Book of Shadows (HG/SS, Mature) (9/?)
Nominated in the 2005 OWL Awards for Best in Realm of the Half-Blood Prince and Best Action-Adventure.
My disclaimers may be found in Chapter One. My thanks to Djinn and bambu345 for their betas, to clare009 for her suggestions and encouragement, and to lifeasanamazon for her Britpick.
Chapter Summary: Snape struggles not to forgive …
CHAPTER NINE
UNFORGIVABLE
~o0o~
In the morning, Snape awoke with a sore body and an aching head-legacy of his curse-breaking of Katie Bell. He moved slowly and deliberately, checking each muscle in turn from wriggling his toes to rolling his shoulders. Not too bad. He’d leeched some of the curse through his own body and back into the necklace. Sore muscles and bouts of cramps would recur for months until Miss Bell fully recovered-the spell he had used tied them together until then to some extent-but Albus had exaggerated the danger. Snape had known what he was doing.
But then perhaps Albus suspected …?
The spell Snape had used to break the curse attached to the necklace was very old, from a book in the Slytherin House library which had been enchanted to not be shared beyond House members. He’d also made some adaptations based on a charm in one of the journals Hermione had found with the indexia. Using the charm spread the damage over months rather than an instant, giving both the caster and the subject a chance to heal. If he tried the same spell on Albus’s hand and the ring …
Snape grimaced. He’d need Albus’s full cooperation, and there’d be no hiding from him the price for that spell would be much higher-Snape’s hand, if not his life, given the potency of the curse which had been on the ring.
As he rose from his bed, his hand brushed against the dream catcher, and his fingers came away with shining strands stuck on them. He rubbed the filaments between his fingers, crushing them. They made his fingers tingle, then grow numb. He frowned. He brought his fingers up to his nose. There was a sharp, acrid smell lingering on his skin, a bit metallic, like freshly cut grass.
Spiders in Britain were harmless; of course, this wasn’t truly Britain, but Hogwarts, a place apart, inhabited by beasts no Royal Society field guide would list. He’d seen a creature by the web of the dream catcher more than once, but it had scurried away before he could have a good look. He’d have to remember to lay out a trap.
Whilst making his way to the loo and during his morning routine, he mused about avenues of research. Perhaps Hermione could … Snape stilled. He remembered her small hand and fingers pressing his shoulder, seeming to burn through the wool of his frock coat to be felt on his bare skin-he’d been aware of every point of contact even through his exhaustion. He’d allowed her that familiarity, had allowed that and even her use of his first name, had smiled at her, had justified his actions to her-
With a roar, he hurled the bar of soap at the mirror above the sink. It bounced off and hit his nose, and he cursed at the mirror.
“Now, dearie,” said the mirror in a throaty female voice, “no use attacking and cursing me just because you’re ill-favoured. Really, with the charms available nowadays, there’s no reason not to fix your teeth at least. You could look quite-”
Snape’s reply was to sweep the bottles and toiletries off the shelf, and they crashed into the bath with a clatter and the tinkle of breaking glass. He stood braced with his shaking hands on the sink, breathing hard and feeling sick to his stomach.
“Well, that’s mature.”
“Shut up. Or so help me I’ll spell you into becoming Pansy Parkinson’s mirror.” He glared at the mirror-which stayed blessedly silent for once-then cast Reparo at the mess in the bath and levitated the items back to their places on the shelves.
He had been at a low ebb last night. The breaking of the curse had required entering Bell’s mind, coaxing her trust and consent. The view of himself he’d seen in the mirror of her mind had repulsed him-the images had conveyed her fear and distrust, even disgust.
Pathetic bully.
He wondered if that would be what he’d see if he looked into Hermione’s mind. Their argument had left him feeling hollowed out and sick. “Bully” epitomised the Marauders, even Gryffindors for him. For so many years he had nursed his grievances and felt justified by the prejudices and slights against him and his House to even the score-often literally in terms of taking off points. His nasty persona kept fools away, kept control of the classroom, fit his role as ersatz Death Eater-fit him. Had he gone too far at times? What if he had?
The lingering questions shook him enough that he had borrowed Albus’s Pensieve. He had barely recalled one of the instances she had flung out at him-about her teeth-so he’d reviewed the incident, trying to remember what had gone through his mind. Watching had made him angry with Weasley and Potter all over again. With their insistence of justice at his hands when, for the life of him, he couldn’t see much difference between how Draco and Potter had acted-even Potter had admitted both had drawn their wands at the same time. If anything, the boils caused by Potter’s jinx of Goyle looked more disfiguring and far more painful than Hermione’s enlarged top teeth, grown down to her collar, caused by Draco’s misdirected spell.
Snape remembered having that thought, and that probably had been how the words had occurred to him when Weasley had dragged down Hermione’s hand to display her teeth.
I see no difference.
He didn’t even have to close his eyes to conjure up a vision of how humiliated Hermione had appeared even before he had spoken, how his words had drawn a whimper and tears from the girl and had sent her running from him.
His heart had constricted as he’d watched the scene of two years ago. Oh, he had known exactly how his words would be taken. They had been as carefully calculated as any potion. Yes, as he’d hoped, his words had diffused the ugly seething from his Slytherins, had redirected the anger of the Gryffindors safely back at him, but-
The hell of it was, from watching, he could tell he’d greatly enjoyed himself two years ago-his own wit, and how her hurt had driven Potter into a gibbering rage.
No, mirrors of memory were not kind to him. He knew full well from his own experiences just how deeply jibes at appearance cut at that age.
Well, though she knew it not, Hermione had got her fullest revenge and more. He had not expected it to be so hard these last few weeks cutting himself off from her. All that had really been sufficient to forgive her had been her apology, but the very way he’d been affected by it-and even by the innocent touch of her hand on his-had warned him he was far from indifferent to her now.
Not so innocent. Her gesture had been childish, but had elicited in her an adult reaction. He hadn’t mistaken the hitch in her breath for fear this time, and that perception had shaken him and changed how he saw her irrevocably. Like a trick picture of dots forming an image-once you saw the pattern, you couldn’t un-see it.
This wasn’t the time to gaze at his navel. If he were to function, he needed to go, if anything, in the other direction and be even more the bastard. All the more reason not to let the witch affect him.
He had let her come far too close. From now on he would have to be on his guard. He could allow her no leeway, make no apologies, just because he felt a pathetic need for understanding from her. Yes, and look how easily your resolve to drive her away was shaken last night. Cutting at her now seemed to be like making little slashes to his skin. Well, he and pain were old, faithful companions. Even Hermione would eventually tire of suffering his moods to win an ugly, crooked smile.
His smiled bitterly and found the accompanying stretch of his skin made him wince. His nose throbbed. He went in search of a potion to ease those hurts he could.
~o0o~
Snape leaned against the wall by the window that looked under the lake surface. The waters caused a greenish cast to the light and permeated the stones with a mossy scent. He had called his prefects into the Slytherin common room for a lunch-time meeting. When he’d entered, the pewter snake at the base of the lamp by the door had lifted its head, and one ruby eye had winked at him. He had always found the room comforting, safe. The Marauders hadn’t been able to follow him in here.
He crossed his arms as he stared at the group standing in front of him. Despite the comfortable upholstered chairs about the room, none sat-he had not invited them to sit. His fifth-year prefects Robert Harper and Katriana Avery seemed wound tight, and both kept looking to Livia Rosier, which in itself was disturbing. Harper’s eyes kept darting to Snape’s and back, and Miss Avery kept picking at a thread on her robe. Zabini and Bulstrode regarded Snape quietly, giving him little clue as to what was going on in their minds. Snape approved of their restraint.
“This is about Bell, isn’t it, Professor?” Adrian Pucey asked, a pinched, too-old expression on his face. When he had entered the room, he had given Snape a long, knowing stare.
Snape cocked an eyebrow. “I hardly need to say a thing then do I, Mister Pucey? Perhaps you’d like to brief the other prefects?” The young man appalled Snape at times with his directness, giving too much away.
Pucey didn’t flinch though. “The whole school is talking about it. Blaming one of us.”
Snape stiffened even though he had expected it. Sick as it made him to admit it, this time he couldn’t dismiss the usual suspicions against Slytherin as paranoia. He was no longer the only Death Eater within these walls. “Has suspicion fallen on anyone in particular?”
Livia Rosier, his other seventh-year prefect, giggled at his words in a gurgling way reminiscent of her mother, who he’d known far too intimately when they’d been students for him to be entirely comfortable with her daughter. Messalina Rosier née Mulciber had been, along with Lucius and Regulus, Snape’s sponsors into the Death Eaters. Livia Rosier sported the same knowing look as Pucey, but also a slight upward curve to those full lips-as if she was much happier about events than Pucey. She twirled a lock of hair, the same toffee colour as her mother’s, around a finger. “Some think it’s Warrington. Bell turned him down when he asked her out.”
