Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching By Quillusion    Chapter 14 I am awake. I think. It is dark, and there are soft voices in the next room. I sit bolt upright, realizing only as I reach vertical that I have just used up all the strength I possess. I feebly scrabble my way off the couch upon which I seem to have been laid, holding the wall for support as my weakened soul reflects itself in my weakened body. Part of me is panicking at the realization that I have no memory of anything since the middle of the henge’s song- but most of me is panicking over something else entirely. I lurch through the doorway to Snape’s bedroom, to see Minerva and Albus working quickly over Severus’s still form.   "Is he all right?" I croak, making my unsteady way to his bedside.   "He’s alive," Albus reassures me. "We haven’t dosed him yet; I had to let the potion cool the natural way, because the use of a spell to cool it can spoil it."   I stare at him, dumbfounded to hear that he knows his way around a Potions lab. Then I feel my cheeks burn with idiocy- after all, it was he who completed the potion at the henge. And elucidated the twelve uses of dragon’s blood. What did you think he did in his younger days, Granger- hem robes for Madam Malkin’s? I swallow my embarrassment and turn my gaze back toward the man on the bed, and away from the twinkling amusement in the Headmaster’s eyes.   McGonagall hands me a goblet full of potion, gesturing toward Severus, and I realize that they are letting me give it to him. More grateful than words can say, I nod, but before taking the vessel in bhandhands, I carefully lower myself to sit on the bed beside him. I focus hard on not spilling any of the precious stuff.   "Severus," I call, and his eyes squint shut more tightly. "Severus. Sit up." He does not answer, but shifts a little, and I realize that the Mark’s effects have progressed since we left. I don’t know how long we’ve been gone, but it’s obviously longer than we would have liked. I slide my arm under his shoulders to help him, but I am as weak as he. Strong arms suddenly lift the burden from me, and I look my gratitude at Minerva and Albus as they hold up our battered friend. I set the goblet to his lips and tilt, and as the warm liquid touches his skin, he obeys instinct and drinks.   When he has taken all of it, we lay him back down, and in my exhaun, In, I lie down beside him. My arms are shaking, and I feel as though I could sleep for a week. But I will not let myself sleep until I know how he responds. I turn on my side, studying his pale, bruised face as we wait.   The minutes tick by with excruciating slowness, and I convince myself of a thousand things in each one, only to reverse my decision in the next. But at last I can see a hint of color in his cheeks again, and to my utter shock, in the tenth minute I see tears sliding from beneath his eyelids to trace his cheekbones.   "Severus!" I rasp, wincing as my voice cuts in and out on the word, leaving most of it in an inelegant stage whisper. My hand, however, settles unerringly on his cheek, my thumb brushing his cheekbone and wiping away a tear with a tenderness I cannot quite disguise. "Severus, what’s wrong?"   He opens his eyes then with a start, and I see amazement in them.   "Am I dead?" he asks, and I force myself to ignore the hopeful tone of the question.   "Why do you ask?" I counter.   "Nothing hurts." His tone is half disbelief, half cautious amusement. "Something on me has hurt every day for the last twenty-five years of my life. I've come to assume that will only change when I die." His hand comes up to touch the top of his head, and he grimaces as he sees the mess that comes away on his fingers. A muffled groan accompanies his movement, and I smile a little; apparently nothing hurts only as long as he stays still. Given the beating I’m sure he took, that’s no surprise.   "Well," I reply with satisfaction, "you’re not dead. Which isn’t to say you didn’t give it a good try."   "I suppose that's a relief," he says resignedly. "I'd hate to think one could feel this horrible even after dying."   That's Snape, all right. Such a dry remark in the midst of such a sea of tears is utterly in his style, and I feel a great weight lift from my shoulders as I laugh low at his comment.   He turns his head to look at me, rises up on one elbow. His eyes widen a fraction and he blinks in startlement as he takes in his surroundings; I can almost see him thinking: We’re lying side by side in bed. Did I miss something?   