Damnation of Memory

Title: Damnation of Memory
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Suspense, romance, angst
Warnings: Character Death, Violence, Adult Situations
Summary: DH-EWE: With every generation, a Dark Wizard rises. Hermione Granger has survived one. However, after nearly thirteen years, a dead man returns to inform her that she must fight again, and this time, Harry Potter will not be the one to save the world from madness.
Author's Notes: This is my 1st full length SS/HG fic and my second 1st person POV fic. Please note that not every detail is canon, including the canon floor plan of Grimmauld Place. This chapter is also unbeta’d, so please, pardon the mistakes!




Damnation of Memory - VII




I had left the bedroom door open. I was lying on Harry and Ginny’s bed while Severus slept in Sirius’ old room down the hall. I had bathed and lay atop the sheets in another one of Ron’s old tee shirts, one I had liberated from his everyday wear.

I brushed a hand over my eyes, not wanting to think of the mess that had been my relationship with Ron. I had a million more things I could think about, and all of them were stressful. My job, or lack of job, Severus, the Knights of Walpurgis, the portraits’ words, the mysterious ‘men in black,’ and now the possibility that Horace Slughorn was dead.

As I lay staring up at the ceiling, I started thinking about the legend of Merlin.

My mother had read me the tales, a child’s adaptation of Malory’s ‘Le Morte d’Arthur.’ She had also read me other tales, gathered from different sources about Merlin’s deeds, of his counsel to King Arthur and his eventual imprisonment by Viviane or Nimue in other cases. I liked the tales, not just of Merlin, but also of all the famous characters in Arthurian Legend.

As I grew up, and went to Hogwarts, I read more accounts of Merlin. On the back of a Chocolate Frog card, I remembered that Merlin supposedly believed that wizards should help Muggles, and thus the Order of Merlin was founded. It was not long into my occasional studies of famous wizards that I learned that Merlin had no hand in creating the ‘Order,’ but Helga Hufflepuff. I had considered writing a letter to the creators of the Chocolate Frog cards to revise the text on Merlin’s card, and had promptly forgotten in lieu of me being petrified in Second Year.

I smirked to the ceiling; Severus had mentioned that Helga Hufflepuff had been part of Knights—Order of Merlin. I then wondered about Morgan le Fey, Merlin’s supposed enemy. The portraits had not mentioned her, and again I wondered if the legends were correct.

What I knew of Merlin as a child was repeated in Magical history books in the Library of Hogwarts. Supposedly born of a mortal woman and an incubus, Merlin was an unusual wizard. Every book recorded Merlin as a clever wizard, the ‘Prince of Enchanters’ as the Famous Wizards card said. There was not a dark deed recorded, no mention of Merlin’s true potential, but there was plenty of mention of his imprisonment. Some texts said that Merlin’s prison was a cave, others said a rock, and yet another said it was an invisible tower.

For centuries, Muggle and wizard alike searched for some proof to the Arthurian legends, the Lady of the Lake, and Merlin. Very little was ascertained. Legend remained legend.

However, as the portraits of Abraxas Malfoy and Arcturus Black had said, to every legend, there is an ounce of truth.

I rolled to my side on the bed, facing away from the empty doorway.

For Merlin to be legend, he surely had to be a remarkable wizard. The popularity of the Arthurian tales was world reaching. Merlin, in particular, had acted a model for every wizard in Muggle fiction and media. In many ways, the Muggle conception of Merlin was very much like Albus Dumbledore. I frowned. Long white beard, keen eyes, a kind mien, and a fair mind. For some reason, I doubted Merlin looked like all the representations Muggles had of him.

If Merlin was a threat, and imprisoned because he was becoming too powerful, what would it mean if he were somehow set free? If Merlin were so powerful, why would anyone want to set him free?

I could not understand so much, not yet. All I did know and understand for certain was that I was embroiled in something new, something dark.




I did not dream of the large apple tree and the golden apples or my mother. Instead, I had been in the graveyard, standing just an arm’s reach from the yew tree. I did not want to be there again, I did not want to have to slip my hand inside the crack in the trunk, but I did.