Bulstrode rolled her eyes at that and crossed her arms. “Oh, yes, that’s likely. They say opals were used for the curse and that Madam Rosmerta was Imperio’d. Warrington have opals or cast Imperius? The Warringtons are about as rich as the Weasleys, and I’d bet on Longbottom or Goyle to achieve an Imperius before Warrington.”
“You consider casting an Unforgivable an achievement, Miss Bulstrode?” Snape asked.
Her cheeks flamed, but Snape gave her credit for looking steadily back at him. “It’s a very advanced spell, sir. I’m not sure I could do it.”
“I fervently hope, Miss Bulstrode, you’ll never try.”
“I thought you said all knowledge is worth having? I could see good uses for it. What if you used it to make a criminal stop running, or to keep someone from committing suicide?”
“That all knowledge is worth having does not mean it’s worth using. And this isn’t time for an ethics lesson, Miss Bulstrode, or a lecture on that spell’s practical limits, but let me assure you each Unforgivable does not only affect the subject but the caster in ways that are irrevocable.”
“In a way that would be visible, sir?” Zabini asked.
“Perhaps.”
Zabini’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he gave Snape a pleading look. Snape decided he’d have to question Zabini later apart from the others.
His eyes swept over all of them. “There is reason to believe Miss Bell wasn’t the primary target. That she was only a way of delivering the necklace to the intended victim. Think for a moment what that means if rumour is correct and the attacker is one of us. Among us. Whoever did this apparently did not care who else got caught in their net. I do not want the next victim to be one of ours. This is neither a game nor a joke.”
He stared then at Livia Rosier until she looked away. Her position as a prefect was due to one of the periodic bones he had to throw the Death Eaters’ way. Snape had few doubts Rosier would become a Death Eater like both of her parents. Katriana Avery was another from a family that could boast two generations of service to the Dark Lord, but Snape still had hope she would steer clear.
Dumbledore continually used the presence of Slytherins like Rosier and Avery, even Zabini, as reasons for not advancing any Slytherin to positions of trust within the school. That very distrust took a toll on the Puceys, the Averys, the Harpers, Bulstrodes and Zabinis-only made it more likely they’d ultimately give their loyalties to the Dark Lord. Snape considered Dumbledore’s attitude hypocritical from one who claimed to be battling blood-prejudice.
Rosier he couldn’t trust because of her character, not her heritage, but he hoped he could trust her sense of self-preservation.
Unless, of course, as seemed likely, Draco was responsible. Rosier would consider herself immune from danger then, see the attack as on behalf of the Dark Lord. If Rosier learned Draco was behind the attack, she would probably drop to her knees and kiss the hem of Draco’s robe-before proceeding to more intimate forms of homage if she were truly anything like her mother.
Before dismissing the prefects, Snape admonished them to keep careful watch and report back to him-holding Zabini back with a nod.
“Sir, that Saturday. Well, I was around The Three Broomsticks, I just happened to see Granger heading there and followed-”
“Just happened?” Snape smirked at Zabini.
Zabini gave Snape a small grin but then stared away from him at the lake window. Zabini sounded hesitant when he began to speak. “I bumped into Malfoy going into The Three Broomsticks.”
“Mister Malfoy was serving detention with Professor McGonagall that afternoon.”
“I’m sure of what I saw. I wonder if Malfoy’s figured out how to be in two places at once? Polyjuice maybe? I don’t know, but later, after what happened to Bell, I saw him running past me as if a Grim were after him. He looked-well, even more whey faced than usual. And when the talk came up at the table … he was very quiet. Usually he’d be speculating on who did something like that, or blaming Potter somehow, or boasting even if he had nothing to do with it. But instead Malfoy was just-quiet.” He looked back at Snape then, seeming to gauge his reaction.
“I see.” Snape felt as if all the blood was draining from his body, as if he’d just received a sentence of execution. As if he hadn’t needed more confirmation of the deadly nature of Draco’s task-the task he might have to complete. Moreover, unlike with Hermione when he’d caught her cheating, he could not give Draco a dressing down. Instead, Snape could only watch while the young man he’d had such hopes for slipped into the abyss.
“Sir, are you all right?”
Snape desperately wanted to sit down but was damned if he’d show weakness in front of Zabini. Albus, Poppy, Minerva, Pomona, even Hermione, hovered over him at times as if he were a terminal patient, and apt as that treatment might be, he was sick of it. That was all he needed-to add Zabini to the list. He abruptly laughed. “I’m fine.”
“Sir, I’d like to help. Really help, I mean. I’ve been thinking of what the Headmaster said to me when you took me to his office about the lessons. I’m coming along fast, aren’t I? More advanced than Granger? When I go home-”
“Absolutely not.”
“But, sir-”
“What are you, a Slytherin or a Gryffindor?” Zabini tightened his lips at that, and Snape broke into a genuine laugh. “Don’t tell me-the Hat offered-”
“The Headmaster said our choices define us. I’m perfectly happy with the one I made six years ago.” Zabini gave him a feral grin. “To look for friends among the ‘cunning folk.’ I’d think Slytherin himself would approve of using cunning.”
“He was not a man who approved of causes.”
“It’s your cause, too.” Zabini’s voice was low but intense. “When you took me to the Headmaster that way, when he told me I would be training with Granger and I had to be quiet about it, I knew. Especially since I’d heard, how you were once-”
“Don’t be an arse. We have enough would-be boy heroes.”
Zabini’s nostrils flared, and he clenched his fists. “And only Gryffindors can be heroes-maybe with a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw sidekick noted in the footnotes.”
Snape shook his head. He lifted a hand to lay it on Zabini’s shoulder but then dropped it and clenched his hands at his sides. Such gestures were rare with him-but he’d made the effort with Draco, and look where it had got them. “Go home. Survive. Come back. Finish school. Manage not to bugger up your life. That’s all I ask.”
“And watch Malfoy like a hawk?”
Snape let out a breath at Zabini’s seeming concession, though he didn’t trust the glitter in the young man’s eyes and the set of his jaw. “That would be appreciated.”
~o0o~
Snape frowned as he concentrated on his notes at the day’s end. He scribbled Arithmantic equations in the margins, trying to figure out what the effect of the curse-breaking charm might be if he infused it with Felix Felicis, trying to skew some of the variables. Pity there weren’t Arithmantic equations that could tell him how to deal with Hermione, Draco, Zabini, the whole of Slytherin. He looked up as the door creaked open.
“Miss Granger.”
“I know, I’m not supposed to be here today, etcetera-well, before you snarl and growl-”
“I was thinking more of a hiss and rattle.”
She crossed the distance to his desk. “Today is my day for making things right-or as much as I can.” She grimaced. “With Ron that meant an invitation to the Slug Club Christmas party, so he’d stop feeling so left out. With you … ” She drew out of her satchel two thick leather-bound volumes. “First, the task, I dare say penance, you set me-I finished transcribing those parts of the book I found into the ledger. And … and I also brought you this.”
He drew towards him the volume he didn’t recognise and began to flip through the pages. He imagined Hermione must have fallen asleep with the book’s cover pressed against her for he caught a faint whiff of her clean, apple scent. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s a Durmstrang text.” She swallowed hard. “It’s where I found the Confundus Charm.”
He snapped the book shut, drummed his fingers along the backing, then pushed the black leather book back to her. “Keep it. Study it well.”
“It’s illegal in Britain.”
“So are magic carpets and pewter cauldron bottoms of less than five millimetres thick.”
“I thought you … especially after what I’d done … ”
“What? That I’d like to burn it? What blasted good would that do? Miss Granger, I assure you, not only does every Durmstrang student know what is in this book, so do much of pure-blood Britain and every Death Eater family. I don’t object to you knowing that spell, one day it might save your life. The line between offensive and defensive magic, between Light and Dark, is hardly distinct, whatever the Ministry might think.”
“I get it, I do. It’s how I used it. If I had to do it all over again … What do I have to do to convince you I understand and make things right between us?”
“That is the point. There is no ‘us.’ If you’re looking for forgiveness, go and find McLaggen and try to make it up to him, even if you can’t tell him what you did. If you’re looking for a friend, go and spend time with those your own age.”
