Child of My Heat pt 4

[soulsrant]

Child of My Heart
Subcategory: Harry Potter
Part: 4/?
Summary: Can a forced marriage bring happiness?
Pairing: Harry Potter / Severus Snape, Remus Lupin / Severus Snape
Beta by Kerensa
Warnings: Adult content, male pregnancy, sexual, mental, and physical abuse, childhood abuse, language, non-con sexual content. All words in ** are meant to be in italics.
Disclaimer: I owe nothing but bills and my imagination. If anyone wants the bills they can have them, but the imagination is mine.

Chapter 4


The next morning brought sunshine and silence. Poppy managed to encourage the Potions Master to sit up enough to eat breakfast before she took herself off to the Great Hall. She really didn't want to hover around Snape all morning, she wanted to give him room to breathe and think. Besides, she knew that if she mothered him, it would only give him an excuse to avoid the situation and that, she couldn't allow him to do.

Just outside the double doors, she encountered Dobby the house elf, patiently waiting to be allowed to enter to visit Snape. Knowing that Dobby would only provide an excuse for Snape to put off thinking about his future, she couldn't allow it. So, she informed Dobby that Professor Snape needed complete and utter rest for the next three days and that meant no visitors. Not even him.

Poppy steeled herself against the big, drippy tears that formed and fell from the big eyes of the house elf. After she told him that it would only speed his recovery if he had no visitors, then the little house elf sniffled, cast one last long and lingering glance at the doors, turned and made a slow and shuffling way down the hall, casting pitiful looks over his shoulder as he went. Poppy felt bad, but couldn't allow any distractions for the Potions Master.

For his part, Snape just stared blankly at the food in front of him. Poppy's advice echoed in his mind. What would make him happy? He didn't really know that any more. All he could think about was the unborn child and what kind of life it might have. Or not have. He knew that it wasn't exactly what Madame Pomfrey had intended, but he couldn't help but think about his own childhood; specifically the last summer at home before he began Hogwarts.

***********************************

His stomach tightened as he realized that it was close to the time for Father to come home. The lump in his throat grew as he watched the Wizard clock slowly tick from Father at work, to traveling, and then to home.

The fear rose as he heard his father's heavy footsteps on the cold oak floor. He scrambled for a hiding spot, trying to find a new place where he wouldn't be seen. He pressed himself into the first dark, cramped corner he found, struggling to become invisible by his thoughts and wishes alone. If he could just become small enough, maybe Father wouldn't see him. And if Father didn't see him, Severus would have at least one nightmare, pain-free night.

His heart pounded faster as Father searched for him, calling for him in his deceptively soft voice. Severus wasn't fooled. The boy knew that the soft tone always brought more pain than a screaming one. A soft voice meant that the hurting would last longer. A soft tone meant that Father had been thinking of the punishment all day, whether Severus had deserved it or not.

Severus crammed a fist into his mouth as the searching father looked for his wayward son. Sharp teeth bit into the tender flesh, causing tiny rivers of blood to flow down the thin wrist. He had to stay quiet, he just had to keep any whimpers back before they betrayed him.

He stopped breathing when those large feet paused in front of his hiding place. The longer he held his breath, the harder his heart pounded. He longed to open his mouth and gulp the life sustaining oxygen, but he was terrified that the slightest noise would give him away.

Black, obsidian eyes sagged in relief when those shoes began to move away from his hiding space. As soon as he was sure that his father was no longer in his vicinity, he finally breathed, sucking in that precious air. He knew that he was finally safe. Father would never find him now.

His relief was short lived. As soon as his tightly held body began to relax, Father pounced. A large, brutal hand reached into the small space, latching onto the nearest body part and dragged the boy into the light. Severus's hands scrambled for a handhold, desperate to keep himself safe, but it was all for naught. Small, sharp nails dug deep furrows into the floor, causing the older man to growl in displeasure. The punishment will be harsher for that infraction.

The older man picked up the small boy and shook him hard. He had been a bad, bad boy. He had hidden from his father and that was wrong. Very, very *wrong*. He had marked up the floor and that was as equally bad. The floor belonged to the Father, not to the boy. No one was suppose to damage it but *him*!

Severus stared up in horror at the angry face of his father. This was going to be bad, very, very bad. This wasn't about him hiding, this wasn't about him marking up the floor. This was simply because he was eleven years old and he was going to the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. He would essentially be out of his father's control for nine months out of the year. No more yelling, no more hitting, no more of the loathsome touches and rapes that he had had to endure for the past three years. He would be safe from his father and that enraged the older man on an almost daily basis.

Father threw him to the floor and Severus bit his lip to keep from crying out when his thin shoulder snapped, knowing that any sound from him would just double his punishment. Father merely grinned at him and reached for his belt buckle. Once Severus saw that the zipper was being pulled down, he got awkwardly and painfully into position without a word. After three years, he knew what was expected of him and did so without a word of protest. Anything else would just make it that much worse.

Severus relaxed as much as he could with the blinding pain from his broken shoulder and tried to think about how happy he was going to be at Hogwarts. He would learn new and exciting things. He would be allowed to read anything he wanted and not what his father decreed to be suitable for a Snape. He would make friends, lots and lots of friends. They would like him and he would like them. And most of all, he would be allowed to wear clothes *all* of the time and not just when Father took him to Diagon Alley to reluctantly pick out his school supplies. He would never have to take off his clothes at all unless it was to bathe. Severus looked forward to that special day.

**********************************

Snape came out of his thoughts with a jerk, nearly upsetting the tray across his lap. He stared grimly down at the still magically hot breakfast of thin, plain porridge, dry toast and chilled pumpkin juice. He nearly snorted at the memory of how naïve he he'd been as a child. Yes, he'd learned lots of things, he'd read anything and everything that he could lay his hands on and met lots and lots of children. However, he hadn't made any friends, at least, not any real friends who kept secrets and protected him from the others. No, until he became a professor, his life had been one long, hellish existence. And even then, engaged as a spy for the light brought him none of the safety, security or peace that he had craved for as a child.

And now, he had a passenger living inside of him. Maybe permanently, maybe temporarily; it was all up to him. He had never been truly happy in his life and now he was suppose to know what was best for himself? That was a laugh.