Dumbledore and McGonagall are nearly limp with relief. "Severus," McGonagall says, her voice full of a concern one would never expect from her after seeing the heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin face off in the halls or in the Quidditch field’s stands. "You had us terribly worried."   "I had myself worried," Snape admits quietly, which statement brings a flare of alarm to the other three people in the room, none of whom has ever heard anything like doubt- or weakness- from Severus Snape. "I thought I was dead. I should have been dead. I could feel it happening-"   "Well, you are most certainly not dead," Dumbledore says firmly, as if saying it can make it true forever. "But you are certainly in a good bit of danger from here on out."   Snape nods wearily, and then recollection sweeps in on a sudden flood tide. "Albus!" he exclaims in a voice still hoarse from screaming, struggling to sit up. The headmaster helps him, and I flop over a little to take up some of the room he has freed up on the bed.   The Potions master is holding his head in his hands, but he’s not in pain. He’s thinking, and quickly. I would like to think that the Cleve Potion is at least partially responsible for this, but I have formed the definite impression that shaking off the worst of the pain and getting on with things is something that Severus Snape has had more than ample opportunity to practice.   "I can't remember," he says, an edge of impatience coming to his voice and making him sound much more like his usual self. "There's something important that I can't remember." There is accusation in his voice now, and I snort weakly.   "Oh, well, can't understand that, Severus," I say. "You've only spent the last few hours an inch from death, and in agony. What's the problem?"   He glances irritably in my direction, his expression softening when he looks at me. I'm not sure why, but there's no time to wonder. Dumbledore has held his wand out and firmly said, "Accio Pensieve!"   Will it work down such a twisty set of halls? I wonder, suddenly beset with images of the Pensieve smashing itself to bits on a sharp curve of hallway in the dungeons.   But a moment later it is there, a shallow basin carved with interesting symbols, its silvery surface swirling and beckoning. Albus hands the vessel to Severus, but he shakes his head. "It will only get lost in your memories," he says, only to have the Headmaster press the bowl into his hands anyway.   "It's spelled to work for other people temporarily," he explains. "I've found it useful before, for jogging memories. Your nervous system has been injured by the Cruciatus curse, Severus; you can't expect it to snap back all in an instant, marvelous potion or not."   Without further hesitation, Snape settles the bowl in his lap. One hand reaches for the front of his robes, only to pause momentarily as if in fear. Then, slowly, Snape puts his hand into the bloody mess of his clothing and fishes about for his wand. He closes his eyes as if trying not to think about what he might accidentally touch as he feels blindly among his garments, but a moment later he has it out. It is dark wood, which is good- for it, too, is bloody. He closes his eyes for a moment, concentrating, and then puts the tip of his wand to his temple. Cautiously, he coaxes a thin stream of silver to follow it to the Pensieve's surface, moving as carefully as if he were spinning glass threads.   One after the other, he draws a series of fine, almost invisible silver threads to the bowl, frowning all the while with concentration. I can see beads of perspiration on his forehead, but he does not stop until he has caught all that he can recall. Shaking his head, he sets his wand down, sighing with disappointment.   "I don't think there's much there," he says doubtfully, and Albus lays a comforting hand on his shoulder.   "Let me try one last thing," he suggests, and Severus nods willingly.   Dumbledore gestures for Snape to take up his own wand, and when he has done so, he sets the point to the younger wizard's temple. Then, setting the point of his own wand against the spott abt above the place between Snape's eyes, he murmurs, "Recordore".   This time, a solid stream of silver arcs from Snape's temple to the bowl, and Snape gasps with pain. Still, he keeps his wand at his temple till the silver is gone, then lets the trailing edge slip off his wand to the surface of the liquid in the Pensieve.   "I am sorry that hurt, Severus," says Albus in concern. "It shouldn't hurt."   "It wasn't the spell," gasps Severus through teeth clenched anew. "It was the my. By. But it still doesn't fit together."   "That's because the memory I just extracted was from your subconscious. It's the sum of what you took in but did not fully process. It might help. Now- let us look into the Pensieve."   "All of us?" I ask, and he nods, holding his hand out to draw me to the edge of the bed. I grip the edge of the bed, struggling to move, and Severus reaches out to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me the rest of the way over. We're both panting with effort, and I sag against him just a little as the give of the mattress funnels us both into a little valley, shoulder to shoulder. I can feel him leaning into me, too, and he's trembling. I imagine that the feeling of another warm body beside him must be considerable comfort to a man who's nearly died tonight.   "All together, now," says Dumbledore, and we each dip a finger into the silver swirls-   And drop into Severus's memories.   The air is dank with the stench of mold and decay and the slightly cleaner tang of salt. I am aware of coarse grit on the ground, crunching with the faintest of wet sounds beneath the feet of the figures standing in a loose circle.   Severus is on the ground, moving slightly, and I realize that the tense silence around us is the result of the blast of Cruciatus that he has just endured. He looks remarkably together- after all, this is hardly the first time he's suffered this way; he's had time to learn how to cope. The thought makes me boilingly angry, but I remind myself forcefully that I am in one of Severus's memories, not watching this live, and I stay still.   Sudden movement at the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I look over to see Dumbledore and Snape standing beside me. Dumbledore is standing with hands quietly clasped, but Snape is visibly affected by what we are watching. His shoulders are hunched, his arms crossed across his chest, and he looks miserable. His face is dead white, and I can see the sweat on his brow. I move to stand beside him, putting my hand deliberately but cautiously on his arm, and I give him a gentle squeeze to ask if he's all right. He shoots me a look and a tight smile, his head jerking in the briefest of nods. He looks at the floor for a long moment before he can look up again, and I turn back to the memory to give him time to regroup.   "I wish you wouldn't make me do this, Severus," comes a thin, sibilant voice from the edge of the memory. Voldemort, of course. He comes closer to Snape's still form, the glowing red of his eyes and the horrid stretchiness of his serpentine face seeming more and more awful as he approaches. "All you have to do is kill a Muggle- it's not so hard. I know you've never wanted to in the past; I think it's time now you lost your… squeamishness for blood."   Snape is struggling upright again, swaying slightly as he regains his feet. "That is not the problem, Lord Voldemort," he begins, having trouble speaking as his vocal cords rebel against being used for ordinary speech so soon after screaming. "It is not possible for the one who brews the potion to be the one who…"   "Stop coming up with excuses!" bellows Voldemort, and Snape quiets, wincing at the malevolence creeping onto the grey face before him. "I have let you get away with too much for too long. I've always had a soft spot for the runt of the litter, you know, Severus- but I am done with patience. I want to see you carry out my instructions without arguing- for once!"   Snape holds out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I cannot," he says simply. "Not if you wish me to brew the potion for you. It must not be done that way- it will not work."   Suddenly, Lucius Malfoy is surging forward, his nostrils flaring as he scents intellectual blood. "Insubordination!" he bellows. "He cannot disobey you, Master! It is forbidden!"   "I also cannot obey both his command to extract the soul and his command to brew the potion, Lucius," snaps Snape, but Voldemort pays him no heed.   "You are right, Lucius," he says almost lazily. "I think that Severus has lost his usefulness. What good is a potions maker if he cannot perform a simple commission?"   I grit my teeth at this. Voldemort really does not understand that it is literally impossible for Severus to do as he asks; he's clearly had a terrible education in Potions making. No wonder he had to try to steal Nicholas Flamel's version of the Philosopher's Stone; he could never have made his own, and he wouldn't have wanted anyone else to try, for fear they'd succeed and then refuse to give it to him. Lucius is no better; it's amazing Draco has enough intelligence to scrape by with passing marks in Snape's class. Of course, Snape may be helping him along- but that's a question for later.   