FIC: Hogwarts' Secrets (PG)
Title: Hogwarts' Secrets
Type: Fic
Age-Range Category: Four
Character: Severus Snape, Lord Voldemort
Author: prolurk
Rating: PG
Click to View [Warning(s)]references to violence, prejudice.
Summary: A visit by the Dark Lord to his new Headmaster.
The Headmaster sat at his desk, reviewing invoices and wishing for a brandy and his bed. He turned a page and hissed a curse.
"What is it?" came the question from the portrait behind him.
"A breach to the wards from the Forest."
"Who could that be?"
The Headmaster only snorted.
"Is this to be a frequent thing?" asked the portrait with unaccustomed disdain. The Headmaster's only answer was to aim his wand over his shoulder to close the drapes across the portrait. He took a deep breath.
Lord Voldemort floated over the grounds of Hogwarts, smiling at the castle ahead of him. Some of the windows were lit against the gloaming, but the castle was quiet in late summer. HIS castle, now. He approached the window to the Headmaster's office and paused a moment to look.
Snape sat at the desk, reading parchments. Or so one assumed. The man could hold himself so still that sometimes the Dark Lord would watch to see if he actually breathed. He was a featureless black shape from this angle, even the folds of his robes seemed to melt into each other. One long white hand lay on the desk; that was all that wasn't ebony. The visitor allowed himself a smug moment. None of the other Death Eaters embraced Darkness as Snape did. He'd recruited him as a boy and taught him the right ways of Magic, and oh, how well the boy learned! Tonight, this most useful servant was here to show him the secrets of Tom Riddle's first true home, and it was delicious. Voldemort tapped on the window frame.
Snape smoothly rose from his chair to face the window and then knelt, eyes properly downcast. His lord wafted by him and alit by the desk. "Severus," he said. "Good to see you hard at work."
"My Lord, you are welcome."
"Oh, get up! It's only us." The Dark Lord seated himself before the desk.
"May I offer some refreshment, my Lord?" Snape asked as he rose to his feet.
"Thank you, no. And do sit down." Voldemort contemplated the piles of parchment arrayed across the desk. "What is all this?"
There was the faintest of sneers, only detectable if one was watching. It was the most the Dark Lord expected to see across that mask of a face. "Finances," Snape flatly said.
"Allow me to distract you from such felicity," Voldemort said.
"What can I do for you, my Lord?"
"Tell me how things are going."
The Headmaster waved his wand to file away the piles of invoices. "Deliveries of supplies are arriving apace. Only about half of the faculty has arrived. It's early yet."
"The Carrows?"
"They came this week." That sentence was just a little softer, but Voldemort chuckled. Snape suspected him of sending the twins out of spite, and he was right. There was no love lost between the twins and Snape. That's why he sent them, to annoy all three of them. It had no real purpose, but it amused him.
"I'm sure they'll find their way."
"As you say."
"Are you … connected to the Castle?" Voldemort asked.
Snape inclined his head. Voldemort would have been thrilled to bond with such a powerful and venerable structure. Snape responded as if it was as commonplace as receiving the Daily Prophet.
"I'm sure that brought some surprises."
Not even a tweak of an eyebrow. "Indeed."
"All good ones, I hope."
"No, my Lord."
"Oh?"
Snape seemed to recognize his master's impatience. "However, the discovery that there are more secret passages available to the Headmaster than to the faculty was rather satisfying."
"I knew it!" Voldemort breathed.
"Furthermore," Snape continued, "the castle's purpose has become very clear."
"It's a school," said Voldemort dismissively.
"The school is housed in the castle," Snape said. "The purpose of education belongs to the teachers."
"And the castle?"
"Its purpose is to protect its residents, the children most of all."
"How noble," Voldemort snarled.
"The charms have been layered and strengthened for centuries. Older ones have been remodeled for their responses to what is needed. It is … formidable."
The Headmaster was hinting at something, and clearly he expected his master to understand what that was. Annoyed, Voldemort changed the subject. "How many mudbloods have accepted places in the first-year class this year?"
"None, my Lord."
Voldemort was impressed. "Well done. How did you discourage them?"
"I made no such effort."
That was odd. "You sent no letters to muggleborns, then?"
"I did not."