Snape heaved a huge sigh and stared at his meal, hoping that just by looking at the food, it would decide to just get up and leave. He should be so lucky.

*************************************

Once in the Great Hall, Poppy took a place towards the end of the table. She didn't want to draw too much attention from the Headmaster. Once she was sure that everyone was there, she stood up and gave one of her rare announcements.

"I'm pleased to inform everyone that Professor Snape will make a full recovery. However, he will remain in the infirmary for the next three days for some well deserved rest. *No* one will be allowed to bother him for *anything*." That last bit was directed more or less towards Dumbledore.

She sat down in the middle of the students groans of disappointment at the news and several of the older students whimpered in fear at the pleased look on the Headmaster's face. Poppy wasn't sure what was going on between Dumbledore and the rest of the student body, but she had an idea that Snape wouldn't have near as many problems with them then he had in the past.

The rest of the staff took the news rather well, agreeing with the medi-witch that the Potions Master had certainly looked a bit peaked before the lab accident and were positive that a bit of rest would perk the man right up. Poppy still avoided looking towards the Headmaster, just in case he was able to catch her half truth, but the rest of the population of Hogwarts took her words at face value.

The faculty knew that Snape roamed the halls at night to make sure that none of the students were out of bed past curfew and then spent several hours brewing experiments before seeking his own bed. The War might be over, but Snape was a creature of habit, and as such, was not expected to change his routine anytime soon. And the fact that they hadn't heard any loud objections from the very vocal Potions Master only proved that the youngest member of the staff needed the much prescribed rest.

Feeling rather pleased with herself, she sat down to her breakfast, determined to give Snape as much time as possible to himself. She had just picked up her spoon to stir her morning cup of tea when she received a bit of a nasty shock.

"Don't worry so much, my dear. Severus will make his decision from his heart. I read it in the tea leaves just this morning. All will be well."

Startled, Poppy let go of her spoon and, as it nosily clattered to the table, she whirled around to face the person who had whispered in her ear.

Trelawney sat there, covered from head to toe in her usual assortment of scarves and bangles, staring owlishly out of her thick glasses with a sly smile upon her face. Taking the last bite of her buttered scone, the Divination teacher left the table, humming a lullaby that only Poppy heard.

The medi-witch froze in shock, unable and unwilling to believe that Trelawney knew the Potions Master's secret. The woman was simply guessing, that was it. That *had* to be it. The other woman was a charlatan, a gossipmonger of the worst sort and she was just simply making another one of her wild accusations.

Although rather likable, Trelawney had a rather bad habit of making so many outrageous predictions filled with death and dismemberment, that the staff had taken to believing her with a grain of salt. In fact, some of them had started to take bets on how many students would die from beheadings, curses, Quidditch accidents, explosions, drowning, broken necks, infections, choking, eaten by some creature from the Forbidden Forest or being torn limb from limb by a) the Whomping Willow, b) the giant squid, c) one of Hagrid's homework assignments or d) a combination of all of the above.

Poppy frowned as she realized just how mean spirited some of the bets and whisperings had become. The only ones that had not been heard making bets had been the Headmaster and Snape; although that hadn't meant that they didn't privately wager between themselves.

She recalled that Flitwick had once asked the Potions Master why he didn't join in on the gambling pool and the somber younger man had sneered that it would be beneath him to indulge in such a waste of time, money, or childish behavior. The betting had cooled a bit after that.

Her frown deepened in concentration. Come to think about it, she hadn't heard one syllable about Snape's latest imminent demise from Trelawney. In fact, up until now, the other woman had been strangely mum about the whole lab accident.

When Snape had been missing, the Divination teacher had driven every one nutters with her wild predictions. The longer the Potions Master remained in the Death Eaters clutches, the more gruesome the 'visions' became, and the more tense everyone became over the entire situation. It had became so bad that Hagrid, sweet, loveable Hagrid, had actually *shouted* at Trelawney in the middle of one of her predictions of bloody dismemberments to shut her flapping trap or he'll do it for her! He walked out of the middle of the staff meeting, leaving behind a stunned and speechless faculty. In fact, Trelawney had been so shocked over the outburst that she had barely gathered up the courage to ask for the salt to be passed at breakfast the next day.

The medi-witch has assumed that Trelawney had been silent about the potions accident out of fear of being shouted at, or worse, being hexed by any of the staff. Or perhaps Dumbledore had even spoken with the self proclaimed Seer, cautioning her about alarming the students under Snape's care. They had been upset enough over worrying about their Head of House; it wouldn't do for them to become hysterical over Trelawney's prediction about Snape's condition.

Poppy suddenly broke out (in to-into) goose bumps and she gave a little shudder at the thought that Trelawney might actually be right. No, it was impossible, ridiculous even. It was purely guess work on the Divination teacher's part. It was just a stray thought that paraded though whatever passed for her mind. If that woman had even a smidgen of proof that she might be right, Poppy had no doubt that the rumors would cover the castle from dungeons to astronomy tower in the time it took to hiccup.

Just the thought of Snape's secret becoming common knowledge before he made his final decision caused her to lose her remaining appetite. She decided to check on her patient to make sure that he hadn't pulled a runner on her like he'd done so many times in the past. Like all members of the male persuasions, he didn't know what was good for him and often didn't stay where he was put. *Men*! They could be such children sometimes.

As she approached the infirmary doors, she noticed a small pile of gifts and cards. She was pleased to see that they were all addressed to Professor Snape. And surprisingly enough, a small number of them weren't from the Slytherin House.

Poppy was a bit disappointed but not surprised to see Snape in the exact same position that she left him; propped up against a mountain of pillows and staring blankly at the breakfast tray across his lap. She swallowed a sigh of frustration as she noted that the porridge, toast, and pumpkin juice were still untouched. Placing the student's offerings on the bedside table, she tried to gently encourage the young man to eat.

"Come now, dear. You must eat something, if only to settle your stomach. The queasiness will only become worse on an empty stomach and you do have to keep your strength up."

Nothing. Not so much as a twitch to show that he had heard her. Poppy tried another, more underhanded and manipulative to be sure, tract.