“I don’t see what age has to do with anything.”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Perhaps I can visit you in Gryffindor Tower. We can play Exploding Snap or Gobstones. Then we can go together one Saturday to Honeydukes where I can get some Chocolate Frogs and you Sugar Quills-”
He stopped at her peal of giggles. She broke off at his glare then resumed laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes. “Oh, I am sorry, but that’s ridiculous. What makes you think I like any of those things? Don’t you see? The truth is it’s just as ridiculous that I’ll ever be able to discuss advanced Potions techniques with Ron without him telling me within ten seconds what a little swot I am. And Harry? If I tried discussing Arithmancy with him, his eyes would glaze over.”
Snape’s eyes widened, and she seemed to read his thought when she grinned and said, “I know, I have a strange idea of fun for a girl my age.”
Despite her smile, her tone held a bitterness Snape found achingly familiar. He frowned, then shook his head. “A friendship is not made up of intellectual discussions alone,” he said, “and if you are bereft of intellectual companionship, you have only yourself to blame for not looking beyond Gryffindor.”
“I am looking.” The look she turned on him made his throat tighten so much he found it hard to speak.
She drew even closer to him, coming behind the desk. As her face came into the penumbra of the candlelight, he drew in a breath, noticing some red marks across her throat. “What’s this?” Without giving his action any thought, he rose and moved aside her hair to get a closer look at her neck, which was covered with livid, if shallow scratches.
“Snargaluff stumps.” Her voice sounded a bit breathy.
Realising how close they were, how he was still touching her hair, he abruptly let go of the feathery curls. “I have some salve. You don’t want these to get infected.” He opened a drawer where he kept some of his basic medical supplies-those he used to tend to himself when his hurts were slight enough to avoid Poppy’s ministrations. Hermione perched herself on the edge of the desk by the drawer he was rummaging in. He held out the round tin to her by the edges to avoid contact with her, and she took it from him just as gingerly, as if dealing with a particularly volatile brew.
She threw back her hair, loosened her tie and began spreading the salve on her skin. He swallowed as he watched her fingertips trail down her throat, and he moved further away from her.
“What do you want from me?” He stared at her, but she refused to draw away or drop her eyes. Foolish girl. It would be so easy to use Legilimency on her right now. But he wouldn’t, regretted having forced it last time, and her trust seemed a stronger defence-against him-than he liked to think about.
“Can’t we just go back at least to the way we were before? I wasn’t just set to be your student but your assistant, and I know I can contribute so much if you just let me that far in.”
“Have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
The way she jutted her chin out in answer reminded him of Messalina, a girl sent twenty years ago on behalf of a different master to “befriend” him. Her timing had been perfect. Weeks before, Florence, the first girl he’d ever kissed, had thoroughly humiliated him behind the Greenhouse. Messalina had first started her wooing right after the Shrieking Shack incident and Dumbledore’s dismissal of it as a mere prank. She’d played on how Snape could find protection and appreciation among the right kind. Her seeming attraction to him had been a balm after the last tatters of his friendship with Lily had been ripped out; he had yearned for so much more from her but could only watch as she had turned to James.
Well, he wasn’t a green boy any longer. “Your dedication is commendable, but I’m sure the Headmaster did not require … friendship.” He spat out that last word as if he’d just bit down on something bitter.
“This has nothing to do with him. All right, maybe at one time it did … please, don’t look at me like that. Yes, the Headmaster said he hoped the lessons, my assistance would draw us closer, but I’d never feign-”
“Perhaps not, but it’s amazing what we can convince ourselves of feeling when it suits our purposes.”
She glared at him and slapped the desk. “You’re absolutely impossible! I don’t know why I try or why I care.” She pivoted away from him and shoved the Durmstrang text into her satchel, then peered back at him and laid the tin on his desk. “I don’t know who or what you’re judging me by, but I’m not like that.”
He laughed abruptly. “You’re even more impudent than before our argument.”
“I have nothing left to lose, I suppose. You might as well see me for who I am. I have it on good authority I’m an insufferable know-it-all and a bossy boots-and those are my good qualities.”
She smiled at him, and it was an effort not to return it. He knew he had to cut this bond forming between them. Yet he had to teach her, prepare her for what was to come. And he could use her assistance. She hadn’t just found the journal article he’d used to adapt the curse-breaking charm; it had been one of her comments on the time stasis charms used on potions that had given him the idea of just how to adapt it. What if by cutting her off, he missed something crucial?
Face it. It’s you who don’t want to be cut off from her, who is looking for an excuse because you’ve missed her.
He decided then he’d shift her training from Occlumency to Legilimency … let her see some carefully prepared images in his mind. That would remove the stars in her eyes, kill her attraction to him and his response to it, harden and train her all at the same time, and ultimately help make her a strong Occlumens. It would work similarly on Zabini as well, take the hero worship out of him-teach him exactly what the “rewards” of cunning were before Albus could work on the side that had led the Hat to think of Gryffindor for Zabini.
He sat back down at his desk and put the ledger in a drawer. “Bring the book you were working on to our next lesson. I’ll need to borrow it for a while.” He’d set Zabini to adding what he saw to Hermione’s notations. “I’ll be too busy this week to give you any lessons. I’ll see you here the following Friday after classes.”
“Can’t I help? If it regards research or-”
He felt a faint touch of a hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off. “You are dismissed, Miss Granger.”
Part of Snape rebelled against that brusque dismissal, at what he what he was planning to do to her and Zabini. The same part that had jumped up and down and thrown a tantrum in the Hospital Wing when he’d been denied the ultimate revenge against the Marauders-an Order of Merlin-the ultimate Gryffindor prize. The part of him that hungered to see admiration, respect, even affection in the eyes of others, or at least those he cared about. He tamped down hard on that impulse. One way or another such regard for him would be destroyed anyway-or he would be. He began to plan just what rotted part of his soul to best expose to his prize students.
~o0o~
Snape stilled a moment by the door. Warm, girlish laughter bubbled up from inside his office, followed by a male’s. Snape scowled. He couldn’t honestly say he was happy with the development, but Hermione had finally warmed to Zabini to the youth’s evident delight.
The Legilimency lessons themselves had encouraged informality between all of them. In some ways, at least at first, Occlumency was the easier discipline, thus making it all the more necessary to use techniques that facilitated Legilimency: physical contact and comfort, the right breathing.
Zabini was sensitive enough that he’d been able to pick up images in Hermione’s mind at first attempt, although that didn’t mean he necessarily found it easy to let go enough for another to read him. Hermione had strained to read Zabini in vain. So Snape had used an old technique of Albus’s despite its indignities. First, Snape took them back to basics, breathing, ground and centre. Afterwards, he had made Hermione and Zabini sit on the ground, hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes as Hermione cast the spell aloud. When Hermione had managed to pick up an image from Zabini’s last session, she had whooped with delight.
Given such close contact, Hermione hadn’t been able to miss the scar on the back of Zabini’s hand-the scar he’d earned from Umbridge. Hermione had asked “Why?” and Zabini had stumblingly answered, and thereafter she’d visibly relaxed around him, finally returned his bids at conversation.
So in the end, it had been a Gryffindor sort of sentiment that had sealed their ease. Regulus, his tutor on all things Slytherin, had told Snape that scars are a mark of failure, demonstrating that you’d allowed yourself to be hurt. Only Gryffindors display them like chocolate frog cards. Regulus had been brilliant at the Dark Arts, had wanted to be Head of Slytherin someday-had taken the cursed D.A.D.A. job straight out of school.
Ironic Snape had thought of that just now, since Regulus would be the subject of tonight’s lesson if Snape judged his students ready.
He entered with a swirl of his robes and ducked as feathered balls of yellow streaked towards him. “What-” He felt something alight on his head and dig tiny talons into his scalp, then another canary alighted at his shoulder while twittering sounded all about him.
“Miss Granger!” At his bellow, he lost one passenger who circled before choosing a jar of preserved Bowtruckle for a perch. He brushed off the yellow ball of fluff at his shoulder who flew back to Hermione and buried itself in her hair.
“A bird in the hand is-”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Zabini, or you’re a dead man,” said Hermione.
Zabini grinned and waved his hands in mock terror. As Zabini helped untangle the canary, Snape strode to his desk. He looked down at a parchment there and held it up to the pair sitting cross-legged on the floor facing each other. “Admittedly, bird shit on this particular student’s essay is only fitting, but if there’s one spot on even one of my books … ”
“Sorry, Professor, Blaise was just asking what the trick was to transfiguring a flock of canaries.”
“It’s quite advanced magic, sir. Hermione was the only one who managed it in class last week. Professor McGonagall said it’s the sign of someone who could become an Animagus someday.”
