Soul Searching

"There isn’t much time," he says, as if contemplating a plan Soul Searching   By Quillusion   Chapter 15   I stare in fascination at the flask in Severus's bloodstained hand. "What exactly is it?" I ask carefully, still transfixed mentally by the look of satisfaction blazing in Severus's eyes.   "It is a specialized form of the Commutatio Fortunae potion," he says simply, smiling at me- which amazes me, given his split lip and bruised face. I know what that means, but it takes me a second to realize what it means.   "A reversal of fortune potion? You mean- if you sprayed it on Voldemort, will it reverse the potions and spells he's using to keep himself alive?" There his hope in my voice, more than I have heard there in years.   "Yes," says Snape simply, and I laugh aloud in wonder.   "Where did you get this, Severus?" Dedoredore asks, SnapSnape looks mildly affronted.   "I made it, of course," he says, as if surprised Albus would need to ask.   "I assume," says Dumbledore mildly, "that you prepared this in a rather 'just in case' sort of manner?"   "Not really," Snape admits. "I was planning on getting it to him somehow, even if it never came to this. But the last few times I've been summoned, I've taken to keeping the potion on me, against the possibility of things ending as they did last night." He pauses, some of the elation gone from his tortured face. "I wasn't expecting to live the last three times I went, and I had decided to get it to him any way I could. I would have thrown it in his face if I'd had to- but this way no one will think to connect the splash with the weakness that will start to set in within six hours of exposure." He looks satisfied again, and I smile inwardly; he has good reason to be satisfied. He's done brilliantly. Even Albus's expression is one of admiration. Then the Headmaster'ce cce clouds slightly.   "Severus," says Dumbledore gently. "How would we have known about all this if you'd died on one of your previous trips? You should have told me if you thought your life was in immediate danger. I would never have let you go."   Snape's dark eyes swirl with something I can't quite name.   "Exactly," he says softly. "I would have had to tell you I feared for my life every single time I went, Albus. Because I did; the risk was ys tys there, and it became greater with each successive summons. But that didn't make it any less important for me to go." He watches the older wizard carefully, searching for signs of understanding. Apparently he doesn't see what he's looking for, because he goes on.   "Think about it, Albus. I couldn't have done my job if I'd had to tell you each time I set out that I might not come back- despite what the students might think, I am neither reptilian nor made of stone, and the constant thought of imminent death would have distracted me. It was easier to make plans in case the worst case scenario happened. There is a scroll in my rooms which is charmed to record my last thoughts; it would have come to you automatically in the event of my death. That way, I would have been able to give you the details of the last encounter I had with the Dark Lord. Besides, Albus- there were times when I was not able to speak to you before answering a summons. This was the best way." There is gentle urging in his voice, as if he is trying to coax Dumbledore into agreeing with him when he knows the Headmaster sees things differently.   "It was too dangerous," says Dumbledore, and S smi smiles sadly and shakes his head.   "It was what needed to be done. And it worked- until now." He pauses, turns to find McGonagall. I had forgotten she was there, but she is sitting by the fire, her face etched with dismay.   "Thank you, Minerva," says Snape quietly, and then looks backAlbuAlbus. "And you, Albus. For coming to get me, and for- for looking out for me."   I can imagine how hard it is for him to say that- to admit that he needs someone. I am beginning to understand exactly why he didn't want Dumbledore to know the dangers he faced. His fear each time he was summoned must have run two ways: fear for his life, and fear that he would not be allowed to do what he knew no one else could in the fight against Voldemort, to stop the Dark Lord- and to try to expiate what he saw as his unforgivable sins. And so he hid the truth from both sides.   It's another epiphany. Suddenly I grasp just how isolated this man really is- far more isolated than anyone could have imagined. Knowing better than to trust his enemies, afraid to trust his allies. Afraid to dare call them friends. Now the icy façade that is Professor Snape makes sense to me, for no one would think to look for fear or regrets in a man as cold and snarky as the Potions master's reputation would make him out to be. Neither would anyone expect to find a conscience hiding in the folds of those black robes, or feelings… or a heart.   