"Now, Severus, be reasonable. Just this very morning, not more then an hour ago in fact, Headmaster Dumbledore had asked about you and I told him that you're recovering very nicely. Now, the next time I see him, do you really want me to tell him that you refused to eat? He'll be so worried about you. And what about Dobby? You know how upset he gets when you don't eat. You don't really want him to start bashing his head against the wall, do you? And you know that I'm not a very good liar when it comes to them."

Whether it was due to worrying the Headmaster or upsetting the house elf, one thin hand reached out and picked up a slice of toast. As he began to listlessly nibble on the dry bread, Poppy beamed down at him as if he had just tucked in to an eight course meal.

That look of pride turned to alarm as half way though his meal, Snape turned an alarming shade of green. She had just enough time to whisk the tray away and grab a basin before the morning sickness hit with a vengeance.

Snape held his stomach as he emptied everything he had into the basin. He was vaguely aware that someone else was holding the container in the right position to catch the flowing vomit, but couldn't honestly say who. He was too busy trying to keep as upright as he could ; the last thing he wanted was to get the bed filthy.

Some remembered part of his brain registered a harsh punishment for just such an offense in the past and he had no wish to repeat it. His mind flashed from childhood to adulthood at a dizzying pace, which didn't help the nausea one bit.

As the last of the bitter bile left his ravaged throat, Snape registered that the hand holding the vomit filled basin was old and human shaped. Poppy, not Dobby, was the one attending him. He was grateful that it was the medi-witch and not the house elf this time. The female human was absolute proof that Snape hadn't somehow slid back into the past. He wasn't going to be punished for being sick. But it was painfully obvious that he was still pregnant.

Poppy had held the basin with one hand and a thin, shuddering shoulder with the other. Her warm hand was a comforting weight to the hunched body on the bed. Once it seemed that everything was finally finished coming up, she scoured the basin with a quick charm and helped the pale, chill racked, sweat soaked man to lie back down. Tapping the glass of pumpkin juice, she turned it into ice water and held it to the Potions Master's thin lips. Poppy cautioned Snape about gulping it down too quickly, but the sick man obediently sipped the icy liquid down, soothing his raw, ravaged throat.

The contrast between the inflamed throat and the chilled liquid brought a prickle of tears to the Potions Master. Snape quickly blinked away the show of weakness as the medi-witch helped him to lie down. Poppy tucked the prone man in as if he was a small First Year suffering from a bout of homesickness.

Throughout the whole fussy process, Snape had not uttered one syllable or offered up one of his customary sneers. The whole world could've disappeared for all of the attention that he paid to his surroundings.

He hadn't even verbally exploded at Poppy's mothering, which told the witch that although his body was there, it was painfully obvious that his mind was entirely somewhere else. She could only hope that it was a pleasant place, but she had her doubts. Severus Snape could be accused of many things, but having happy, fuzzy bunny thoughts wasn't one of them.

As dull, lifeless black eyes slid closed in sleep, Poppy tidied up a bit. She rearranged the cards and gifts, put away the breakfast dishes and put the now clean basin in an unobtrusive place. Running out of things to straighten, she retrieved some embroidery from her office and took up her post at the sleeping man's bedside. Her new role now was to watch over him and to wake up the nightmare prone man at the first sign of a bad dream.

***************************

Snape looked around the vast, featureless corridor with confusion. It would've been completely dark, except for a faint light coming from somewhere in the far distance. The Potions Master couldn't remember how he came to be here, wherever *here* was. But that in and of itself could be a telling clue. Obliviate spells left no lingering physical traces; other then the fact that the victims were left with blank spaces in their memories. The only thing that he could be sure of was that he hadn't yet been sexually assaulted. Thanks to the curse placed upon him, not even obliviate spells could erase those memories.

As much as he wanted to go towards the light - to what he presumed to be safety - he remained where he was, unable to move forwards or backwards.

He stayed motionless for hours, eyes and ears straining for the least little clue as to where he was or how he came to be there. There was nothing. Nothing at all and a feeling of unease began to grow in the pit of his stomach. He needed to get out of here and he needed to do it *now*.

Once the urge hit, Snape forced his feet to carry himself towards the light. After a half dozen steps, he stopped. There was nothing but absolute silence. Not even the sound of his echoing footsteps or the sound of his own beating heart.

Snape forced himself to stay calm. Nothing good ever came from panicking. The light was beckoning to him, seducing him with its promise of safety.

He spent several minutes trying to think rationally, to logically find his way out of this place that he found himself in.

He was in a place that he had never been to before, with no idea of how he got there or how to leave. He studied his surroundings. The walls were made of rough gray stone without any visible seams. The floor was of the same material, but smoother. If it wasn't for that contrast, Snape would have thought that he was in some sort of cave tunnel. But that didn't seem right. Caves echoed, and so far, there was no evidence that sound traveled in this place. In fact, it seemed to absorb it; to swallow all signs of life as if the walls were soul sucking Dementors.

The feeling of unease grew and still the light beckoned to him. Suddenly deciding that he would rather face the unknown in the light rather then in the darkness, Snape stiffened his spine and once more forced his feet to carry him towards the light.

He walked for hours in the hushed atmosphere, yet he never seemed to get any closer to the light. The Potions Master knew that he was moving, the walls might look all the same, yet there were small cracks and crevices that broke the monotony of the stone prison.

Snape's heart skipped a beat as he realized that he finally heard a sound. It was a thin, plaintive wail that caused the hair on the back of the Potions Master's neck to stand straight up. He hesitated, unsure and unwilling to find out what sort of creature could emanate that mournfully heart-rendering sound.

Not caring if someone might think him a coward - indeed, who was there to judge him? - he turned around, intending to head into the darkness and away from the suddenly rising sound. Instead of salvation, he nearly scraped his nose against the stone wall that suddenly cut off his escape.

Black eyes widened in disbelief and thin, (potions-potion) stained hands slapped against the rough stone walls. No, no! It wasn't possible! Not even the mischievous moving staircases of Hogwarts would be so cruel as to cut off his only chance of escape from danger.