I found a man in the tree, and grasping his exposed hand, I began to pull. As I pulled, I could hear the man screaming in the tree, his face still hidden by the gnarled wood. I wanted to reassure the man, tell him that I would free him, but his screams grew louder, agonized.

It was then I woke, realizing that the screams were not just in my dream, but also in my waking world.

I rose from the bed, and grabbing my wand, I ran. It was my turn to kick open the door to Sirius’ old bedroom to find a thrashing Severus Snape on the narrow bed. I Charmed the candles on the wall sconces to light before I approached. When I stood just next to the bed, my hand reaching out to touch Severus’ pale shoulder, a hand grasped my wrist.

My wand clattered to the floor as Severus pulled me to him. He had sat up in the bed, and was now embracing me. My arms wrapped about him naturally as he buried his face into my breasts, gasping, his screaming dissolving into gasps. He was dressed in only his trousers, and as my fingers swept down his bare back, I felt scars and rough skin.

I surprised myself by making a cooing sound, as if to soothe a child. I had soothed little Albus several times when I had stayed at Grimmauld place, Sirius’ old room just next to the boy’s shared room.

My fingers moved away from his back, the muscles trembling under the pads of my fingers, until I brushed at his long, oily hair. His embrace was crushing, and I wondered if he were awake as he rubbed his face between my breasts. I continued to coo a soft and improvised melody, as his whimpers turned to deep inhales.

It was odd to hold my former Potions Professor, and then I realized that in appearances, he was not so much older than I was. Severus Snape, at the Battle of Hogwarts, had been thirty-eight years old. In September, I would be thirty-one. I sighed as he turned his face so that his cheek rested against the inner slope of my right breast.

“What did you dream?” I asked softly, just as Severus had asked me before.

“What I have been dreaming for so long,” he answered, in a gentle purr as my hands began petting his hair, just as I would have pet my old familiar if Crookshanks were still alive. “It was the bad dream this time.”

Severus sounded almost childlike as he said this, and I pushed him again.

“What did you dream?”

Severus wiped his long nose into my shirt, the tip brushing against my hard nipple. I took in a quick breath at the contact, and then relaxed. The motion had not been intentional.

“Someone was pulling me,” he whispered against my breast.

I frowned, glancing down at the dark crown of greasy hair. “What?” I asked in a whisper.

“Someone was pulling my arm, and it hurt…”

I could see the yew tree in my mind’s eye, and the long, pale man’s arm, my hand barely able to wrap around the girth of the wrist. I could see the black hair along the arm and the wiry muscle of the upper arm.

It was impossible…

“I could taste sap, I always taste sap.”

My eyes moved from his head down his pale back. In the candlelight, the old scars were silver, but there were other scars that were new, still pink, and rough. The scars ran down his back in areas of tight vertical rows. Just above the waist band of his trousers was a circular scar, and I was reminded of wood grain, the circular scar a gnarl in wood grain.

I swallowed thickly. My dream was just a dream. It was just symbolic representation of waking stress. Wasn’t it?

Severus’ face lifted, his hooked nose brushing along my chest to my collarbone. He was inhaling my scent, still holding me firmly against his chest. When his nose brushed against my throat, under my hair, I had to take a breath. It had been years since I was so close to a man.

No, that was not true. I had awoken in Severus Snape’s arms the morning before.

Automatically, the blush began to creep up from my chest. I struggled free, standing next to the bed. Severus Snape stared at me as if realizing I was so close to him for the first time. I snatched my wand from the floor and took a step back. He blinked at me and then glanced down to his trousers, I followed his gaze.

The blush made it to my face and my mouth was dry. I did not want to look at the bulge in his trousers; I did not want to look at his bare chest or the scars, or the way his long, lithe body slouched to reveal the scars on his back. I did not want to look at the confusion and then anger in his eyes.

“Get out,” he growled, and I did not need to be told twice.

I was stalking down the hall to my borrowed room within a blink of an eye. When I entered the bedroom, I slowly shut the door behind me. Haphazardly tossing my wand on the bedside table, I fell onto the bed face first, curling up in the middle of the bed, slipping my bare legs under the hem of the oversized tee shirt.