So why has he let me see little glimpses of who he really is? Is it because I, unlike Albus, cannot stop him- so I'm safe?   Or can it be because he wants someone to know?   Because he wants me to know?   My attention is drawn back to the professors, who are urgently discussing what ought to be done with this window of opportunity.   "There isn’t much time," Snape is saying almost apologetically.   "For what?" asks Dumbledore patiently, as if there is all the time in the world to discuss the matter, with tea into the bargain.   "To make use of the potion's effects. It works slowly, but by now, it has already started to take effect. He will be weakest thirty-six hours after exposure; any longer, and the reversal agent will begin to wear off. At that point, his usual doses of restoratives will overmatch it and he will gradually regain his strength." He casts a quick glance at the clock and adds, "It’s been about ten hours already."   My heart twists as I digest that; ten hours of torture, of pain, of abuse, and then of lying in sand soaked with his own blood, waiting to die, forgotten. I have never been so grateful to Albus and Minerva, for not forgetting him. For having the courage to befriend this man in defiance of his wishes. Oh, Severus.   Snape passes a hand over his eyes, suddenly looking older than his years and very tired. "I know how reluctant you are to mount an offensive attack, Albus, but we have little choice- we will never win if we continue to let Voldemort choose the time and circumstances of our confrontations. We have to strike first, and we need to do it quickly. There are rumors among the Death Eaters that the open war will begin in the next week- no one knows anything for certain, because the Dark Lord doesn’t tell any one person everything, but as everyone shares what they do know, it becomes clear that Voldemort is planning an attack on Hogwarts. He wants to kill you, and then he’s going for Harry Potter."   I feel my chest constrict as I hear this. It is no surprise- indeed, it is merely a long-dreaded eventuality come to pass at last; but still, I worry for Harry. I worry for Dumbledore, too, even though I know he can take care of himself, if anyone can. The only thing keeping me from worrying about Snape as well is the fact that Voldemort thinks he's already dead.   Which, come to think of it, might prove an advantage.   Dumbledore stands up decisively then, in a swirl of robes, and turns to look at Minerva.   "We’ll have to move things up a bit," he says, and I realize that this is a moment for which they have been waiting: this is their cue, not a nasty surprise. Immense relief sweeps over me to know that there is a plan, that we don’t have to scramble to come up with something, that Dumbledore really is the brilliant mind he seems to be   "Albus… " says McGonagall quietly. Her tone pops my bubble of elation with its cautious note. "We’re not quite ready. The plan hasn’t come together yet- are you certain you want to tip our hand?" McGonagall’s voice is gentler than I have ever heard it.   Dumbledore turns to study her for a moment. "Yes, Minerva," he says at last. "Severus is right. I doubt we will ever have a better opportunity than the one with which he has presented us- plan or not. And I do not think we can afford to throw it away, much as I dislike the role of aggressor. There is too much at stake." His voice is soft, full of regret and steel.   I feel the bed shift and hear the rustle of cloth as Snape slowly, painfully gets to his feet. I know that, whatever the Cleve Potion may have done for his life, it has not healed the bruises- and possible breaks- that he undoubtedly has. This has apparently occurred to Dumbledore as well, for he reaches over to halt Snape’s movements.   "Let us have a look, Severus," he cautions, even as Snape objects that there is little time to spare.   "There is enough for this," says Dumbledore gently, and I smile into the pillow as Snape’s reluctant acquiescence falls from his lips and the bed gives softly as it takes his weight again.   Albus begins to look his Potions master over, and several small exclamations of pain accompany this examination. The last of these is the strongest, and is preceded by a startlingly abrupt curse.   "Ow! Albus… please! I’ve had enough for one night-"   "And will soon face more, if you remember," says Dumbledore dryly, not releasing the black-clad arm he is holding.   "I appear to be facing you, which is more than I think I can bear at present," snaps Severus irritably. "I’d rather face Miss Granger with her overly zealous wand than subject myself to any more of your prodding."   "That can be arranged," Albus murmurs, tapping me on the shoulder.   I struggle to sit up, surprised that he would take Snape’s offer seriously.   "Miss Granger, see what you can do for Professor Snape while I gather the troops. It will be several hours before we can all be assembled- I suggest we use that time to make ourselves as ready as possible for what we are about to face, and that-" stern look at Snape- "means healing what we can."   Snape's face clouds for a moment, and Dumbledore pauses at the expression. "What's wrong, Severus?"   "I want to go with you," he says, in the tone of a man who knows he cannot have what he wants.   "I thought you were coming."   "I can't," says Snape flatly, holding up his left arm. "He knows I'm not dead, because he can still feel my Mark. Furthermore, he knows I'm at Hogwarts- which means I was rescued, most likely by you, and that most likely I'm working for you. I'm a one-man location spell, and I'd endanger everyone with me if I were to go." His tone is bitter, but fatigue takes the edge off and turns it into resignation.   "Oh?" I manage softly, and turn his forearm for him to see what I glimpsed when his sleeve slid back as he first sat up.   He stares down then, and for the first time in over twenty years, sees nothing but pale flesh on the inside of his forearm. There are white lines where the Mark has protected the skin beneath from the sun, but the Mark itself is gone.   Snape gasps, and seizes his forearm as if he is in pain, but his face holds only shock.   "How?" he asks hoarsely, instinctively turning to look at me.   "The Cleve Potion removes the traces and echoes of curses," I say simply. "It removed the Mark when it removed the self-destruct curse that Voldemort reactivated. That Mark is twenty years old, and has never been renewed; while it can be reactivated, like the Starling Countercurse, it has never been recast, and so is old enough to pry loose, as it were."   His expression has shifted from shock to near tears. "I never thought…" he says, trailing off to silence.   "I thought you might have had the notion, once," I say quietly, "but then I thought perhaps you'd decided it was better not to hope."   "I haven't hoped," he says flatly then. "Not since the night Harry's parents died. I thought it was justice that I be stuck with a visible reminder of the- of my past." He is running his fingers slowly over the skin, as if searching for any last traces of the Mark, and his touch grows harder each time until the skin is red with abrasion.   "It's really gone," he says, as if saying it aloud will make him believe it. He looks at me again, and I can see the mix of thanks and regret in his face.   "You didn't deserve to wear it," I say firmly. "Not as a punishment, and not as a reminder. You're past that now."   "So, Severus," says Dumbledore then, lightening the mood with his tone. "Want to come get back at Voldemort for ruining your evening?"   Snape laughs then, and it's a clear and beautiful sound.   "I'd be delighted," he says, and one corner of his mouth lifts in an ironic smile.   Dumbledore is gone in a swish of blue robes, McGonagall’s green hem flashing behind him. Then we are alone, and I know I have a job to do. I turn to Severus, feeling self-conscious on behalf of both of us as I pull out my wand. It feels as though it is made of lead rather than wood, and as I give it an experimental heft, I frown to myself at the molasses-like feel of the movement.   Snape pays my antics little attention, however. He makes no effort to resist, almost resignedly pushing the cuffs of his robe above his elbows and putting his arms out in front of him, palms on his thighs.   "Do you have to go? I ask softly. "You’ve done so much already."   "Not enough," he murmurs, almost too low for me to hear. After a moment, he looks at me, dark eyes unfathomable, and says,   "Yes. I have to go. I know where they are- where he is. It’s the only way to find him." He sounds tired to me, the energy of a moment ago lost as his injuries reassert themselves over his nervous system. And I know he's right- they will need his help.   I decide to start the healing with his face. It will probably be helpful for him to look healthy, even if he doesn’t quite feel it inside; it might give Voldemort a nasty shock, at least. I prop myself up against the bolsters, praying they'll hold me up while I work. I hope I have magical strength in greater supply than my physical strength, or this will be a Herculean labor; I don't remember Ron being this tired after our first experiment with the henge, but then, he wasn't running it and donating at the same time. Perhaps some chocolate later will help.   My wand glows softly as I engage the healing spell, and I sigh inwardly with relief. At least I seem to be able to manage this much. I steady myself with one shaking arm, and gently move the tip of my wand closer to his skin, to let the soft light fall on bruised and damaged tissues. I hear the faintest of sighs as the skin responds, and when his eyes drift closed, my lips quirk into a smile.   