Snape frantically pounded his fists against the wall, not caring that the rough stones were causing his hands to bruise and bleed. He needed to get out and he needed to get out *now*!

That piercing, soul wrenching sound came closer and closer, louder and louder.

The Potions Master froze as his brain finally categorized the escalating noise. It was a baby's cry! A baby that was frightened and in distress.

Snape didn't question about how he knew what the source of the noise was, he was so rarely around infants, but all he knew was that a child was in danger and he had to help. No matter how frightened he himself was, that baby was ten times more scared than him. After all, he was an adult wizard and was able to defend himself and a child.

Turning back towards the light, he froze for the second time. The far off bright light was now coming *towards* him. Except, it wasn't a light, but a thick silvery white fog. He stood there, stunned as the thick fog crept towards him. All reasoning, all thinking, left him as the whiteness swirled around his feet.

The baby's escalating cry finally broke him from his paralysis. There was a child in danger and right now, Severus Snape was it's only source of hope. The Potion's Master swallowed his fear and stepped out into the fog.

It was like wading into a marshy bog. The fog thickened around his ankles, trying to hold him back. He forced himself to continue step by step. His only thought now was to get to that baby no matter what.

The swirling whiteness grabbed and pulled at him, trying to slow him down. Snape moved doggedly forward, the sound of the baby's cry becoming louder and louder.

The further he walked, the higher the fog swirled. Soon, it wasn't just covering his feet, but also his ankles. It rose in a steady pace, past his ankles, up his shins, to the bottom of his knees and then over them. The thick fog soaked though his cloak and clothes, the cold wetness weighing heavily on his slight frame. But still, he moved forward. He had a child to help, after all.

The high pitch cry dwindled down to a pathetic sounding whine that suddenly cut off in the middle of a whimper. Snape's heart seized in panic. Something had happened to the child. Something more terrible then the cry had first indicated. At least when the baby was screaming, he knew that the child was alive. Now, there was nothing but a terrifying silence.

Snape broke out of his paralyzed state. The silence was deafening, the implications were dire. The terrified child's cry had stopped and the Potions Master was certain that it was not voluntary.

He hurried though the thick fog as best he could, but the thick whiteness held him back, preventing him from going as fast as he wanted to. Suddenly, without warning, he slammed into a barrier. The impact sent him reeling to the floor. Snape sat there, stunned with the wind knocked out of him. The dense vapor surrounded his face, freezing his lungs and making it difficult to take a breath.

He struggled to his feet, his hands reaching out and finding the invisible wall. He pressed against it, but nothing budged. He moved his hands around, trying to find the edge. There had to be a way around it.

He followed the barrier, trying in vain to reach the end, to find a way though. He needed to find freedom from this prison in order to help that child.

Instead of a straight wall, the barrier circled to the left. Too late, he realized that the wall curved around, enclosing him in. Snape began to panic. He hated being trapped, hated being unable to just leave whenever he wanted. He knew that the wall had to be magical, there had been no such barrier when he began this journey.

Well, he reasoned, if it was indeed a magical wall, then there had to be a magical way out. Reaching for his wand, he found it missing from its usual place in his inner robes. Undaunted, he struggled to remain calm. His wand had to be somewhere. He never went anywhere without it, so it had to be somewhere on his body.

Snape searched his inner robes and then his outer ones. No wand. He moved from his robes to his clothes, reaching into pockets and patting down his clothing. His wand had to be here, it just had to! He searched every seam, every fold of his garments, every hidden spot in his clothes. His fingers were frantic in their quest, searching for the hidden treasure.

He re-searched his pockets yet again, hoping to find the hole where his wand might have slipped out of.

Nothing. He found absolutely nothing. No wand, no hole, no hidden hiding place that he might have forgotten about.

Snape forced the rising panic back as he dropped to his knees to search the cold stone floor. His eyes tried to see though the fog surrounding him, but it was too thick, too dense to pierce though. He patted the floor, hoping, praying to find his wand.

Nothing.

He felt his heart pound and his throat painfully constrict. He had to have his wand. He *had* too! He couldn't bear the thought of being defenseless again, to be at someone else's mercy. The thought brought tears to his eyes.

He searched the small space that enclosed him. The wall only allowed two feet of movement. He noticed that the thick, white fog hit the same nothingness that surrounded him. It rolled up as if angry that it too was imprisoned.

Snape struggled to his feet, peering out in to the vast space before him. The fog had disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared; except for what was inside his invisible prison. Even the strangely comforting presence of the solid stone wall behind him had disappeared.

The cold wet fog now became bone chillingly numb as it began to creep higher over his knees and up his thighs. By the time the mystical mist had reached his waist, Snape could no longer feel his legs and feet. It wasn't as if they had grown too frozen to feel, there was simply no sensation at all. It was if the fog had completely severed his lower limbs.

As the thick whiteness swirled upwards, the less Snape felt of his remaining body. When the dense cloud reached his chest, the Potions Master's tightly held emotions broke and panic overwhelmed him. He began to beat his already sore fists against the invisible wall, hoping to make a dent or to cause some small crack in the impenetrable wall.

Snape pounded on the wall over and over and over again as the deathly whiteness swallowed his body. He lost his arms as the fog slipped over his shoulders. He opened his mouth to scream in terror, but he had no lungs with which to draw breath.

Wide, terrified eyes stared out into the fog and he wanted to cry out but he had no voice left. No voice, no wand, no way to cast any spell to remove him from the coming death. And it was death, he could feel it deep inside of him.

Snape's mind gave a silent sigh of resignation and defeat when the fog covered his nose and cheek bones. Suddenly tired and weary as the adrenaline rushed out of his body, he began to close his eyes. He had no desire to see his own death, but there was some small comfort in knowing that it was relatively painless.

His father had been right all along. All those taunts from Black and Potter were proven correct. He was a failure after all. He couldn't save that baby. He couldn't even save himself.

Just as his eyes shut for eternal sleep, he thought that he detected some movement out of the corner of his eyes. Hope surged forth as large black eyes widen and searched for his rescuer.

There! Coming towards him was a dark, man shaped figure. The mysterious man had no trouble walking freely towards him. There was no fog, no barrier hindering this man. Surely, this was his savior. If only his savior would just hurry the hell up!