Snape found it hard to begrudge Hermione her rather smug look and smile at the praise. Her recent misery had been palpable enough that he’d put off his plans to “enlighten” this pair about his Death Eater past. He’d noticed that while she’d been particularly subdued in class the last several days, Ronald Weasley had been positively glowering. He’d overheard Miss Rosier tell Miss Wilkes that she’d seen Weasley and Granger have a blazing row last Saturday after Quidditch practice behind the pitch. He had wanted to ask Hermione about it, let her talk it out as she probably couldn’t even with Potter or Ginevra Weasley since they’d be caught in the middle.
But that was the sort of question a friend asked, wasn’t it?
He hung up his teaching robes and took off his boots and sat by his students, resting his back against the desk.
“Miss Granger will attempt Legilimency first. Now remember,” Snape said, “this is as much about trying to project as it is trying to receive and thus will make you a stronger Occlumens-since you’d just reverse the process. Mister Zabini, I want you to relax … ” Snape continued speaking in a soft monotone, watching as Zabini’s breathing deepened and his body lost its tension, his eyelids closing until Hermione’s softly incanted, “Legilimens,” caused them to snap open.
Whatever Hermione saw caused her to blanch and Zabini to immediately break their handclasp. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Not as sorry as I am, Granger,” Zabini said, his voice very soft.
“Maybe we”-she glanced at Snape-“should stop for a while.”
Snape wondered what in Zabini’s personal gallery of horrors Hermione had glimpsed, but stayed quiet, not wanting to push Zabini into even more revelations than the young man had bargained for.
“No,” Zabini said, his face a mask. “You won’t be doing me any favours. Maybe now you can understand why I have to learn this.”
“All right.” Hermione still seemed shaken, and she wiped her palms on her uniform skirt before turning to gaze at Zabini. “Your turn.”
Snape didn’t even bother to repeat the exercise. Neither the relaxation techniques nor physical contact was necessary for Zabini to read Hermione. Snape thought that eventually Zabini, like the strongest of Legilimens, might not even need a wand at all.
Hermione took a deep breath nevertheless and made an effort to relax as Zabini gazed into her eyes and softly spoke the incantation. The next moment her eyes widened, and she gasped, wiggling back away from him.
“You slept with the Bulgarian Seeker? Krum?” Zabini’s voice rose to a squeak.
Snape’s head snapped up, and as he forced a stony expression on his face, Hermione said, “You weren’t supposed to see that, but yes, I did. What of it?” Her face got very red, and she balled her fists at her sides.
“We do not need to discuss your celebrity lovers, Miss Granger,” Snape said, his voice icy.
“Don’t you start,” Hermione said, her voice cracking. “That was well over a year ago, but I’m sure Skeeter would still be interested. Maybe someone can tip her off, and you can read that article aloud in class too? Tell me I’m a scarlet woman and a groupie like Ron did?”
Noting the strain on her face, Snape chose not to respond to her admonishment of him with other than a quelling look, and Hermione dropped her gaze.
“Weasley found out? That’s what you argued about?” Zabini asked.
“Oh, no, the argument was about how wrong it was to snog Viktor.”
“Oh, so that’s why Weasley has been going around like first years are nine pins, and he’s the skittle ball.” Zabini looked at Snape and shrugged at his inquiring look. “I don’t think Weasley even realised he could take off points last year, but he’s been making up for it this year. He’s not happy, he tends to take it out on the Slytherin hourglass among other things, finding ways to take off points left and right.”
“Ron wouldn’t.”
“Right, Granger, because you’ve never seen him force others out of his way and no Gryffindor prefect would ever be unfair.” Zabini rolled his eyes. “Look, I know you’d never abuse your position-”
Hermione abruptly got off the floor, startling Zabini into silence. “Let’s not waste more time on my so-called friends and love life shall we?” She stood and faced Snape. “Didn’t you say you had a special lesson planned tonight?”
Snape rose from the floor, and Zabini followed his lead. Snape drew a harsh breath. “This might not-”
“Why not? You said a great deal of emotion facilitates Legilimency? Sounds like this is the perfect time.”
Snape nodded. “Very well, Miss Granger.”
He shrugged and rolled his shoulders then rubbed the back of his neck, trying hard not to tense up. Last night had been All Hallows’ Eve, and his dead had felt closer to him than usual. As he had two nights before that, before going to sleep, he’d prepared for this lesson by reliving his act in a Pensieve. Like a Pensieve, for the person casting it, Legilimency gave an outside perspective, not the faint, inner image of memory. Seeing himself from all those years ago … He had even slept away from the dream catcher last night, welcoming any nightmares, and they had come. He needed this over with, dreaded having to prepare himself for this again.
“Nevertheless,” said Snape, “as you have just discovered, if you do not discipline yourself, whatever is on your mind can easily come spilling out. We’re going to try something different tonight. You will both try simultaneously to read me.” Snape sat up on the edge of the desk and took a deep breath. “Ready your wands.” An anticipatory shudder went through him.
He nodded at them and, together, Hermione and Zabini incanted, “Legilimens.”
He showed them a vision of black-haired teenagers wearing Slytherin ties. One with a hawkish nose-recognisable as a young Snape-grinned and clapped the other on the shoulder. The other teenager, who held a snitch aloft in his hand, had the kind of face artists carve in marble. Next, the same two, with a toffee-haired girl, ran down the steps of Hogwarts linking arms.
He allowed those images to flash past, barely permitting the details to be taken in, like what they’d have typically experienced in Legilimency. He formed the next image slowly, like film dipped in developer: The same three in a dark room with a shadowy figure in a corner with red eyes burning like embers.
Some details had been etched in Snape’s brain by nightmares. How Lucius and Rabastan had dragged Regulus, his ankles wobbling, to the centre of the room. How one eye had been swollen shut, the lid purple. When the two men had let go, Regulus had fallen to the floor, holding out one hand to break his fall. Snape had heard the wrist bone snap.
He continued the stream of images, showing a girl strolling to the young man at the room’s centre and kissing him. She licked at the blood trickling down his chin, then slapped him and turned and walked away.
Snape remembered how the bile had risen in his throat at the vampirish act. Refusing to believe Messalina had done that, he had felt disembodied, as if he were dreaming.
Next on view, a younger Snape strode towards the young man and raised his wand. The man shook his head sharply, said something. Young Snape’s face hardened into a rictus, then he flicked his wand and a green light flashed out. Young Snape fell to the floor at the same time as the man, as if felled by his own curse, turned away and started retching.
“Please, Severus,” Regulus had said. Please what? Just do it? Help me?
The Pensieved-enhanced images ended, and Snape clutched the edge of the desk to keep from falling to the floor. His lower lip stung and felt swollen, and a coppery taste filled his mouth. He slowly focused his eyes on the present. Hermione’s face hovered beside him-she was pale and a film of sweat covered her face. She clutched at his arm, helping him to keep his balance, and he could feel her shaking as she held on. As soon as he righted himself, she let go and slowly backed away from him and didn’t stop before she hit the wall.
Zabini shivered, hugged himself tightly. “You controlled that. You wanted us to see that. Why?”
Snape traced his lip with a finger, which came away bloody. “Why did I do it, or why did I show you?”
“You had to kill him?” Hermione asked. “Imperio’d? Because you had to keep your cover, and he’d have died anyway-”
“Why no, Miss Granger. Because he had betrayed the Dark Lord and I wanted to make my mark. Earn my Dark Mark.“ Snape slowly rolled up his left sleeve. “Did you think this a fancy tattoo? Not every Death Eater is so honoured. Unless you’re of a particularly distinguished bloodline and they want to lock in your loyalties, you must prove yourself, particularly back then. It’s quite simple-to get the Dark Mark you either commit an Unforgivable or you pledge to do so within a year. And you will not like the consequences if you renege, because then you will be the one led to the centre of the room and your closest colleague will have a have a go at making their mark.”
“I’ve heard you have to hate the person.” Hermione whispered. “But it didn’t look so simple.”
“You have to mean it,” Snape replied. “Hating helps. And I hated him. Hated him for putting me into that situation, both by helping to recruit me into the Death Eaters then betraying us.”
“He was your friend?” Zabini asked.
“He was my best friend,” Snape said.
For a long time the only sound filling the room was the ragged sound of their breathing.
Snape looked at their frightened faces. Mission accomplished. His face contorted, and he saw them both flinch in reaction to his expression. “Here endeth the lesson. Class dismissed.”
He didn’t watch but just listened to the sound of them quickly getting their things and walking out and shutting the door. Snape shut his eyes, but his mind still filled with images of long ago. He groped along his desk until he found his seat.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. Likely several hours, noting how much the candles had burned down. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Finally, Snape extinguished the candles with a softly spoken, “Nox,” and made his solitary way back to his quarters in Slytherin.
