But I can’t stop; there is too much at risk, and I am riding the wave of exultation that comes with understanding how something works. Ron loves his mother; Ron’s soul healed her where a stranger’s could not. Someone has to love Snape enough for their soul to heal him. The soul is not an inert thing to be used and manipulated; it is a living thing, and it has volition independent of the mind, just as the heart often does. If the soul in the potion does not love the recipient, very little will happen. I laugh despite myself; no wonder Ron’s soul did nothing to help Snape. I can’t work out what that means about Voldemort’s use of soul in his life-sustaining potions, but there isn’t time for that now.   Dumbledore has set up the cauldron and fire, and I check the sky. We are in luck; we have only two minutes left to wait. Then it occurs to me.   "How can we do this?" I holler to Dumbledore. "There are only two of us. Who will do everything?"   I hear his voice in answer as clearly as if he were standing next to me. "I will brew the potion, and you will ask the henge to use your soul."   Can we do it that way? I wonder, even as we begin. There is no time to question it, only time to try it. And Severus is worth whatever risk I have to take.   It never occurs to me to be surprised that Dumbledore knows I would give my soul for Severus; later it will seem odd that he didn’t offer himself. But if there’s one thing about Albus Dumbledore that no one will contest, it’s that he sees all, knows all. Almost.   I thrust my wand into the stone, and feel a palpable jolt of excitement run through the henge as the stones recognize me. A sensation of greeting washes over me, and the realities of the world fade in a moment of joy as I am welcomed, admired, loved.   The song begins, and this time, I join in, with words and meanings I’ve never known and still don’t really understand. I am caught up in a half-world of forgotten magic, and some part of me- racial memory, perhaps- awakens to guide my tongue and hands.   Somehow, the stones know about Severus. They do not have an image of him- for stones do not have eyes- but the senses that they do have reflect him back to me, and I recognize him in their way.   Yes, I think to the stones. I need your help to help him.   For the first time, the stones answer in a language I recognize.   Bedrock.   And then it is all light and music and smooth, cool stone and dew and grass and ozone and fire and gold; and the stars above and the earth below, and I’m so tired I could just-   A/N: Ah, another cliffhanger. Fun, aren’t they? The elephant in the room, for those who haven’t heard it, is from an anonymous (I think) poem in which a loss is described as an elephant in the room, large and intrusive, and yet everyone ignores it even though it is uppermost in the mind. The speaker ends with, "Can I say his name to you, and not have you look away? For if I cannot, then you are leaving me… alone… in a room… with an elephant." Gives me chills. "None of us can choose where we will love" is a line from Susan Kay’s lovely novel Phantom. Erik and Severus really do have a great deal in common, don’t they? Not the least of which is a cadre of adoring female fans….