Snape pinned his glaze on the man, hoping that he would arrive before the white wall of death stole his life.

Closer and closer, the shadowy figure strolled towards him. Not hurrying, not rushing, just a slow, leisurely pace towards the trapped, vertical man. And, just like Snape, this man left no echoing footsteps, no rustling clothes, no voice calling out.

The whiteness momentarily halted as the man grew nearer. Yes, Snape's mind shouted, this man must surely be here to save him. He would stop death in its tracks.

The man drew close enough for Snape to make out some features. He was tall and strong looking, his back straight and his stride long and sure. His hair was thick and shaggy, at least from what he could tell from the dark shadows surrounding his savior. There was some thing familiar about this man, but the trapped Potions Master couldn't pin it down.

His frantic mind searched though all of the men that he knew, trying to fit the size and confidence to someone he knew, but he came up empty. No matter, this man was here to help him, Snape would do anything he could to reward him for his heroic valor.

As he came closer still, something began to glow on the man's face, in the region of his forehead. Something strangely familiar, but Snape's still panicky mind could not settle down and focus. Just as the stranger came close enough to make out his features, a wall of solid white covered his eyes and the Potions Master knew no more.

************************************

Snape sat up, gasping for breath and pawing at his face. Startled out of a light doze, Poppy stood up, spilling her embroidery hoop, scissors and thread all across the floor. Ignoring her hobby supplies, she reached out and placed a comforting hand on the white faced, trembling Potions Master's thin shoulder. Instead of the customary flinch or the usual cold stare and cutting rebuff, Poppy was pleased to note that Snape actually leaned into the touch.

For once, being touched didn't repulse him. In fact, he was pathetically grateful for the contact. It told him that the white fog had just been a dream and he hadn't been consumed by the nothingness. He could feel the warmth of the sunlit flooded room, the scratchy weight of the hospital blankets and the calming presence of Poppy. He was in the Hogwarts infirmary and he was alive.

He was also still pregnant.

At that realization, Snape withdrew in body and mind. The older woman felt the slight movement and removed her hand.

"Did you have a bad dream, dear?" Poppy asked. Although her tone was soft, her voice rang loudly in the nearly abandoned ward.

Wordlessly, Snape nodded, not really trusting his own voice. He reasoned that if he could see and feel, then he could surely speak. But he didn't trust it to not crack after the dream he had just had. Dream? Ha! A real night terror that one was. He had been utterly defenseless in that soul sucking fog and the memory of his helplessness sent a shudder though his body.

He stared down at his clutching fists. His 'empty' clutching fists. A new feeling of terror swept though him. Where was his wand? He needed his wand. He was completely vulnerable without it.

Fear filled black eyes swept the covers of the cot, raking across the almost bare bedside table - not registering the contents in his mind unless it was wand shaped - and searched the floor in case it might have rolled off a flat surface. One hand inched towards his pillow in hope that it rested beneath it.

Almost as if she possessed the Legimancy ability, Poppy silently slid open the bedside table drawer. There, resting on a specially built in wand rack, laid his wand. A slender, pale hand reached out with lightening quick reflexes, grabbed the wand and snatched it up to cradle it to his thin chest.

Once the magic wood was in his possession, Snape felt his heart beat began to slow and his breathing eased; even the nightmare induced trembling stopped. Holding his wand was better then being drenched in a claming potion.

Poppy left him to his wand fondling and went to order lunch for the two of them. After the near miss with Trelawney that morning, Poppy wanted to avoid the Great Hall as much as possible. Besides, without her hovering, Snape would probably banish his food to the rubbish bin as soon as her back was turned. She wasn't hiding from anyone, she was just keeping her eye on her most difficult patient. And she would hex anyone who said otherwise.

Bony fingers caressed the smooth wood and Snape calmed further from the comforting ritual. He had done that ever since he was eleven and had received his first wand from Olivander. The wand that Father would always confiscate from him as soon as he stepped though the front door of Snape Manor. Although one couldn't say that he 'willingly' gave it up, being stunned took care of any reluctance on his part and he only got it back after one last departing grope from his father at King's Crossing. It never left his sight as Hogwarts; he had slept with it under his pillow as a student and even as a teacher. The only time it was ever out of his possession was when he was in the clutches of his father or the Dark Lord.

Yes, his first wand had been his most treasured possession. However, that precious first wand was gone. When his cover had been blown, the Dark Lord had taken great delight in not only breaking his wand in front of his very eyes, but he also disintegrated it. The loss of his wand nearly broke him, something that all of the beatings, torture, rapes and humiliation had never done.

After he had been dumped at the front gates of Hogwarts, more dead than alive, the only thing that he had requested during his long recovery was for another wand. Olivander himself shrunk down his entire store room and had come to Hogwarts. Six hours, four hundred and sixty two tries later and Snape had his new wand. It was twelve and a half inches long, made from the heart of an oak with the center made of a sliver of a Unicorn horn with a string of Dragon heart wrapped around it as its core.

Olivander had been very surprised. That wand had been crafted over two hundred years ago and had never taken to a witch or wizard before. In fact, Olivander's father, who had originally made it, had despaired of ever finding an owner for it. Years later, he told his son that it was the only wand in existence with two magical centers. He had made it after a particularly strange dream that he could no longer remember and that it was made in such a frenzy that he still couldn't understand or explain why. It was if he'd been possessed to make it.

Indeed, the new wand felt more powerful, more comfortable than Snape's first one. A warm hum began to emit from it, lulling Snape off to sleep.

**********************************************************

Snape sat in Dumbledore's chair in the Headmaster's office. He was slightly startled to notice that it was *his* things cluttering the neat desk instead of the usual assortment of sweets and child-like amusements that Albus favored.

Baffled, Snape placed his hands on the top of the desk in preparation for standing up and froze. His hands. His long slender hands were no longer *his*. He held up the stranger's hands that were attached to his wrists.

These hands were not his, of this Snape was certain. His hands were thin, with calluses from Potion making and from writing. His hands were *young* where as the hands confronting him were not. *These* hands were wrinkled and age spotted, the knuckles of the unfamiliar fingers were knobby and arthritic looking.