~o0o~
to be continued
Chapter Ten: Dreams and Nightmares
Back to Chapter Eight: Curses
My disclaimers may be found in Chapter One. My thanks to Djinn and bambu345 for their betas, to clare009 for her suggestions and encouragement, and to lifeasanamazon for her Britpick.
Chapter Summary: Snape struggles not to forgive …
CHAPTER NINE
UNFORGIVABLE
~o0o~
In the morning, Snape awoke with a sore body and an aching head-legacy of his curse-breaking of Katie Bell. He moved slowly and deliberately, checking each muscle in turn from wriggling his toes to rolling his shoulders. Not too bad. He’d leeched some of the curse through his own body and back into the necklace. Sore muscles and bouts of cramps would recur for months until Miss Bell fully recovered-the spell he had used tied them together until then to some extent-but Albus had exaggerated the danger. Snape had known what he was doing.
But then perhaps Albus suspected …?
The spell Snape had used to break the curse attached to the necklace was very old, from a book in the Slytherin House library which had been enchanted to not be shared beyond House members. He’d also made some adaptations based on a charm in one of the journals Hermione had found with the indexia. Using the charm spread the damage over months rather than an instant, giving both the caster and the subject a chance to heal. If he tried the same spell on Albus’s hand and the ring …
Snape grimaced. He’d need Albus’s full cooperation, and there’d be no hiding from him the price for that spell would be much higher-Snape’s hand, if not his life, given the potency of the curse which had been on the ring.
As he rose from his bed, his hand brushed against the dream catcher, and his fingers came away with shining strands stuck on them. He rubbed the filaments between his fingers, crushing them. They made his fingers tingle, then grow numb. He frowned. He brought his fingers up to his nose. There was a sharp, acrid smell lingering on his skin, a bit metallic, like freshly cut grass.
Spiders in Britain were harmless; of course, this wasn’t truly Britain, but Hogwarts, a place apart, inhabited by beasts no Royal Society field guide would list. He’d seen a creature by the web of the dream catcher more than once, but it had scurried away before he could have a good look. He’d have to remember to lay out a trap.
Whilst making his way to the loo and during his morning routine, he mused about avenues of research. Perhaps Hermione could … Snape stilled. He remembered her small hand and fingers pressing his shoulder, seeming to burn through the wool of his frock coat to be felt on his bare skin-he’d been aware of every point of contact even through his exhaustion. He’d allowed her that familiarity, had allowed that and even her use of his first name, had smiled at her, had justified his actions to her-
With a roar, he hurled the bar of soap at the mirror above the sink. It bounced off and hit his nose, and he cursed at the mirror.
“Now, dearie,” said the mirror in a throaty female voice, “no use attacking and cursing me just because you’re ill-favoured. Really, with the charms available nowadays, there’s no reason not to fix your teeth at least. You could look quite-”
Snape’s reply was to sweep the bottles and toiletries off the shelf, and they crashed into the bath with a clatter and the tinkle of breaking glass. He stood braced with his shaking hands on the sink, breathing hard and feeling sick to his stomach.
“Well, that’s mature.”
“Shut up. Or so help me I’ll spell you into becoming Pansy Parkinson’s mirror.” He glared at the mirror-which stayed blessedly silent for once-then cast Reparo at the mess in the bath and levitated the items back to their places on the shelves.
He had been at a low ebb last night. The breaking of the curse had required entering Bell’s mind, coaxing her trust and consent. The view of himself he’d seen in the mirror of her mind had repulsed him-the images had conveyed her fear and distrust, even disgust.
Pathetic bully.
He wondered if that would be what he’d see if he looked into Hermione’s mind. Their argument had left him feeling hollowed out and sick. “Bully” epitomised the Marauders, even Gryffindors for him. For so many years he had nursed his grievances and felt justified by the prejudices and slights against him and his House to even the score-often literally in terms of taking off points. His nasty persona kept fools away, kept control of the classroom, fit his role as ersatz Death Eater-fit him. Had he gone too far at times? What if he had?
The lingering questions shook him enough that he had borrowed Albus’s Pensieve. He had barely recalled one of the instances she had flung out at him-about her teeth-so he’d reviewed the incident, trying to remember what had gone through his mind. Watching had made him angry with Weasley and Potter all over again. With their insistence of justice at his hands when, for the life of him, he couldn’t see much difference between how Draco and Potter had acted-even Potter had admitted both had drawn their wands at the same time. If anything, the boils caused by Potter’s jinx of Goyle looked more disfiguring and far more painful than Hermione’s enlarged top teeth, grown down to her collar, caused by Draco’s misdirected spell.
Snape remembered having that thought, and that probably had been how the words had occurred to him when Weasley had dragged down Hermione’s hand to display her teeth.
I see no difference.
He didn’t even have to close his eyes to conjure up a vision of how humiliated Hermione had appeared even before he had spoken, how his words had drawn a whimper and tears from the girl and had sent her running from him.
His heart had constricted as he’d watched the scene of two years ago. Oh, he had known exactly how his words would be taken. They had been as carefully calculated as any potion. Yes, as he’d hoped, his words had diffused the ugly seething from his Slytherins, had redirected the anger of the Gryffindors safely back at him, but-
The hell of it was, from watching, he could tell he’d greatly enjoyed himself two years ago-his own wit, and how her hurt had driven Potter into a gibbering rage.
No, mirrors of memory were not kind to him. He knew full well from his own experiences just how deeply jibes at appearance cut at that age.
Well, though she knew it not, Hermione had got her fullest revenge and more. He had not expected it to be so hard these last few weeks cutting himself off from her. All that had really been sufficient to forgive her had been her apology, but the very way he’d been affected by it-and even by the innocent touch of her hand on his-had warned him he was far from indifferent to her now.
Not so innocent. Her gesture had been childish, but had elicited in her an adult reaction. He hadn’t mistaken the hitch in her breath for fear this time, and that perception had shaken him and changed how he saw her irrevocably. Like a trick picture of dots forming an image-once you saw the pattern, you couldn’t un-see it.
This wasn’t the time to gaze at his navel. If he were to function, he needed to go, if anything, in the other direction and be even more the bastard. All the more reason not to let the witch affect him.
He had let her come far too close. From now on he would have to be on his guard. He could allow her no leeway, make no apologies, just because he felt a pathetic need for understanding from her. Yes, and look how easily your resolve to drive her away was shaken last night. Cutting at her now seemed to be like making little slashes to his skin. Well, he and pain were old, faithful companions. Even Hermione would eventually tire of suffering his moods to win an ugly, crooked smile.
His smiled bitterly and found the accompanying stretch of his skin made him wince. His nose throbbed. He went in search of a potion to ease those hurts he could.
~o0o~
Snape leaned against the wall by the window that looked under the lake surface. The waters caused a greenish cast to the light and permeated the stones with a mossy scent. He had called his prefects into the Slytherin common room for a lunch-time meeting. When he’d entered, the pewter snake at the base of the lamp by the door had lifted its head, and one ruby eye had winked at him. He had always found the room comforting, safe. The Marauders hadn’t been able to follow him in here.
He crossed his arms as he stared at the group standing in front of him. Despite the comfortable upholstered chairs about the room, none sat-he had not invited them to sit. His fifth-year prefects Robert Harper and Katriana Avery seemed wound tight, and both kept looking to Livia Rosier, which in itself was disturbing. Harper’s eyes kept darting to Snape’s and back, and Miss Avery kept picking at a thread on her robe. Zabini and Bulstrode regarded Snape quietly, giving him little clue as to what was going on in their minds. Snape approved of their restraint.
“This is about Bell, isn’t it, Professor?” Adrian Pucey asked, a pinched, too-old expression on his face. When he had entered the room, he had given Snape a long, knowing stare.
Snape cocked an eyebrow. “I hardly need to say a thing then do I, Mister Pucey? Perhaps you’d like to brief the other prefects?” The young man appalled Snape at times with his directness, giving too much away.
Pucey didn’t flinch though. “The whole school is talking about it. Blaming one of us.”
Snape stiffened even though he had expected it. Sick as it made him to admit it, this time he couldn’t dismiss the usual suspicions against Slytherin as paranoia. He was no longer the only Death Eater within these walls. “Has suspicion fallen on anyone in particular?”
Livia Rosier, his other seventh-year prefect, giggled at his words in a gurgling way reminiscent of her mother, who he’d known far too intimately when they’d been students for him to be entirely comfortable with her daughter. Messalina Rosier née Mulciber had been, along with Lucius and Regulus, Snape’s sponsors into the Death Eaters. Livia Rosier sported the same knowing look as Pucey, but also a slight upward curve to those full lips-as if she was much happier about events than Pucey. She twirled a lock of hair, the same toffee colour as her mother’s, around a finger. “Some think it’s Warrington. Bell turned him down when he asked her out.”