I did not want to think about how my breasts still were warm from Severus’ face, or how my right nipple tingled from his touch. I did not touch my inner thighs though I rubbed them together slowly under the tee shirt. I knew that it was ridiculous of me to be aroused by a mere embrace, but I had little control over my own body. In the past twenty-four hours, I had gone through a wide range of emotions, and the first, upon waking, had been arousal.

I supposed it was only natural to be aroused by such an intimate touch. I had not been touched in six years. Six years. I snorted to myself. I was starved for touch. I had enjoyed sex; I had enjoyed being touched, even though it had been Ron who touched me. I wished I had tried to date after Ron, I wished I had learned to differentiate attachment from sex. I wished I had learned to be able to, metaphorically, ‘scratch an itch,’ and maybe then I would not be rubbing my thighs together from simply being held and touched by Severus Snape—a man, who by all accounts, was dead.

It could not be simple, could it?

No, I sighed using my right arm as a pillow, my life could never be simple as a general rule. The worst part, I thought, was Severus was now angry with me. As if things could not be more awkward.

The dream, however, was what made me slip my legs from under my tee shirt and move to sit on the edge of the bed. It could not be a coincidence that I had been dreaming of pulling a man out of the yew tree while Severus dreamt of being pulled.

Grabbing my wand from where I had tossed it, I exited the bedroom, trying not to make a noise. I padded down the hall to the broken door and peeked inside.

The candles were extinguished, and on the bed, Severus lay with his back to me. Even in the dim light coming through the window, I could see the scars on his pale back. I could even see the bumps of his spine, disappearing into the seat of his trousers. His hair fell over the side of the bed in greasy tangles, but as I began to pull away from door, assuming he was asleep by the way his ribs rose and fell, Severus made a soft noise.

It was not a sigh or a whimper, but a soft moan.

His arm left arm was moving slowly, almost too slowly for me to notice at first, and I realized then what he was doing.

I stepped back from the door as he moaned again. I leaned back against the wall next to the open door, closing my eyes as I listened. The sound of flesh being manipulated filled my ears, and his moan through tight lips turning into a whimper.

I felt ill, not because Severus Snape was masturbating, but because I could still see the bulge in his trousers behind my eyelids. I closed my eyes, hearing that moisture was added to his movement, a sticky sound that made my stomach twist. I wished I could run back to my room, but I did not trust my legs. I wished he would finish and let me escape.

Part of me wanted to touch myself through my knickers, but I could not will myself to move as I heard his breathing begin to hitch. The only part of my body that did move, and in truth, had not stopped moving, had been my thighs. I heard his moan sound again, louder than before.

I let my head fall back against the wall, and I gritted my teeth. He came with a whimper and a gasp, and I was suddenly free as if I had been under a spell. I heard him roll on the bed and reach for his wand, to Vanish the evidence, I imagined. It was then that I started to walk, a hand against the wall supporting me as I moved back to my own room.

I locked the door and fell upon the bed, my thighs sticky, my knickers damp. I did not touch myself. I felt sick and high all at the same time. It had been torture to hear him, not caring if the door was open.

I wanted release.

I wanted Severus Snape, and it seemed so wrong.



Severus Snape was in no way handsome, and as I entered the kitchen the next morning, he looked a step away from death. In fact, he looked more as I remembered from school. He was paler, his face more gaunt, and for the first time since he arrived at Grimmauld Place, he wore something different from the black leather jerkin and black trousers. The trousers were the same, but he wore a black tee shirt that was a size too small, making him appear too thin. I wondered if the tee shirt had come from the bureau in Sirius’ old room—perhaps something Ron had left behind years ago.

He did not greet me as I attended to making my own breakfast, chewing on a bit of sausage from an elf-prepared meal. I sat down with a fried egg, toast, and a dollop of jam. I ignored his pointed gaze as I ate.

Finally, as if deciding that information was more important than being angry with me, Severus spoke.

“Potter will be here after breakfast,” he announced in a sneer.

I chanced a look at Severus. “You spoke to him?”

“While you were dressing,” he answered. “He called from the Ministry.”

I had not slept, and had heard Severus rise and go down into the house at about six in the morning. With the Burrow’s Floo being watched, Harry had called from the Ministry, I supposed.