Unconsciously, his eyes wondered up and away, trying to distance themselves from the disturbing sight of those stranger's hands. He saw the familiar Phoenix stand, a pile of ashes on the platform where a baby Fawkes slept, his bald head tucked beneath the stubby fuzzy wings. Snape smiled at the sight. No matter how many reincarnations Fawkes went through, Dumbledore always made a special fuss over the baby aged bird. A happy baby, no matter what species he said, made a happy child. A happy child made a happy adult.

It was a theory that Snape didn't really share. He had been a happy baby once, he had seen the wizarding picture of himself as an infant to prove it. He had been a small child, not exactly chubby, but healthy nonetheless. He closed his eyes and pictured himself at that age; long, soot colored eye lashes framed eyes that were too big for his face, a head full of thin flyaway black hair, clapping and grinning toothlessly at the person behind the wizard camera.

Yes, he had been a happy baby and a contented toddler. But, as he grew older, grew out of the cuteness of babyhood, his happiness dimmed little by little until nothing remained of that happy baby.

A deep wave of melancholy washed over him and his eyes traveled up to the wall of portraits of the former Headmasters of Hogwarts. Oddly enough, the picture frames were empty, the occupants gathered somewhere else. Where, Snape couldn't imagine, but wizarding portraits could be very fickle at times, deserting their posts if something of interest was happening in another part of the castle.

Snape silently read the small brass name plate that accompanied each empty frame.

Black.

Dippet.

Derwent.

Dumbledore.

McGonagall.

Everad.

Fortescue.

Wait! *Dumbledore and McGonagall*?

A cold numbness spread throughout his body as he stared in shock at those two empty frames. It couldn't be true. It must be some trick, some prank from some slick individuals with nothing but time on their hands to think of tormenting him with this.

Anger quickly replaced the numbness. Snape was sick and tired of all the practical jokes and pranks that others had played on him. This was it, the end of the line, the straw that broke the hippogryph's back. He will find out who the culprit or culprits were and punish them so severely that they'll *beg* to be sent to Azkaban. Not even Dumbledore will keep him from meting out his retribution. Maybe then the little monsters will learn to let sleeping Potions Masters lie.

Leaving the Headmaster's chair, Snape ominously stalked toward the fake frames, intending to rip them off the walls and use every spell and potion in his vast knowledge to find out who the prankster was, when a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Turning his head, shock replaced the anger as he beheld his own reflection in the glass doors of the book case. Or rather, what was *supposed* to be his own reflection. He recognized his face, but just barely. His cheeks were still thin, his nose was still large and his eyes were still the same bottomless black as they had always been before.

But, that was where the similarities ended. The skin on his face was more lined, more creased than it had ever been before. His jet black eyebrows and hair were gone, their replacements were of a snowy white. His long hair was bound at the nape of his neck instead of the loose, face hiding style that he preferred. If it had not been for the absence of the long beard and moustache, Snape would've been tempted to believe that someone had placed an aging spell on him; much like what happened to the Weasley twins when they tried to illegally place their names in the Goblet of Fire during the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

It was then that he realized that this was not some prank or spell. He was quite simply put . . . old. He was old and now apparently, the Headmaster of Hogwarts. It was a position that he had once coveted; but any pleasure he felt at achieving that lofty position was washed away by the sadness at the realization that he had only obtained it was because of Dumbledore's and McGonagall's deaths.

He felt a sudden urge to find Dumbledore's picture. He needed someone to talk to, even if it was an animated oil portrait.

Leaving the suddenly small, claustrophobic office by the way of the secret passageway behind the far left book case, Snape made his way down to the main corridors.

Emerging from behind a suit of armor, Snape studied the ancient stone walls. Curiously, all of the picture frames were empty, the occupants were engaged somewhere else. Perhaps they were with the office portraits in another part of the school.

Curiosity turned to concern as during his search, he noted the deserted classrooms. That might not have been unusual if it was the summer holiday, but something felt odd, off kilter, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

He searched the Great Hall, the staff room, classrooms, dungeons, infirmary, all the House common rooms but found nothing. Nothing but deep layers of dust. Where were all the house elves? Even during the summer months, the house elves considered the kitchen as their domain and never left it completely empty in case of any of the teachers that stayed over needed something to eat, or to clean up about one of Peeve's mischievous visits.

The thought of the poltergeist stopped Snape cold. Not only were the portraits and house elves missing, but the Hogwarts' spirits were eerily absent as well. It wasn't as if all three entities could have just upped and left.

Wizard portraits might be fickle, but it wasn't possible for *all* of them to desert their posts at Hogwarts. And what about the ghosts? They were tied to Hogwarts as well. The house elves wouldn't leave their home unless they were presented with clothes. And no matter how bad a temper that Snape had, he just couldn't see himself as being that cruel. This was their home and Snape knew that they would never voluntarily leave it.

That left magic. Snape couldn't begin to grasp how powerful a spell it would have to be to banish all the permanent magical occupants from the castle grounds. The force of all that raw power was staggering . . . astronomical . . . impossible. The backlash of the spell alone would have been enough to crumble Eastern Europe into dust.

Unless . . . unless it was the *absence* of magic that caused this desertion. That realization caused a bolt of fear to run though his body. Snape's mind froze in horror. It had been startling enough to discover that he was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but now he was the Headmaster of a magic school with no magic and no students.

Desperate to prove what an utter fool he had become in his old age, Snape took out his own wand to cast a few simple, First year spells.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a spark, not a puff of smoke, not even a feeble, half hearted glow of light.

Snape stared at his wand and suddenly shook it, as if it was some muggle toy whose mechanical works had started to slow down.

He tried once again and again but nothing happened. Snape stared at his wand in dismay. No, not a wand he realized. It was nothing more then a carved stick, a bit of polished wood. It was useless and worthless, just as he was.

Snape slowly let the piece of wood slip though his limp fingers until it fell with a clatter on the stone floor. The sound echoed loudly in the nearly empty room.

Empty. That was just how the current Headmaster felt. Hollow and empty inside. There was nothing left in him. No magic. No hope. No emotions whatsoever. He was as empty on the inside as the castle itself.