"Why not?" Snape didn't answer, he just gazed at his master, expressionless as always. Voldemort shook off the familiar self-conscious itch of talking to this wizard. He'd become an automaton, and there were days when all Voldemort wanted to do was shake some emotion from him. He hadn't always been like that. Young Severus Snape was certainly sullen and terse, but underneath that, he was a boil of resentment and eagerness to prove himself. To a Legilimens, he broadcast his emotions constantly. He had a passion for knowledge and a craving for the Dark Arts that made him one of Voldemort's easiest recruits. All he had to do was promise infinite access to both. And the boy had embraced it all with abandon.
Young Snape had never had a taste for violence. The other young Death Eaters had accused him of cowardice, and Snape would curl his lip at them. If they pressed the issue, they found that the scrawny poor boy was essentially unbeatable, with his wand or his fists. Exploration of the boy's thoughts showed Voldemort no fear of confrontation. Snape simply considered aggression the tool of incompetent men and lazy wizards.
Over time, the Dark Lord learned more: the boy's treatment by his Muggle father was worse than any bullying he'd experienced in school; worse, in fact than anything young Tom Riddle had enjoyed at any stage of his life. It was almost a disappointment to see that the boy's ape of a father had died in a bar brawl. It would have been nice to order young Snape to dispose of his father himself, in any fashion he chose.
After the debacle at Godric's Hollow, there had been no way to keep track of any of his erstwhile followers. When he returned, the Dark Lord had been impressed to find that Snape had stayed at his post. He'd collected vast amounts of information for his Lord, never doubting his return. He'd continued his intellectual pursuits, including comprehensive and boringly academic study of the Dark Arts. And he'd done it right under Dumbledore's crooked nose! But it had altered the wizard vastly. He'd subjugated emotions to the point that even with Legilimency, Voldemort could hardly find evidence of the young man he once knew. As little personality remained as there was emotion on his face. Voldemort had given into temptation and subjected Snape to the Cruciatus curse just to hear him scream, but after Snape struggled back to his feet, Voldemort found no fear and no anger in his mind, and no care for the pain, only fatigue. The Dark Lord didn't press. He didn't want to find scorn aimed at himself, and he had yet to recognize that reluctance as important.
The other Death Eaters gave Snape a wide berth, even the ones who claimed that he was a traitor. But they hadn't seen inside his mind. Of all of them, Snape was the most committed to Darkness as well as his Lord's cause.
"Were there no mudblood children eligible this year?"
"There were not, my Lord."
"No one in the Book of Admittance?"
Snape gave a tilt of his head but did not repeat himself.
"Speaking of the Book," Voldemort said, "I'd like to see it."
The Headmaster nodded and rose to lead the Dark Lord to the office door. As always, his movements were fascinating. Really, did the man's feet ever touch the ground?
Snape crossed the landing at the top of the stairs and laid his palm on the wall. A door shimmered into view. He pushed it open and stepped back to allow his master entrance.
The room was round and windowless, topped with a conical ceiling under a turret top. Crystal light emanated from the walls, illuminating a few chairs and an oval table surmounted by an enormous ancient book. Next to the book sat a silver inkwell that contained a long quill: a green feather, black-tipped. The names of all the wizards and witches born on the British Isles since the days of Salazar Slytherin were in that book, wizarding history itself. Voldemort gave a delighted cry and crossed the room quickly, reaching for the book. He struck a boundary as hard as stone before his hands could get near the book. He looked at the Headmaster with a glare.
"No one has touched the Book of Admittance since it was laid on the table by the Founders," Snape intoned from the door.
"You cannot touch it?"
"No one," Snape repeated.
"Then how do you know whom to send letters?"
"A list appears on the Headmaster's desk on the first of the Year."
Voldemort read the open pages hungrily. "The blood status of these children is not written by their names."
"No, it is not. One of the surprises we discussed."
"Then how do you know which are Muggleborn?" This was very disappointing. He'd cherished a plan for so long of finding mudblood children and blocking their magic, or simply killing them, using this very list.
"That is one of the greatest surprises, my Lord."
"What do you mean?"
The Headmaster glided up to the table. "There are no Muggleborns."
The man was mad. Yes, that must be it. "Of course there are."
Snape merely stood there, a black void in the gleaming light. "No," was all he said.
As it always did, Snape's stern solemnity, his implacable stillness had finally raised his ire. He made people feel inferior, even the great Lord Voldemort. "Explain yourself," the Dark Lord hissed.