I nibbled on a piece of toast, still aware of Severus’ gaze. I sighed.

“Deride me all you want,” I muttered.

“Pardon?”

My eyes bore into his.

“I am accustomed to living alone, sir. When I slipped into bed with you, I was half asleep. Last night, I only returned the favour by kicking in the door to see if you were being murdered in your sleep. If I have somehow offended you, I apologize,” I said gruffly, dropping my toast to my plate.

Severus gaped for a moment and then closed his mouth. He quickly glanced away, colour returning to his face in pink spots on his cheeks. I, in turn, blushed as well, still hearing his soft moans in my ears.

I wanted him to speak. I wanted him to say something in retort to my apology, but he said nothing and finished his breakfast. I continued eating, preoccupied and lost in half formed thoughts.

The Floo activated as I took my dirty place down to the scullery to add to the sink for Kreacher to tend to later. From the scullery step leading up to the kitchen, I watched as Harry stepped out of the Floo, brushing ash from his red Auror robes. From the expression on his face, I knew he was angry.

“I just came from Cornwall,” he started, addressing Severus. As I entered the kitchen, his emerald eyes flashed to me. “Slughorn is dead, as I was trying to tell you both last night.”

The initial surprise had waned. However, the implications of Slughorn’s death loomed.

“How?” I ventured.

Harry collapsed into the chair I had vacated, rubbing his face roughly. I then realized that Harry must have been in the field after he had tried to Floo call the night before.

“We are still trying to determine the exact cause.”

Severus met my eye.

“Where was he found, exactly?” Severus drawled, his voiced smooth and calm.

“Portleven, in the harbour.”

I frowned. “He was in the sea?”

Harry nodded. “Muggle Police found him first, it was a coincidence that the Ministry came to be involved.”

Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, thoughtfully. Severus pushed his empty place aside to lean toward the table, about to open his mouth to ask for more details. Harry, however, continued.

“Petroc Parkinson identified Slughorn—Parkinson is part of the town council…”

“How long ago?” Severus urged.

Harry closed his eyes, “Just last night, the Muggles found the body yesterday afternoon.”

“About the time we were at Malfoy Manor…” I whispered to myself.

Harry opened his brilliant eyes to stare at my face and then nodded slowly. “The Ministry removed the body, Obliviators should be finishing with Muggles involved, and I need to go back to finish questioning the Parkinsons.”

I blinked. When had the Parkinsons, one of the more biased Pure-blood families, decided to become part of a Muggle town council? I had no idea where the Parkinsons lived and wondered if Portleven had any ‘magical’ affiliations.

Harry rose from the kitchen table, moving tiredly to the Floo. “I’ll call if I learn anything more. In the meantime, you should mention this to…”

“Greg and the portraits, yes, we’ll do that now, Harry,” I said softly, my eyes moving again to Severus who had risen as Harry had.

Harry tried to smile to me, but it came across as a weak attempt. Instead, he nodded, and Flooed away in a flash of green light.

I stood in the kitchen, lost. If Horace was dead, that meant of there were only seven of what should have been eight knights. What was the motive? What was the cause? What was Slughorn doing in Cornwall? Where was Aberforth Dumbledore? I added those questions to my growing mental list.





“He was killed for what he knew,” Abraxas grumbled.

Both portraits were upset, red pigment bleeding into the contour of their painted faces. Arcturus was too agitated to speak, and his small portrait seemed like a cage for a large cat as Arcturus paced in the mysterious space of the painting.

“And what did Horace know?” Severus asked, standing before the paintings propped up against the wall below the Black Family tapestry. Severus had his arms cross before him as if to hug himself. I leaned against the wall near the door, hand shoved into the pockets of my dragon hide trousers.

“Specifically? One may never know, but surely, he could only have divulged the true nature of the Knights of Walpurgis. Of course, Horace would have died before speaking anything about the Knights…”

“He did die,” I sighed out.

Abraxas Malfoy said nothing, but seemed to consider the simplicity of my words.

“Then he divulged nothing. He was killed because he would not speak?” Abraxas asked to himself, rambling. “It is a possibility.”

I turned my head away and sighed. “Who does know something? Is there not a ‘leader’ of this secret society?”