That thought tickled his brain. He was *not* the last, breathing soul in this pile of dead stone. The baby phoenix was still here. For some reason known only to the magical bird, it had refused to flee as the other magical occupants had. Perhaps it had been too old at the time of the crisis. Or too young. Or maybe, like him, Fawkes had nowhere else to go.

The more he thought of it, the more sense it made to him. Hogwarts had always felt like home to the Potions Master, ever since he had first stepped across the threshold. Not since his mother's death had Snape felt truly safe within the walls of Snape Manor.

Despite the other students, the young Snape had only felt safety, warmth and love from those ancient stones. It saw him from childhood to adolescence to adulthood; and it still welcomed him back after the horrors of serving the Dark Lord. Yes, Hogwarts was the place where he had lived and someday where he would die.

The thought of his own death didn't frighten or intimidate him. In fact, it brought a feeling of relief to know that his long and difficult life would one day end. And on that day, he would welcome Death when it came for him. Yes, he and Death were old and bitter friends.

As a child, Snape had prayed and hoped for Death to come for him as it had for his mother. Far from being suicidal, he had only wanted a rest from his father and his 'games'. His young mind knew that Death didn't hurt, for his mother had passed from this mortal realm in her sleep from a long and lingering illness. And the boy had only wanted to stop hurting.

As a young adult, spying for Dumbledore and the Light, Snape knew that the punishment for being caught was death, and still, he would have welcomed the specter with open arms. Years spent as Voldemort's fuck toy had further driven home the fearlessness of his own demise. Death would have been a welcoming friend during those years.

In fact, sometimes after a particularly long and painful return to Hogwarts, Snape imagined that he saw the cloaked, skeletal figure hovering around the corners of the corridors, watching with empty eyes and greedy hands for the injured man's body and spirit to collapse. It was during those days that Snape's stubbornness came roaring to the foreground.

How *dare* Death come for him now! Where the hell was he hours ago as Snape bleed and screamed and cried from pain? Where the hell had been the Reaper when he had been ready for the long, sought after end of this earthy torment? Nowhere, what was where! And Snape refused to give up without a fight. If Death wanted him now, he would have a hell of a battle on his hands, because the Potions Master was not going to give up so easily.

But now, now Snape was old and weary and more then ready for his old stalker to come for him. The only problem that he could see would be Fawkes. Someone needed to look after the Phoenix when he was in his more helpless stages. Someone needed to feed, care, and protect the bird when he could not manage it himself.

Turning around, Snape strolled back to his office with a determined look up on his face. There had to be a name or direction somewhere. There had to be someone with whom he could contact in the outside world who would be willing to take care of Fawkes when Snape passed on. And if the owls had also deserted Hogwarts, then he would have to find some other way to get the message out, even if it was in an unknown Muggle way.

There was now an urgency in his movements, as if he couldn't wait for baby Fawkes to mature enough to take the message himself. Death was near, the former Potions Master could feel it breathing down his neck.

Snape's quick walk turned in to a fast trot. He longed to break out in to a full-out run, but knew that this aged body wouldn't have been able to stand the strain.

By the time he reached the corridor leading to the Headmaster's office, sweat was pouring off him like a river and his heart pounded painfully against his chest.

He stumbled against the remains of the Gargoyle guard. Instead of standing up proudly in front of the Headmaster's office door, the poor creature laid smashed upon the stone floor. It was the only sign of vandalism that he had encountered so far. Everything else looked as if everyone on the castle had just decided to go off on a holiday and would return soon. And if it hadn't been for the thick layer of dust, Snape would've believed just that.

Snape stared sadly at the pieces of stone. Had this happened at the time the magic left, or had he done it himself in order to gain access to or from the Headmaster's office? He might never know the answer to that one.

Glancing mournfully at the last guardian of privacy, Snape climbed over the rubble and made his way up the circular staircase. He paused half way up to catch his breath. He hadn't realized how many stairs it was to the Headmaster's office and vowed to use the secret, straighter passageway to come and go.

Once his heart rate had slowed back down to a crawl, he continued on his journey. He had to reach his office, he had to find someone to take care of Fawkes once he was gone. He couldn't let Dumbledore's memory down. The crazy old man had been very doting on the magical bird, it was now Snape's duty and honor to care for the Phoenix. To fail would be his undoing.

Finally reaching the top, he threw open the heavy oak door and stumbled into the office. His heart was pounding again, his breath was short and it was beginning to become difficult to concentrate. He had to find a caretaker and soon, before it was too late. However, on the way to his desk, he decided to check on Fawkes, just for his own peace of mind.

Snape softly approached the bird, not willing to wake up the baby if it was asleep. Peering intently at Fawkes, he grew alarmed when he realized that the tiny body was not moving. Was the Phoenix dead? It was an impossible thought because he knew that the magical bird was immortal. Not even the Killing Curse would completely kill him.

Reaching out with one old, trembling hand, Snape hesitantly and lightly brushed his forefinger across the bald head. To his utter horror, the wrinkled bird turned from a healthy pink to a light ashy color before disintegrating all together.

The older man watched in anticipation for the bird to regenerate like it had so often in the past. But the perch remained empty, the ashes piled up and still. Snape stared in shocked disbelief. No, it couldn't be true! Fawkes couldn't be gone for good!

Snape closed his eyes in despair and cried out in agony.

*************************************

There was a gasp and a rattle of dishes next to him.

Snape opened his eyes and saw a startled looking Poppy standing next to his cot in the infirmary, holding a tray of food. He owlishly blinked around, trying to get his bearings. He was back in the infirmary, back in the here and now. The Potions Master quickly scrutinized his hands and the curtain of hair in front of his face.

His hair was still black, his hands still young. It was a dream, all of it had just been a dream. He was still young, well, younger than his dream self and Dumbledore was still alive and the Headmaster of Hogwarts. The realization that magic and students filled the halls and the ghosts and house elves still roamed the school sent a wave of relief throughout his body. And Fawkes, dear sweet Fawkes, was still alive and well. The adrenaline from the dream left his body in a rush, leaving him weak and trembling.