"If a child has been born in spontaneous connection with magic, that birth has been lost to memory. Of course, there had to be a first person to be able to use the energy we call magic."
"Plenty of Muggle parents have magical children. It's nearly a quarter of our population!"
"As it turns out," Snape said, sounding annoyingly professorial, "the students who come from the Muggle world have three origins. Some are half-bloods. They are the smallest share. A greater number are descendants of Squibs. And an appalling number are illegitimate get of wizards and witches, sent to Muggle orphanages, or if more fortunate, placed for adoption."
Voldemort contemplated this news for a moment. "It takes a long time for magic to re-appear in a Squib line."
"That, apparently, is a myth. It takes fewer than three generations."
Voldemort couldn't recall the last time he'd been this stunned. And he hated Snape for it. The Headmaster Summoned a chair from its place by the wall, and automatically, his master sat, staring at the book. "Three generations… How can blood be purified so soon?"
"Magic doesn't reside in the blood, my Lord. It is everywhere. Inbreeding of humans has the same results as for animals: shorter lifespans, increased vulnerability to illness, and degradation of organ systems. Bones become brittle, lungs weak, hearts even weaker, and the intellect … suffers the most."
If he mentioned the Carrows, Voldemort was prepared to hex him.
"And for us, it effects how our bodies receive and channel magic. It isn't the magic that weakens with each generation. It is the ability of the body to support it. The only way for a Squib-prone family to avoid that problem is to arrange matches with mates with absolutely no family connections."
"For the Sacred Twenty-Eight, that is impossible."
Snape nodded. The Dark Lord contemplated him.
It made sense. After Pettigrew drew him from the cauldron, Voldemort had put on a good show. The witnesses to his return were too overwhelmed by his very presence to really notice how weak he was. And he was feeble, his magical power barely there. His physical and magical strength increased together.
The Prince family wasn't Sacred Twenty-Eight, but were devoted to Pureblood marriage all the same, and they were fading as the Carrows did. Yet, Eileen Prince married a horrible example of Muggle, and her son was one of the most powerful wizards alive. Three generations, indeed. Could he match the Dark Lord himself for mastery? Months later, Voldemort would decide that Snape might overtake the Dark Lord's own Darkness. That was a threat - he could not to be tolerated. But, for now, he ignored the paranoia.
"And the bastards?" he said to change the subject.
"I haven't had much chance to investigate that group. They have been placed at all levels of society."
"And growing up in the Muggle world."
"Indeed."
"Dumbledore knew all this."
"All Heads knew this."
"And Dumbledore did nothing to bring this to light?"
"Ah," Snape said. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced around the table. "He tried. All of the florid language about anyone who could use magic should be welcomed by the Wizarding world was part of it."
"Why not come out and say it plain like a normal person?"
"Because he couldn't. No more than I am able to. No more than you will be."
"You go too far."
"My apologies, my Lord. No one is able to discuss what is seen in this room anywhere except in this room."
"Is one able to discuss the parchments that are conveyed to your desk?"
"Yes. But all that is on those parchments are names, birthdates and addresses."
Voldemort stared at the book, furious that it forbade the dissemination of such good - juicy - information.
Snape paced in front of the table. "The purpose is the protection of the children."
"They might not be bullied if the others knew who their ancestors were."
"Other children are not the danger. The adults are. A Pureblood bastard unmasked would be a great source of embarrassment to the parents, the cause of enormous family drama. Such a child could be the target of vengefulness from a betrayed spouse. Or a half-sibling may prefer not to share an estate. The family that cast off a Squib as an abomination, shutting the child in an orphanage or worse could see that Squib's grandchild as an embarrassment, proof of error, that they abandoned a child without adequate confirmation. All of these were sufficient reasons for murder, in the past. So the Book guards their secrets."
Certainly Snape couldn't know how his vocabulary stung as he spoke. "Abomination", "abandoned", "orphanage" were words that struck too close to home. He was abandoned as an abomination, and young Tom hated Muggles for his father's sins. But apparently Wizards do the same thing, for equally heinous reasons. The thought was a horror. An illegitimate Pureblood designated Muggleborn was falsely labeled. A Squib held the precious gift of magic for later generations. But Snape was right. At least such children could grow up.