In answer, Arcturus spoke, managing to gain control of his two-dimensional self. “Astute question, and yes, there is. There is no modern title for the one who leads, in ancient times, there was the druid, the bard, and the vates.”

The three classes of priesthood in the ancient practices, what some called the ‘Old Ways.’ The druid was a title designating scholarship and law. The bard was a title for that poet-scholar, a historian. The vates was the seer, the one who committed the sacrifices under the presidence of the druid. I had read of these ancient beliefs in Professor Binns’ History of Magic course, and I remembered that I was one of perhaps two students awake for the lecture.

“Of the eight, three would keep the Order of Merlin as one, the druid was head, the vates, then the bard… Now, only the ‘druid,’ the head of the Order remains, the one who protects the secret, the one who knows the location of Merlin’s prison.”

“Why only the one?” Severus asked.

Why indeed? If the ‘druid’ were killed, the secret would be lost.

“Security. That is why you must find Aberforth. He is the head, the druid,” Abraxas muttered.

“Yes, and with the loss of Horace, the clues as to where Aberforth might be—are gone,” Arcturus continued.

The portraits fell silent as Severus began to pace slowly before them. I was sure he was thinking along the same paths of thought I was. Darkness was billowing up and looming near us now, and everything from Severus appearing at Grimmauld Place, Greg Goyle, the portraits, all of it was becoming real to me. A true threat.

The idea of Merlin and secret societies was still hard to accept as some reality staring us in the face. Standing in the front room of Grimmauld Place, dust coating everything, I felt so removed from even what I knew to be real.

“Find Aberforth. Regroup,” Severus muttered. “We should have Goyle search for Fancourt as well.”

The portraits nodded in agreement, I however, slipped from the room. I could hear Severus talking to the portraits as I walked up the stairs and into the upper stories of the house.

I needed information, something from a different perspective. When I reached Harry and Ginny’s room, I glanced to the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was near lunchtime. Tossing my carpetbag on the bed, I began pulling out clothes from the magicked depths.

Several minutes later, a voice asked: “Where are you going?”

I paused along the narrow corridor leading to the front door. Severus had stepped into the doorway of the front room, his hands on his narrow hips. If he were wearing his old teaching robes, I was sure he would seem quite imposing. As it was, his pale arms akimbo made the tight tee shirt stretch over his chest and accentuate the muscles underneath. Severus looked more like a man than a Potions Master.

“I hope to be able to ‘run into’ someone in Whitehall,” I said, smoothing a wrinkle in my knee-length gray skirt.

I had worn the suit perhaps twice, once to Albus’ naming ceremony and once on one of the last dates I had with Ron—six years before. It was a flattering outfit with grey bolero jacket over a lavender silk blouse with ruffles down the breast. The skirt had wide pleats and on my feet, I wore two and half inch high heels of matching lavender patent leather. I wore my hair down, glossed and waved, and on my face, I wore light makeup. I remembered to mentally thank Ginny for reminding me of how to use beauty Charms. Parvati and Lavender had tried to teach me years ago, but I had forgotten.

Severus studied me, his face passive. His eyes, however, seemed to glow. I had seen the glow, or sparkle, several times, but as his eyes traced my bare legs, I tried to repress a shiver. His gaze was like the caress of a child who knew he should not be touching the ‘art.’

“Your wand?” he asked in a silky drawl.

I pulled up the left side of my jacket, revealing my chest holster, altered to be hidden under the grey fabric. I smirked and started to the door again, and once again, Severus’ voice stopped me.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” he said to my back.

I smiled to the back of the front door. “I’ll be fine.”

I heard Severus walk over the rug in the corridor and before I could make it to the door, a large hand had a tight hold on my upper left arm. I froze, but Severus pulled me and suddenly my back was held against a warm chest.

“It may not be safe…” he began.

I sighed. “The only thing anyone would know is that I recorded the notes mentioning…”

“We did not make any effort to hide ourselves at the Manor,” he growled.

I pursed my lips. “There was too much smoke.”

“How do you know? How could you know that one of them did not see you, or me, for that matter?”

His voice was gruff, rumbling against my back. I pulled away, gently.

“It is a chance we will have to take.”



TBC...