Bulstrode rolled her eyes at that and crossed her arms. “Oh, yes, that’s likely. They say opals were used for the curse and that Madam Rosmerta was Imperio’d. Warrington have opals or cast Imperius? The Warringtons are about as rich as the Weasleys, and I’d bet on Longbottom or Goyle to achieve an Imperius before Warrington.”
“You consider casting an Unforgivable an achievement, Miss Bulstrode?” Snape asked.
Her cheeks flamed, but Snape gave her credit for looking steadily back at him. “It’s a very advanced spell, sir. I’m not sure I could do it.”
“I fervently hope, Miss Bulstrode, you’ll never try.”
“I thought you said all knowledge is worth having? I could see good uses for it. What if you used it to make a criminal stop running, or to keep someone from committing suicide?”
“That all knowledge is worth having does not mean it’s worth using. And this isn’t time for an ethics lesson, Miss Bulstrode, or a lecture on that spell’s practical limits, but let me assure you each Unforgivable does not only affect the subject but the caster in ways that are irrevocable.”
“In a way that would be visible, sir?” Zabini asked.
“Perhaps.”
Zabini’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he gave Snape a pleading look. Snape decided he’d have to question Zabini later apart from the others.
His eyes swept over all of them. “There is reason to believe Miss Bell wasn’t the primary target. That she was only a way of delivering the necklace to the intended victim. Think for a moment what that means if rumour is correct and the attacker is one of us. Among us. Whoever did this apparently did not care who else got caught in their net. I do not want the next victim to be one of ours. This is neither a game nor a joke.”
He stared then at Livia Rosier until she looked away. Her position as a prefect was due to one of the periodic bones he had to throw the Death Eaters’ way. Snape had few doubts Rosier would become a Death Eater like both of her parents. Katriana Avery was another from a family that could boast two generations of service to the Dark Lord, but Snape still had hope she would steer clear.
Dumbledore continually used the presence of Slytherins like Rosier and Avery, even Zabini, as reasons for not advancing any Slytherin to positions of trust within the school. That very distrust took a toll on the Puceys, the Averys, the Harpers, Bulstrodes and Zabinis-only made it more likely they’d ultimately give their loyalties to the Dark Lord. Snape considered Dumbledore’s attitude hypocritical from one who claimed to be battling blood-prejudice.
Rosier he couldn’t trust because of her character, not her heritage, but he hoped he could trust her sense of self-preservation.
Unless, of course, as seemed likely, Draco was responsible. Rosier would consider herself immune from danger then, see the attack as on behalf of the Dark Lord. If Rosier learned Draco was behind the attack, she would probably drop to her knees and kiss the hem of Draco’s robe-before proceeding to more intimate forms of homage if she were truly anything like her mother.
Before dismissing the prefects, Snape admonished them to keep careful watch and report back to him-holding Zabini back with a nod.
“Sir, that Saturday. Well, I was around The Three Broomsticks, I just happened to see Granger heading there and followed-”
“Just happened?” Snape smirked at Zabini.
Zabini gave Snape a small grin but then stared away from him at the lake window. Zabini sounded hesitant when he began to speak. “I bumped into Malfoy going into The Three Broomsticks.”
“Mister Malfoy was serving detention with Professor McGonagall that afternoon.”
“I’m sure of what I saw. I wonder if Malfoy’s figured out how to be in two places at once? Polyjuice maybe? I don’t know, but later, after what happened to Bell, I saw him running past me as if a Grim were after him. He looked-well, even more whey faced than usual. And when the talk came up at the table … he was very quiet. Usually he’d be speculating on who did something like that, or blaming Potter somehow, or boasting even if he had nothing to do with it. But instead Malfoy was just-quiet.” He looked back at Snape then, seeming to gauge his reaction.
“I see.” Snape felt as if all the blood was draining from his body, as if he’d just received a sentence of execution. As if he hadn’t needed more confirmation of the deadly nature of Draco’s task-the task he might have to complete. Moreover, unlike with Hermione when he’d caught her cheating, he could not give Draco a dressing down. Instead, Snape could only watch while the young man he’d had such hopes for slipped into the abyss.
“Sir, are you all right?”
Snape desperately wanted to sit down but was damned if he’d show weakness in front of Zabini. Albus, Poppy, Minerva, Pomona, even Hermione, hovered over him at times as if he were a terminal patient, and apt as that treatment might be, he was sick of it. That was all he needed-to add Zabini to the list. He abruptly laughed. “I’m fine.”
“Sir, I’d like to help. Really help, I mean. I’ve been thinking of what the Headmaster said to me when you took me to his office about the lessons. I’m coming along fast, aren’t I? More advanced than Granger? When I go home-”
“Absolutely not.”
“But, sir-”
“What are you, a Slytherin or a Gryffindor?” Zabini tightened his lips at that, and Snape broke into a genuine laugh. “Don’t tell me-the Hat offered-”
“The Headmaster said our choices define us. I’m perfectly happy with the one I made six years ago.” Zabini gave him a feral grin. “To look for friends among the ‘cunning folk.’ I’d think Slytherin himself would approve of using cunning.”
“He was not a man who approved of causes.”
“It’s your cause, too.” Zabini’s voice was low but intense. “When you took me to the Headmaster that way, when he told me I would be training with Granger and I had to be quiet about it, I knew. Especially since I’d heard, how you were once-”
“Don’t be an arse. We have enough would-be boy heroes.”
Zabini’s nostrils flared, and he clenched his fists. “And only Gryffindors can be heroes-maybe with a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw sidekick noted in the footnotes.”
Snape shook his head. He lifted a hand to lay it on Zabini’s shoulder but then dropped it and clenched his hands at his sides. Such gestures were rare with him-but he’d made the effort with Draco, and look where it had got them. “Go home. Survive. Come back. Finish school. Manage not to bugger up your life. That’s all I ask.”
“And watch Malfoy like a hawk?”
Snape let out a breath at Zabini’s seeming concession, though he didn’t trust the glitter in the young man’s eyes and the set of his jaw. “That would be appreciated.”
~o0o~
Snape frowned as he concentrated on his notes at the day’s end. He scribbled Arithmantic equations in the margins, trying to figure out what the effect of the curse-breaking charm might be if he infused it with Felix Felicis, trying to skew some of the variables. Pity there weren’t Arithmantic equations that could tell him how to deal with Hermione, Draco, Zabini, the whole of Slytherin. He looked up as the door creaked open.
“Miss Granger.”
“I know, I’m not supposed to be here today, etcetera-well, before you snarl and growl-”
“I was thinking more of a hiss and rattle.”
She crossed the distance to his desk. “Today is my day for making things right-or as much as I can.” She grimaced. “With Ron that meant an invitation to the Slug Club Christmas party, so he’d stop feeling so left out. With you … ” She drew out of her satchel two thick leather-bound volumes. “First, the task, I dare say penance, you set me-I finished transcribing those parts of the book I found into the ledger. And … and I also brought you this.”
He drew towards him the volume he didn’t recognise and began to flip through the pages. He imagined Hermione must have fallen asleep with the book’s cover pressed against her for he caught a faint whiff of her clean, apple scent. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s a Durmstrang text.” She swallowed hard. “It’s where I found the Confundus Charm.”
He snapped the book shut, drummed his fingers along the backing, then pushed the black leather book back to her. “Keep it. Study it well.”
“It’s illegal in Britain.”
“So are magic carpets and pewter cauldron bottoms of less than five millimetres thick.”
“I thought you … especially after what I’d done … ”
“What? That I’d like to burn it? What blasted good would that do? Miss Granger, I assure you, not only does every Durmstrang student know what is in this book, so do much of pure-blood Britain and every Death Eater family. I don’t object to you knowing that spell, one day it might save your life. The line between offensive and defensive magic, between Light and Dark, is hardly distinct, whatever the Ministry might think.”
“I get it, I do. It’s how I used it. If I had to do it all over again … What do I have to do to convince you I understand and make things right between us?”
“That is the point. There is no ‘us.’ If you’re looking for forgiveness, go and find McLaggen and try to make it up to him, even if you can’t tell him what you did. If you’re looking for a friend, go and spend time with those your own age.”