Just then, the Quill of Acceptance quivered and rose, free of ink, to soar to the Book. Both men stood as close as they were permitted to watch it write:
"Jennifer Fairweather (Selwyn), born August 10, 1996. London."
"A by-blow?" Voldemort breathed.
"Perhaps. It doesn't distinguish. The only way to know is if her parents report that she was adopted."
"She was born two years ago."
"She displayed her first magic today. That is what is detected."
"There's no address."
"It isn't needed now."
Curiosity rose. "Can we see the entry for the Granger Girl?"
Snape came around the table to face the Book. "If you would, show me Hermione Jane Granger."
"You're awfully polite."
Snape cast him an inscrutable glance, but it felt like censure. "It is the Book of Admittance. Is there a Magical artifact that deserves more respect?"
Snape was spared a hex as the pages fluttered back seventeen years. "Hermione Jane Granger (McMillan). Born September 19, 1979."
"She's a McMillan! She's Sacred Twenty-Eight!"
"I actually researched her. She is the great-granddaughter of Esme McMillan, born 1915. A Squib. Her sister married a Black."
"Tossed into one of those orphanages." Inwardly, Voldemort shuddered at memories.
"Not she," Snape said. "She was adopted by a well-to-do family. Minor nobility. Her adoptive father was an MP."
"So the Granger girl is upper class, then?" He watched Snape incline his head. Inconvenient, that. "Did her parents resist her coming to Hogwarts?"
"They did not. By all reports, they are proud of her heritage. In both worlds."
And potentially influential enough to be trouble when the time comes. Voldemort sat again. "We've been hemorrhaging Wizarding blood into the Muggle world for how long?"
"Always. I have thoughts, my Lord, of collecting data about this, once there is time after our … political unrest is resolved. We may not be able to stop this directly, but we can find a way to retrieve the ones in orphanages. At least to start." Snape gestured elegantly at the Book. "And of course, they come back, my Lord."
Eventually yes, but forever tainted by the inferior world they were forced to grow up in. "They don't all accept their letters, do they?"
"That is true. I will also have to form a clearer picture of how many."
This should change everything. Eventually, it would. Now was not the time to determine how to present any form of this knowledge to the Pureblood Elite in his service. He hadn't finished bleeding them dry of their wealth, and only a few would stay loyal after hearing this. It would be an all-too-confusing about-face after all his persuasions that they were in danger from the Muggleborns.
Well, they were in danger from the children growing up in the Muggle world, since every one of them is a personal embarrassment. Foolish, arrogant rich men, throwing away children with precious magic. They deserved to be embarrassed. Perhaps, once things were settled, Voldemort could clean houses, so to speak. New families to be elevated to Sacred status. Or, even better, old family castoffs to replace the magically and physically weak elders who rejected them. Granger may well be a lost cause, but young Miss Fairweather could be convinced to change her name and assume her heritage. Yes, that was a possibility.
Yes, this changed everything, but it didn't change the War for now. Better to save it for his reconstruction plans. Yes.
"You've given me much to think about, Severus," Lord Voldemort said. And he promptly forgot all about the evening's revelations.
The Headmaster sketched a bow. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Master?"
"No. I must take my leave. Thank you, my servant."
"You are most welcome my Lord."
They crossed the landing as the secret door erased itself. Without any more ceremony, Voldemort breached the still-open window and flew away.
After watching him fly over the Forbidden Forest, Snape collapsed into his chair and dropped his head into his hands on the desk.
"Severus?" came a muffled voice.
Snape stayed still for a while, though. When he at last sat up, his face was no longer the smooth mask, and his shoulders were slumped. He waved a hand at the drapes over the portrait.
"It is done," he said wearily. "It will make no difference." The only benefit was in hiding information about locations. The Book had been surprisingly accommodating.
"It will be interesting to see," the portrait said. "You look awful. You don't normally Occlude so … severely. It drains you."
"Yes, it does. But the night he returned, I was so anxious I overdid it. And now I'm forced to keep the same appearance. It bothers him, I think."
"You must be that severe whenever the Carrows are present."
"Yes. But for them, I can merely act without Occluding. The other faculty members are confused."
"I'm sure you can manage, my boy. But I fear for your sanity."
Snape gave a hollow laugh. "It won't matter, Albus. I won't last the year."