I am not my parents' child for nothing. I heal the split lip first, and then ask to oto open his mouth to examine his teeth.   They were crooked before, but compared to their current state of disarray, his previous smile looked like an orthodontist's ideal outcome. He must have been kicked in the teeth four or five times during the scenes in the Pensieve, and a few punches had been thrown as well. No wonder his lip was split. My parents would need a Valium if they saw this.   Snape is watching me, and at my head shake, he winces.   "Bad?" he asks at last, though he must know it is.   Part of me is tempted to exact revenge for a long-ago comment: I see no difference. But that part is easily subdued.   "It's not great," I say. "I preferred your old smile. But- unlike some people- I can tell that something's changed."   He smiles a little then, painfully.   "I suppose I deserve worse than that from you," he admits, and I chuckle.   "Open wide," I say, imitating my parents as I have done since I was two.   It takes me a good twenty minutes to fix the breaks- and while I'm working, the chart of normal adult dentition that hangs on the wall of my mother's examination room filters into my memory. I fix the last broken tooth, staring with sudden inspiration at the whole teeth now before me. He's clearly taken good care of what he has, as poorly arranged as it is- and, almost without my conscious thought- but not quite- I begin to nudge.   The reason for his crooked teeth is quickly apparent- he hasn't the room in his mouth for three sets of molars. If he were a Muggle, the wisdom teeth would long since have been removed. With a quick, furtive glance at Severus's face- he's lying back, mouth open, eyes shut in the usual position of people having dental work done by someone who isn't wearing eyeglasses in which to watch the proceedings- I whisk them away, muttering a retention spell to keep them available if Snape wants them back later. That frees up a lot of room. The other two sets of molars are all right, just need to be moved back a bit, and the premolars need just a slight shift… that way. The canines need a slight rotation to fit just so into the other teeth properly, and the incisors just need to be lined up now that they have room to sit side by side. When I'm all done, I study the results critically.   "Bite down," I tell him, and he does so. The surprise in his face tells me he registers a considerable difference, and he looks at me in alarm.   "It's all right," I say. "I just fixed the broken ones, and put everything where it was supposed to go in the first place."   "But there's something wrong- it doesn't feel right-"   "I removed your wisdom teeth. That's why your other teeth got crooked- there wasn't room. You don't need them, and you'll get used to it."   He doesn't look at all certain. I hold my hand out- "Accio mirror-"   -and show him his new smile.   There are definite advantages, I think, to being the child of dentists.   Snape is staring with disbelief at his face in the mirror, seemingly distracted by the even teeth as much as the lack of bruises and cuts.   "Hermione…" he breathes, and I chuckle.   "I fixed mine," I say simply. "I hope you don't mind if I fixed yours too. Just to give me the moral high ground when it comes to remarks about teeth."   He puts the mirror down and stares at me in amazement.   "That's the last negative comment you'll ever get from me on your personal appearance, Miss Granger," he says with mock sternness, and I can tell he's using it to smooth over the awkwardness of feeling grateful to someone to whom he has been unkind in the past.   "Let's keep going," I say with a smile, proud of my handiwork and glad to see that, even if I'm physically exhausted, I have the mental strength needed for concentration and magical applications.   We sit in silence for several moments as I heal the cuts and bruises on his face and arms, gathering my courage for the worse injuries I feel certain his robes are hiding. Neither of us seems in any hurry at the moment; the time frame in which we both know we are working might as well not exist. Reluctant as I am to break the mood, I know I must do all I can to heal Snape before he faces his would-be murderer again. It will take his body weeks to truly recover, but we haven't got weeks. If we're lucky, we will have until later this morning for him to sleep and hopefully regain some of his strength.   I don't think I can consider my own strength at the moment. I have come to the conclusion that I will need a slab of medi-chocolate the size of Regents Park to perk up, and eating it seems like too much effort just now.   "What would you like me to heal next?" I ask softly, and his brow furrows for a moment at the disturbance. He considers briefly, and then says, in a voice rusty with relaxation,   "The ribs."   