“I don’t see what age has to do with anything.”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Perhaps I can visit you in Gryffindor Tower. We can play Exploding Snap or Gobstones. Then we can go together one Saturday to Honeydukes where I can get some Chocolate Frogs and you Sugar Quills-”
He stopped at her peal of giggles. She broke off at his glare then resumed laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes. “Oh, I am sorry, but that’s ridiculous. What makes you think I like any of those things? Don’t you see? The truth is it’s just as ridiculous that I’ll ever be able to discuss advanced Potions techniques with Ron without him telling me within ten seconds what a little swot I am. And Harry? If I tried discussing Arithmancy with him, his eyes would glaze over.”
Snape’s eyes widened, and she seemed to read his thought when she grinned and said, “I know, I have a strange idea of fun for a girl my age.”
Despite her smile, her tone held a bitterness Snape found achingly familiar. He frowned, then shook his head. “A friendship is not made up of intellectual discussions alone,” he said, “and if you are bereft of intellectual companionship, you have only yourself to blame for not looking beyond Gryffindor.”
“I am looking.” The look she turned on him made his throat tighten so much he found it hard to speak.
She drew even closer to him, coming behind the desk. As her face came into the penumbra of the candlelight, he drew in a breath, noticing some red marks across her throat. “What’s this?” Without giving his action any thought, he rose and moved aside her hair to get a closer look at her neck, which was covered with livid, if shallow scratches.
“Snargaluff stumps.” Her voice sounded a bit breathy.
Realising how close they were, how he was still touching her hair, he abruptly let go of the feathery curls. “I have some salve. You don’t want these to get infected.” He opened a drawer where he kept some of his basic medical supplies-those he used to tend to himself when his hurts were slight enough to avoid Poppy’s ministrations. Hermione perched herself on the edge of the desk by the drawer he was rummaging in. He held out the round tin to her by the edges to avoid contact with her, and she took it from him just as gingerly, as if dealing with a particularly volatile brew.
She threw back her hair, loosened her tie and began spreading the salve on her skin. He swallowed as he watched her fingertips trail down her throat, and he moved further away from her.
“What do you want from me?” He stared at her, but she refused to draw away or drop her eyes. Foolish girl. It would be so easy to use Legilimency on her right now. But he wouldn’t, regretted having forced it last time, and her trust seemed a stronger defence-against him-than he liked to think about.
“Can’t we just go back at least to the way we were before? I wasn’t just set to be your student but your assistant, and I know I can contribute so much if you just let me that far in.”
“Have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
The way she jutted her chin out in answer reminded him of Messalina, a girl sent twenty years ago on behalf of a different master to “befriend” him. Her timing had been perfect. Weeks before, Florence, the first girl he’d ever kissed, had thoroughly humiliated him behind the Greenhouse. Messalina had first started her wooing right after the Shrieking Shack incident and Dumbledore’s dismissal of it as a mere prank. She’d played on how Snape could find protection and appreciation among the right kind. Her seeming attraction to him had been a balm after the last tatters of his friendship with Lily had been ripped out; he had yearned for so much more from her but could only watch as she had turned to James.
Well, he wasn’t a green boy any longer. “Your dedication is commendable, but I’m sure the Headmaster did not require … friendship.” He spat out that last word as if he’d just bit down on something bitter.
“This has nothing to do with him. All right, maybe at one time it did … please, don’t look at me like that. Yes, the Headmaster said he hoped the lessons, my assistance would draw us closer, but I’d never feign-”
“Perhaps not, but it’s amazing what we can convince ourselves of feeling when it suits our purposes.”
She glared at him and slapped the desk. “You’re absolutely impossible! I don’t know why I try or why I care.” She pivoted away from him and shoved the Durmstrang text into her satchel, then peered back at him and laid the tin on his desk. “I don’t know who or what you’re judging me by, but I’m not like that.”
He laughed abruptly. “You’re even more impudent than before our argument.”
“I have nothing left to lose, I suppose. You might as well see me for who I am. I have it on good authority I’m an insufferable know-it-all and a bossy boots-and those are my good qualities.”
She smiled at him, and it was an effort not to return it. He knew he had to cut this bond forming between them. Yet he had to teach her, prepare her for what was to come. And he could use her assistance. She hadn’t just found the journal article he’d used to adapt the curse-breaking charm; it had been one of her comments on the time stasis charms used on potions that had given him the idea of just how to adapt it. What if by cutting her off, he missed something crucial?
Face it. It’s you who don’t want to be cut off from her, who is looking for an excuse because you’ve missed her.
He decided then he’d shift her training from Occlumency to Legilimency … let her see some carefully prepared images in his mind. That would remove the stars in her eyes, kill her attraction to him and his response to it, harden and train her all at the same time, and ultimately help make her a strong Occlumens. It would work similarly on Zabini as well, take the hero worship out of him-teach him exactly what the “rewards” of cunning were before Albus could work on the side that had led the Hat to think of Gryffindor for Zabini.
He sat back down at his desk and put the ledger in a drawer. “Bring the book you were working on to our next lesson. I’ll need to borrow it for a while.” He’d set Zabini to adding what he saw to Hermione’s notations. “I’ll be too busy this week to give you any lessons. I’ll see you here the following Friday after classes.”
“Can’t I help? If it regards research or-”
He felt a faint touch of a hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off. “You are dismissed, Miss Granger.”
Part of Snape rebelled against that brusque dismissal, at what he what he was planning to do to her and Zabini. The same part that had jumped up and down and thrown a tantrum in the Hospital Wing when he’d been denied the ultimate revenge against the Marauders-an Order of Merlin-the ultimate Gryffindor prize. The part of him that hungered to see admiration, respect, even affection in the eyes of others, or at least those he cared about. He tamped down hard on that impulse. One way or another such regard for him would be destroyed anyway-or he would be. He began to plan just what rotted part of his soul to best expose to his prize students.
~o0o~
Snape stilled a moment by the door. Warm, girlish laughter bubbled up from inside his office, followed by a male’s. Snape scowled. He couldn’t honestly say he was happy with the development, but Hermione had finally warmed to Zabini to the youth’s evident delight.
The Legilimency lessons themselves had encouraged informality between all of them. In some ways, at least at first, Occlumency was the easier discipline, thus making it all the more necessary to use techniques that facilitated Legilimency: physical contact and comfort, the right breathing.
Zabini was sensitive enough that he’d been able to pick up images in Hermione’s mind at first attempt, although that didn’t mean he necessarily found it easy to let go enough for another to read him. Hermione had strained to read Zabini in vain. So Snape had used an old technique of Albus’s despite its indignities. First, Snape took them back to basics, breathing, ground and centre. Afterwards, he had made Hermione and Zabini sit on the ground, hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes as Hermione cast the spell aloud. When Hermione had managed to pick up an image from Zabini’s last session, she had whooped with delight.
Given such close contact, Hermione hadn’t been able to miss the scar on the back of Zabini’s hand-the scar he’d earned from Umbridge. Hermione had asked “Why?” and Zabini had stumblingly answered, and thereafter she’d visibly relaxed around him, finally returned his bids at conversation.
So in the end, it had been a Gryffindor sort of sentiment that had sealed their ease. Regulus, his tutor on all things Slytherin, had told Snape that scars are a mark of failure, demonstrating that you’d allowed yourself to be hurt. Only Gryffindors display them like chocolate frog cards. Regulus had been brilliant at the Dark Arts, had wanted to be Head of Slytherin someday-had taken the cursed D.A.D.A. job straight out of school.
Ironic Snape had thought of that just now, since Regulus would be the subject of tonight’s lesson if Snape judged his students ready.
He entered with a swirl of his robes and ducked as feathered balls of yellow streaked towards him. “What-” He felt something alight on his head and dig tiny talons into his scalp, then another canary alighted at his shoulder while twittering sounded all about him.
“Miss Granger!” At his bellow, he lost one passenger who circled before choosing a jar of preserved Bowtruckle for a perch. He brushed off the yellow ball of fluff at his shoulder who flew back to Hermione and buried itself in her hair.
“A bird in the hand is-”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Zabini, or you’re a dead man,” said Hermione.
Zabini grinned and waved his hands in mock terror. As Zabini helped untangle the canary, Snape strode to his desk. He looked down at a parchment there and held it up to the pair sitting cross-legged on the floor facing each other. “Admittedly, bird shit on this particular student’s essay is only fitting, but if there’s one spot on even one of my books … ”
“Sorry, Professor, Blaise was just asking what the trick was to transfiguring a flock of canaries.”
“It’s quite advanced magic, sir. Hermione was the only one who managed it in class last week. Professor McGonagall said it’s the sign of someone who could become an Animagus someday.”