Voldemort is now nearly nose to nose with Snape. "You know, Severus… I've been considering your loyalty for a while now. I think you may have been telling tales out of turn on both sides of the fence. You've been getting a little more cheeky with each passing week, and I've had enough of your childish rebellion. Your usefulness entitles you to only so much leeway, and you've long since exceeded that. You will either make the arrangements as I have commanded, or I will have done with you here and now."   "Master- I have told you." Snape's voice is resigned, flat, and I know with a sinking feeling in my heart that he has accepted what he knows will come next. "It does not lie within my power- anyone's power- to do as you ask. If I could, believe me, I would. But if I extract the soul, then it will recognize me during the brewing, and the potion will not come together. The extraction and preparation must be done by two different people. There is no way around that."   "Well then," says Voldemort, waving away the simplified technical explanation. "I cannot have a follower who does not strive to break the limits of what is known and done." He turns abruptly and walks back to the makeshift throne at the end of the hall. Seating himself, he contemplates the tableau before him for a long moment before speaking again.   When he does, his voice is calm.   "Crucio."   Even without a wand, the curse is devastating. Severus doubles over, his face a contorted mask of pain, and then he falls to the floor, his body wracked with agonizing spasms.   The scene before me begins to blur, and I realize I am crying. I can barely make out the forms of other Death Eaters as they come forward to kick Severus in the ribs, punch him in the face, cast their own versions of Cruciatus, and more. Their jeers and taunts ring through the hall, ugly and discordant. And all the while Voldemort maintains short bursts of his horrifically powerful Cruciatus, letting the victim rest for only moments in between. It goes on, and on, and I think I am going to be sick. There is blood on the ground, Severus's blood, and the boots of the Death Eaters who come close to strike him are shiny and dark with it.   I cannot imagine that Severus is still conscious, but to my horror I see him turn slightly away from a blow Lucius Malfoy sends toward his groin. The Snape beside me flinches at this, and I carefully avoid looking at him, knowing I will start crying freely if I see the look I am sure he is wearing on his face.   Suddenly Voldemort makes a small gesture with one hand, and the Death Eaters fall silent, returning to their circle around Severus. Then the Dark Lord comes to his feet, slowly pacing toward Severus with a murderous gleam in his eye.   "Are you sorry now, Severus? Will you change your mind?" The voice is seductive, and I know he wants Snape to say yes, only to be beaten more.   "I can't." There is no voice behind the whisper, and the words are only half formed, but they fall into the still air with the finality of a death sentence. Snape's eyes are closed, and he is motionless on the floor; he knows as well as everyone else that there is nothing to be done now but die.   "Pity." Voldemort steps back, then draws out his wand. He considers for a moment, his eyes sliding consideringly to his other followers, and then his mouth turns downward in something that might have been a smile on a normal face.   Kneeling beside the battered form of his Potions maker, he reaches out and drags Snape's left arm from beneath his body. Wrenching the arm into an unnatural position to expose the forearm, ignoring the grimace of pain he earns for his efforts, he grabs the fabric in his hands and rends the robe to the elbow. For a long moment, he gazes at the skin where the Dark Mark still shows.   "Now," he says softly, his tone almost caressing; the Mark pulsates slightly, bringing the faintest hiss of pain from Snape's tortured lips. Voldemort reaches out with one hand, index finger extended.   "Let this be a lesson to all of you," he says to the ring of silent Death Eaters around him, and touches his finger to the Mark.   "Suscito," he whispers. Snape does cry out then, a ragged sound of despair and pain, and I stiffen, muffling a cry of my own with my ched hed fist. I feel a hand on my back, supporting me a little, and I lean into it, biting my hand in my distress. Fingers curl around my wrist to pull my hand down, and I look up with startlement into Severus's face. His expression is carefully controlled, nearly blank except for the burning in his eyes, and I know it is hard for him to watch this so soon after living it. Still, perhaps it is helpful to have someone to look after as he relives the horrid experience. It is always easto bto be brave for someone else than to be brave for yourself. I take his hand in mine, lacing my fingers through it with finality, and we both turn back to the scene playing out before us.   