He moves to settle back on the bed again, then catches sight of his robes. With an exclamation of disgust, he awkwardly wrenches the tattered fabric the rest of the way off, swinging it around his arm to wad it up before throwing it into a corner.   The amount of blood I had thought the robes contained is nothing to what stains his shirt and trousers. My face must show my horror, because he pales a little himself.   "Damn," he mutters, and before I can stop him, he has levered himself off the bed and made his painful way into the bathroom. When I hear the sound of the shower, I hastily call for a house elf and ask for clean sheets. As usual, they work at lightning speed, even somehow knowing I can't really get off the bed in order for them to change it. They work around me, and I am sure they used a spell to get the soiled sheets out from under me and the fresh ones in their place without lifting me, but I never heard them utter a word. Amazing creatures, house elves; I feel silly for my ignorant assumptions about them in my fourth year. How homocentric of me to assume that human ideals should take precedence over elf ideals… but I hear the water in the bathroom stop, and my thoughts return to Severus.   He has been gone barely two and a half minutes, but he is clean, his bloodied clothing replaced with a plain pair of loose-fitting trousers, the blood washed away in the shower, his hair damp and curling at the ends.   Ah, says the irreverent part of me, clearly less tired than the rest of my brain and remembering the night I listened to him use that same shower, as I hid in the wardrobe not fifteen feet from where I now lie. I had wondered whether he used shampoo; now I can smell the herbal scent of it, clean and simple and honest enough to overcome the iron reek of blood.   Snape's expression is closed, but somehow I have the sense that he did not like me seeing him in that battered state. Clean as he now is, however, I do not think he is much happier about the situation. He moves with the deliberate care of a man who has taken stock of his injuries and found a good supply of them. I know he has open wounds- that blood on his robes wasn't from a nosebleed- but he isn't bleeding at the moment; he must have stopped the hemorrhage with spells. Knowing they won't hold much longer than Muggle pressure dressings will, I decide to work as quickly as possible on closing the cuts up more permanently. I gesture wordlessly to the bed again, and he obeys, stretching out gingerly on his left side to expose the ribs on his right.   I can see the boot-shaped bruises that course across his ribs, and I feel bile rise in my throat. I set my wand to the marks, slowly erasing them, carefully maintaining the contact to allow the magic to knit the bones that are most likely cracked as well. A quick scanning spell to make sure the liver and kidney have taken no lasting harm, and I switch sides.   I'm glad I don't have to concentrate much to use these spells- I don't think I could spell my own name right now. The toll the henge has taken on me is growing heavier, and I can feel my mind slowly parking itself; within a few minutes, I am not thinking much of anything, and the feeling is delightful. I think Snape could use this for a bit- if only I knew a way to share it with him. I look down again at the man beside me, suddenly aware that the departure of the thinking portion of my brain has left me with only the feeling part to run the show.   The muscles of his chest are nicely defined, subtle beneath the shadowy play of firelight on skin. No rippling gym-honed physique, this, but the simple elegance of heritage and a lifetime of harsh living. He is warm under my fingertips, warmer still where the wand’s light has touched him, and as I work I can feel him relaxing.   That pleases me- knowing that he can relax, for even a few minutes, before he will have to face Voldemort again. The faint noises of pleasure that he lets out every so often are greater praise to me than any words of approbation he could have given in the classroom; rare as his approval is, I suspect his delight is rarer still.   "Next?" I ask when his torso is done.   There is a pause, and just when I start to think he might have drifted to sleep, he answers. "Legs," he murmurs softly, rolling back onto his back.   His belly and legs have fewer injuries, but I run over them as well, careful not to touch him unless it’s necessary. Having seen his memories in the Pensieve makes it easier to heal him; each blow he took is imprinted on my mind as clearly as it is on his body.   One injury in parciular stands out as horribly rife with the potential to cause lasting damage. I cautiously lower the wand to hover over his groin, recalling the sickening jolt of his body when Lucius Malfoy kicked him there. He freezes as the warmth soaks through his clothing, but he does not object. It takes several minutes for the injuries to heal completely, and I feel myself flush pink as I sit there with my wand motionless over such a personal area. His face is still, though, so I assume that I am neither embarrassing him nor hurting him.   