Snape found it hard to begrudge Hermione her rather smug look and smile at the praise. Her recent misery had been palpable enough that he’d put off his plans to “enlighten” this pair about his Death Eater past. He’d noticed that while she’d been particularly subdued in class the last several days, Ronald Weasley had been positively glowering. He’d overheard Miss Rosier tell Miss Wilkes that she’d seen Weasley and Granger have a blazing row last Saturday after Quidditch practice behind the pitch. He had wanted to ask Hermione about it, let her talk it out as she probably couldn’t even with Potter or Ginevra Weasley since they’d be caught in the middle.
But that was the sort of question a friend asked, wasn’t it?
He hung up his teaching robes and took off his boots and sat by his students, resting his back against the desk.
“Miss Granger will attempt Legilimency first. Now remember,” Snape said, “this is as much about trying to project as it is trying to receive and thus will make you a stronger Occlumens-since you’d just reverse the process. Mister Zabini, I want you to relax … ” Snape continued speaking in a soft monotone, watching as Zabini’s breathing deepened and his body lost its tension, his eyelids closing until Hermione’s softly incanted, “Legilimens,” caused them to snap open.
Whatever Hermione saw caused her to blanch and Zabini to immediately break their handclasp. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Not as sorry as I am, Granger,” Zabini said, his voice very soft.
“Maybe we”-she glanced at Snape-“should stop for a while.”
Snape wondered what in Zabini’s personal gallery of horrors Hermione had glimpsed, but stayed quiet, not wanting to push Zabini into even more revelations than the young man had bargained for.
“No,” Zabini said, his face a mask. “You won’t be doing me any favours. Maybe now you can understand why I have to learn this.”
“All right.” Hermione still seemed shaken, and she wiped her palms on her uniform skirt before turning to gaze at Zabini. “Your turn.”
Snape didn’t even bother to repeat the exercise. Neither the relaxation techniques nor physical contact was necessary for Zabini to read Hermione. Snape thought that eventually Zabini, like the strongest of Legilimens, might not even need a wand at all.
Hermione took a deep breath nevertheless and made an effort to relax as Zabini gazed into her eyes and softly spoke the incantation. The next moment her eyes widened, and she gasped, wiggling back away from him.
“You slept with the Bulgarian Seeker? Krum?” Zabini’s voice rose to a squeak.
Snape’s head snapped up, and as he forced a stony expression on his face, Hermione said, “You weren’t supposed to see that, but yes, I did. What of it?” Her face got very red, and she balled her fists at her sides.
“We do not need to discuss your celebrity lovers, Miss Granger,” Snape said, his voice icy.
“Don’t you start,” Hermione said, her voice cracking. “That was well over a year ago, but I’m sure Skeeter would still be interested. Maybe someone can tip her off, and you can read that article aloud in class too? Tell me I’m a scarlet woman and a groupie like Ron did?”
Noting the strain on her face, Snape chose not to respond to her admonishment of him with other than a quelling look, and Hermione dropped her gaze.
“Weasley found out? That’s what you argued about?” Zabini asked.
“Oh, no, the argument was about how wrong it was to snog Viktor.”
“Oh, so that’s why Weasley has been going around like first years are nine pins, and he’s the skittle ball.” Zabini looked at Snape and shrugged at his inquiring look. “I don’t think Weasley even realised he could take off points last year, but he’s been making up for it this year. He’s not happy, he tends to take it out on the Slytherin hourglass among other things, finding ways to take off points left and right.”
“Ron wouldn’t.”
“Right, Granger, because you’ve never seen him force others out of his way and no Gryffindor prefect would ever be unfair.” Zabini rolled his eyes. “Look, I know you’d never abuse your position-”
Hermione abruptly got off the floor, startling Zabini into silence. “Let’s not waste more time on my so-called friends and love life shall we?” She stood and faced Snape. “Didn’t you say you had a special lesson planned tonight?”
Snape rose from the floor, and Zabini followed his lead. Snape drew a harsh breath. “This might not-”
“Why not? You said a great deal of emotion facilitates Legilimency? Sounds like this is the perfect time.”
Snape nodded. “Very well, Miss Granger.”
He shrugged and rolled his shoulders then rubbed the back of his neck, trying hard not to tense up. Last night had been All Hallows’ Eve, and his dead had felt closer to him than usual. As he had two nights before that, before going to sleep, he’d prepared for this lesson by reliving his act in a Pensieve. Like a Pensieve, for the person casting it, Legilimency gave an outside perspective, not the faint, inner image of memory. Seeing himself from all those years ago … He had even slept away from the dream catcher last night, welcoming any nightmares, and they had come. He needed this over with, dreaded having to prepare himself for this again.
“Nevertheless,” said Snape, “as you have just discovered, if you do not discipline yourself, whatever is on your mind can easily come spilling out. We’re going to try something different tonight. You will both try simultaneously to read me.” Snape sat up on the edge of the desk and took a deep breath. “Ready your wands.” An anticipatory shudder went through him.
He nodded at them and, together, Hermione and Zabini incanted, “Legilimens.”
He showed them a vision of black-haired teenagers wearing Slytherin ties. One with a hawkish nose-recognisable as a young Snape-grinned and clapped the other on the shoulder. The other teenager, who held a snitch aloft in his hand, had the kind of face artists carve in marble. Next, the same two, with a toffee-haired girl, ran down the steps of Hogwarts linking arms.
He allowed those images to flash past, barely permitting the details to be taken in, like what they’d have typically experienced in Legilimency. He formed the next image slowly, like film dipped in developer: The same three in a dark room with a shadowy figure in a corner with red eyes burning like embers.
Some details had been etched in Snape’s brain by nightmares. How Lucius and Rabastan had dragged Regulus, his ankles wobbling, to the centre of the room. How one eye had been swollen shut, the lid purple. When the two men had let go, Regulus had fallen to the floor, holding out one hand to break his fall. Snape had heard the wrist bone snap.
He continued the stream of images, showing a girl strolling to the young man at the room’s centre and kissing him. She licked at the blood trickling down his chin, then slapped him and turned and walked away.
Snape remembered how the bile had risen in his throat at the vampirish act. Refusing to believe Messalina had done that, he had felt disembodied, as if he were dreaming.
Next on view, a younger Snape strode towards the young man and raised his wand. The man shook his head sharply, said something. Young Snape’s face hardened into a rictus, then he flicked his wand and a green light flashed out. Young Snape fell to the floor at the same time as the man, as if felled by his own curse, turned away and started retching.
“Please, Severus,” Regulus had said. Please what? Just do it? Help me?
The Pensieved-enhanced images ended, and Snape clutched the edge of the desk to keep from falling to the floor. His lower lip stung and felt swollen, and a coppery taste filled his mouth. He slowly focused his eyes on the present. Hermione’s face hovered beside him-she was pale and a film of sweat covered her face. She clutched at his arm, helping him to keep his balance, and he could feel her shaking as she held on. As soon as he righted himself, she let go and slowly backed away from him and didn’t stop before she hit the wall.
Zabini shivered, hugged himself tightly. “You controlled that. You wanted us to see that. Why?”
Snape traced his lip with a finger, which came away bloody. “Why did I do it, or why did I show you?”
“You had to kill him?” Hermione asked. “Imperio’d? Because you had to keep your cover, and he’d have died anyway-”
“Why no, Miss Granger. Because he had betrayed the Dark Lord and I wanted to make my mark. Earn my Dark Mark.“ Snape slowly rolled up his left sleeve. “Did you think this a fancy tattoo? Not every Death Eater is so honoured. Unless you’re of a particularly distinguished bloodline and they want to lock in your loyalties, you must prove yourself, particularly back then. It’s quite simple-to get the Dark Mark you either commit an Unforgivable or you pledge to do so within a year. And you will not like the consequences if you renege, because then you will be the one led to the centre of the room and your closest colleague will have a have a go at making their mark.”
“I’ve heard you have to hate the person.” Hermione whispered. “But it didn’t look so simple.”
“You have to mean it,” Snape replied. “Hating helps. And I hated him. Hated him for putting me into that situation, both by helping to recruit me into the Death Eaters then betraying us.”
“He was your friend?” Zabini asked.
“He was my best friend,” Snape said.
For a long time the only sound filling the room was the ragged sound of their breathing.
Snape looked at their frightened faces. Mission accomplished. His face contorted, and he saw them both flinch in reaction to his expression. “Here endeth the lesson. Class dismissed.”
He didn’t watch but just listened to the sound of them quickly getting their things and walking out and shutting the door. Snape shut his eyes, but his mind still filled with images of long ago. He groped along his desk until he found his seat.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. Likely several hours, noting how much the candles had burned down. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Finally, Snape extinguished the candles with a softly spoken, “Nox,” and made his solitary way back to his quarters in Slytherin.
~o0o~
to be continued
Chapter Ten: Dreams and Nightmares
Back to Chapter Eight: Curses