"I really wish that you would stop doing that dear, before you give me heart failure," said Poppy with disapproval in her voice. "Now that you have had a bit of a rest, it's time for lunch. And you will *not* get out of eating it, either, young man."

Snape managed to drag up a scowl, just to show that he was feeling slightly better. The dream had left him feeling hollow and deeply disturbed. What did it mean? Why did he dream of everyone's death and desertion? And why was Poppy holding even more food when she knew that he wasn't hungry? Hadn't breakfast shown that he was unable to keep anything down? Why was she insisting on stuffing him when all that he was doing was throwing it back up again?

Poppy placed her burden down on the bedside table and fussed around Snape, forcing him to sit up and tucking the covers securely around him. It was a further testament of the Potions Master's frame of mind when he gave in to it with no protest or cutting remarks about bedside manners and quacks in general.

Snape's scowl deepened as he looked at what Poppy tried to pass off as lunch. Beef broth, saltines and watery looking tea. It figured, the woman wanted to make him suffer for all of the trouble that he had given her in the past. She wanted to stuff him and starve him at the same time. Where was the roast chicken, Sheppard's pie and toad in the hole? The lamb, the beef Wellington, bangers and mash, puddings, cakes and pies? Where was the jams and clotted cream?

Not that he really ate most of those things, they were just on the table during the luncheon meal. It was the principle of the thing, really. The High Table was always loaded down with food, and now, here he was, facing gastronomical death. What had the woman been thinking?

"No, don't give me any of those looks, Professor Snape. Your stomach won't be able to tolerate anything heavy for quite some time. So, until further notice, I will be in charge of your eating habits. Now, shut it and eat."

Far more obediently than he felt like, Snape slowly spooned the broth down and nibbled on the saltines. He grimaced at the watery tea, but managed to get that down also. To his surprise, he was able to keep everything down this time. Although, he wouldn't really miss it if it did make a return visit.

He frowned at Poppy's pleased face. Really, didn't the woman have any compassion to feed a sick man such claptrap? Where was her heart, her sympathy for the ill? What would be for dinner tonight, parchment and book bindings? He would certainly be talking to the Headmaster about this travesty. Something must be done before some poor child was subjected to this torment.

Snape felt outraged. This meal and this woman's behavior were unconscionable, unjustified and inhuman. Yes, Albus will be getting an ear full from him once he was out of this den of torture.

He was well within his rights to be furious. And sleepy. But still furious. Snape yawned loudly and unapologetically. His lunch might have been meager, but it had been hot and his stomach felt full and warm. Yes, Dumbledore will hear about this at once, just as soon as he woke up from his nap.

The Potions Master snuggled down into the bed and pulled the covers over his head. At least when he slept, he could avoid Poppy's mother-henning ways.

Poppy put the dishes and the tray away. At least her patient was able to keep his food down this time. She had to admit that it was not the most appetizing fare the he could've had, but it was bland enough that it wouldn't have upset a queasy stomach.

The medi-witch bustled around the infirmary, taking a quick inventory of potions and salves on hand while still keeping one ear out for the sleeping Potions Master. She was glad that he was getting some much needed rest, but the nightmares were concerning her. She didn't know what he was dreaming about, but each one left him trembling from the after effects. If it wasn't for his current condition, she would've prescribed Dreamless Sleep for the tormented man. But, with his extremely high tolerance to pain potions and spells, anything that would've helped him sleep would've caused a miscarriage.

Snape managed to sleep without dreaming until dinner time, but even a dreamless sleep was exhausting to him. He couldn't understand the dreams, but they must mean something, they must have something to do with his decision of keeping the child or aborting it. He wasn't the type to have fantasy dreams of hidden desires, of attentive students hanging onto his every word, or of impossible feats of strength and magic.

His dreams leaned more towards the memories of his father's abuse or the times that the Dark Lord used him. Occasionally, he even had nightmares about his school days and the pranks that the others played on him. Especially the incident at the Shrieking Shack. He dreamt of that terror every full moon.

Dinner was a replay of lunch, except that it was chicken broth instead of beef. Poppy received another glare and a half hearted sneer. Pleased with the progress, she took her own dinner to her desk so that she wouldn't crowd him.

The meal was conducted in silence, the only sounds were the clinking of the utensils against the dishes. Poppy was a bit concerned about Snape's continued silence. The man had never been a chatterbox, but even this was taking it to a whole new dimension. She longed to ask the questions that were running though her mind. Who was the other father? Where and when did this happen? And the most important one of all, had this been consensual?

She hoped and prayed that that had been the case. The dour Potions Master had had so little joy in his life that the thought of him being tied to a rapist's family was more then she could bare. And if he chose to keep the child, regardless of how the conception occurred, he would be tied to the other father's family for the rest of his life. She only hoped that the union, if it occurred, would be favorable to them both.

Dinner had passed in silence, as did the rest of the night. Snape had both of the disturbing dreams again, but managed to wake up without alarming Poppy. And that was equally strange. He had managed to wake up at the exact same moment in each of the dreams as he had before. Intellectually, he wanted to continue the dreams in order to find out where they were taking him. But deep in his heart, he wanted to stop them long before they began.

A long time ago, when he had been a teenager, he had read a book about dreams and how to direct them. The information had specified that the dreamer had only to think about what he wanted to dream about, to believe that he could control his destiny within his dream as if he was a director of a play.

The only problem with Snape was that his dreams were no fantasies, they were memories from his life. He had poured over every dream interpretation, trying in vain to convince himself that he was a normal person, one that had dreams of single handedly winning the House Cup, fighting dragons and winning the fair maiden's hand, and winning against his childhood bullies.

But no, because of a curse placed on him, all of his dreams were simply parts of his life being relived moment by moment. There were no defeated fathers, no Dark Lord banished to the depths of Hell and no songs of his heroic deeds. The curse had taken more then his innocence, it had also seemed to have taken his soul.

Snape watched the coming dawn as it brightened the walls of the infirmary with its light. Perhaps, if he could figure out the meaning of his dreams, he would be better able to make his decision. It felt right that they both seemed to be connected somehow. Solve the dreams and he hoped that he would have the answer to what he should do with the rest of his life.

T.B.C.

[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]