The Snape on the r har has rolled over and managed to kneel, clutching his arm to his chest, his eyes shut against the incredible pain. Gasping, drawing ragged breaths as if each one is more difficult than the last, he looks up at Voldemort as the oily voice speaks again.   "The Mark you have chosen to forsake will be the death of you, Severus Snape," says the Dark Lord pompously. "It will work rather like a Muggle time bomb, slowly shutting down the circuits of your brain from the highest functions on down, all the way to the brainstem. The only thing that will continue to function normally are the pain centers; you will soon discover how… imaginative they can be." He smiles with satisfaction. "Eventually- or, shall I say, shortly- you will go mad. And then you will die. Like a mindless animal."   He laughs then, knowing that Severus has always prided himself on intellectual superiority; heaven knows there are few among the Death Eaters with his level of intelligence. Even I know that; even I know that this will be a humiliating death for him.   "If only I could send you straight back to Hogwarts, where the students could laugh at the ignominous end of their hated Potions teacher," says Voldemort fondly. "Alas, if I do that, Dumbledore will find some way to hide you and let you die in relative dignity anyway. So I think I shall send you someplace where you can die undisturbed by comfort." He comes closer, kneels down again beside Snape.   The Potions master is still kneeling, his head tucked, his body curled on itself in an attempt to manage the pain. His arms are wrapped around his abdomen, trying to deaden the pain from the Mark and the abuse he has been dealt. Voldemort leans over, takes Snape's chin in his hand and forces him to look up.   "Have you ever been to Death Valley?" asks the Dark Lord, and his fingers tighten on the thin face, clamping, squeezing painfully like a vise.   Severus makes a retching noise, and a moment later, a pale sherry-colored liquid sprays from his mouth all over Voldemort's face and chest.   The Dark Lord releases him with an exclamation of disgust, then laughs as he wipes his face with his hand. Snape has lowered his head again, leaning forward with weariness.   "Can't even keep your last meal down, eh, Severus? I hope that was good tea you had. It smells horrid enough after you've had the keeping of it for a while."   The Death Eaters laugh, and Severus slowly sinks to his side on the floor, his expres cur curiously peaceful, his eyes closed. He looks like he's concentrating on something; I suppose he's trying to stay conscious. An instant later, Voldemort throws a rag onto his back, and then everything dissolves.   I realize in that instant that the rag was a Portkey, and as things solidify in front of me again, I see… sand. Sand, and little else. It is night, and freezing cold, and I can barely make out the shape of Severus's body lying before us. He is utterly still, and it is a long moment before I realize that McGonagall has Apparated beside him.   "Severus! Oh, Merlin-what have they done to you? We must get you home- hold my hand- Oh, Severus, stay with me!"     We are back in Severus's bedroom, all three of us sober as can be. My face is still wet with tears, and a quick glance at Severus tells me he's embarrassed by having us see him in such a state. The Pensieve swirls slowly, its quicksilver surface undisturbed by the things it has just shown us.   "He's an animal,seetseethe, and Dumbledore nods.   "He could hardly be described as human anymore, Hermione. On that point I think you are quite correct."   I turn to look at Severus, only then realizing that we are still holding hands. I do not let his hand go, and he does not pull away. He looks at me, clearly trying to regain control of his voice, and I ask softly,   "What were you trying to remember? What was in that memory that is so vital?"   He finally clears his throat and then disentangles our fingereacheaching back into his robes, less hesitantly this time, he draws out a tiny flask of purple glass.   "This," he says simply.   "What is it?" Dumbledore asks, his tone curious as the Potions master uncorks the flask and lets one sherry-colored drop fall to land on his finger.   "Well, it certainly isn't tea," says Snape archly. And the look on his face cannot be anything but triumph.