For a fleeting moment, I curse myself for having used a wand for this magic, though I know it can be done with hands alone. I was tired enough when I started to want the aid of the wand, and to have no foresight left for the opportunity I was denying myself unknowingly. Oh well. He's in no condition to fend off unwanted advances now, anyway. I'd probably feel guilty if I tried anything.   When I move around to his hip at last, to heal another bruise, he relaxes just a notch.   "Thank you," he murmurs, his thi thick with relief. "I didn't want to ask you."   I can't help but think he's as grateful for my recognition of his sexuality as he is for my healing; student opinion would likely have it that he would never notice if that part of him never worked again. I squeeze his ankle gently in wordless reply, not wanting to remind this proud man that I witnessed such an embarrassing moment. I certainly don't want to let myself think about how disappointed I'd be if that part of him were damaged permanently. Down, girl, I tell myself firmly. I'm beginning to wonder if the aftereffects of the henge include the release of inhibitions; I haven't had so many lewd thoughts since the first week of my relationship with Viktor Krum.   Turning my mind back to Severus, I roll him onto his stomach again. It does not take me long to finish the rest of the bruises and stress fractures on his legs; we have perhaps ten minutes of the time Dumbledore prescribed remaining when I set my wand aside.   And stare down at the marvelous sight of Severus Snape, fast asleep.   His head is pillowed on his folded arms, the soft fall of his raven-dark hair obscuring his mouth, leaving only the eyes and eyebrows visible, along with the line of his nose. I admire the small diamond-shaped spot just at the bridge, where the bone is thickened as if it were broken when he was younger; this little detail is one of the ones that I most associate with his face. I can see the dried tracks of his tears, and that leaves me slightly shaken. I had no idea he was crying.   I'm glad I didn’t see it; I doubt I could have refrained from offering comfort that might only have made him feel worse. And after the night he's had, there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep that from happening. But he looks peaceful now, and the absence of bruises and cuts makes him look stronger. I think I've done a respectable job of healing him, at least externally.   I only hope I'll get the chance to help him heal everywhere else.   The flicker of torchlight plays over his skin, gilding it a little, and I simply sit for a moment, drinking in the sight. I want more than anything to curl into the arc of his body and hold him, to sleep away the pain and fatigue and awaken to a bright morning with breakfast and friends aplenty.   It takes all the willpower I have to gently put my hand on his shoulder, letting the warm weight of it slowly rouse him from sleep. Long eyelashes flutter over deep-set eyes, and he looks up at me in a moment of disorientation, his face completely open, bared of any of his habitual masks.   "Better?" I ask softly, and am stunned by my reward.   A sleepy, satisfied smile settles on his lips, and he nods.   "Ever so much," he murmurs, and his voice rubs across my nerves, bowstring on violin, shockwaving a shiver of delight down my spine.   This, I think to myself in that heartbeat, is what he looks like when he’s been loved into a stupor.   I can barely breathe, let alone move, when his hand slides over to take mine. He draws it deliberately to his lips, and carefully salutes it in the old-fashioned manner, his eyes locked on mine as his mouth caresses my skin.   "Thank you, Hermione," he murmurs softly, and it takes everything I have not to whimper. I have read far too many stories in The WIKTT Archives not to be susceptible to Snape Charming in all his many forms- and the chivalrous one is definitely pushing all the right buttons right now. Forget the prince- I'll take the Potions master, please….   The sound of footsteps at the end of the hall alerts us to the return of the Headmaster, and Severus easily sits up and reaches a clean shirt from the table beside the bed; he has it over his head before the approaching beam of lantern light dances on the walls of the hallway leading to the Potions master's private rooms. As off-kilter as I feel now that he has drawn away from me, I manage to sit up as well, and pull the comforter around my shoulders; if there's one thing the dungeons are, warm isn't it.   "Hello, Hermione," comes a familiar voice from the doorway, and in the next instant I am lumbering off the bed in an excess of slow-moving glee to hug Harry Potter.