Guard… Check… Mate
By Bambu
All standard disclaimers apply herein. The source work is not mine, belonging to JK Rowling, her publishers and assignees instead. I’ve additionally relied upon the Harry Potter Lexicon (http://www.hp-lexicon.org/), the Notre Dame University Latin Dictionary and Grammar Guide (http://www.nd.edu/~archives/latgramm.htm), and a remarkable compilation of terminology for which I thank Larilee for her recommendation, Mrs. Muggle’s list of Potterwords (http://www.livejournal.com/users/mrs_muggle/8435.html#cutid1).
I'd like to thank Melisande88 for letting me know that Doomspark is the author of "Future Perfect," in which the Mirror of Erised has siblings. Additionally, Simply Scribbling uses a variation of the sibling theme in "An Ever-Fixed Mark," in which she uses a cousin to the Mirror of Erised. It seems that a good idea doesn't seem to care who has it, and I've skip-jumped with the idea of a sibling mirror to create a different sibling for this little story; nonetheless, I’d like to acknowledge that I owe a debt to these clever gimmicks.
Please also note that there will be some graphic descriptions of curses and their effects and results sprinkled throughout, but hopefully not enough to completely squick you.
And finally, but not least, my thanks to SnarkyWench for her consistent support and encouragement, and even if she did crack the whip because I’ve taken a little detour from Summoning, she was still patient because this story has been taunting me for several months, refusing to go away until I finally let it out. I’m back hard at work on the next chapter of my elephantine epfic.
~o0o~
Chapter One: The Board is Revealed
The stealthy ‘black bat of the dungeons’ of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was earning his reputation late one Friday evening toward the end of Summer Term. As was his custom when insomnia struck – an increasingly frequent side-effect of his role as a double agent in what would be the wizarding world’s most cataclysmic war – the Potions master was stalking those foolhardy students tempting fate, Snape’s non-existent patience and his liberal hand with detentions and loss of house points. Thus far into the night, Hufflepuff had already aided Slytherin’s chances for the House Cup by seventy-five points, Ravenclaw by ten, and the Head of Slytherin was feeling rather smug about the humiliation he’d heaped on more than one copulating set of rampaging hormones.
None of the sixth years had thought to cast a Silencio on their activities. Teenagers didn’t seem to realize that sex was loud. Slick-skin-slapping-on-slick-skin made distinctive noises which served as directional indictors to one who had walked the ancient and enigmatic stone halls of the castle for nigh on two decades. The seventh years were more devious. The brightest of the Ravenclaws escaped detection for the most part, being clever enough to cast more than a silencing charm on their trysts. Those eager to pursue lustful engagements searched for out-of-the-way locations, unused classrooms and study nooks, and had enough presence of mind to cast disillusionment spells on the doors. The brightest, or the craftiest, whichever way one looked at it, chose classrooms with secondary exits, and placed telltale warning hexes on the doorknobs. Those few couples he left alone. The forethought and care it took for the students to plan an assignation were skills that would serve them well in the coming conflagration, and Snape was rather pleased to think that he’d taught more than Potions to the dunderheads in his care. His methods might be harsh and demanding, but his results were demonstrable.
His thoughts turned to his Slytherins. For the most part they were perceptive enough to choose among the three dungeons he tacitly allowed for their extra-curricular activities. One of those dungeons had been practically turned into a bed-and-breakfast by the soon-to-graduate Draco Malfoy. How Snape loathed the arrogant, spoiled brat of Lucius’. The son wasn’t nearly as bright or as malevolent as his father, and the teenager assumed that his birthright was sufficient for his eventual placement in wizarding society. If the Dark Lord was victorious, Draco would be correct, Snape thought acidly. It chafed that the cocky, pureblooded brat had never had to earn his marks in Potions, that his position as a ranking Death Eater’s son had earned him high marks. Even Vincent Crabbe and Greg Goyle had passed Snape’s classes, and they were arguably on a par with a Blast-ended Skrewt for talent, imagination and intelligence.
Snape would be only too happy to see the backs of the graduating Class of 1998. He was marking the days off in his calendar, the lurid carnelian ink in honor of Gryffindor, only seven more days until he would be free of the Potter spawn and his out-riggers. Snape had purchased a decent bottle of brandy to celebrate. He planned to get quietly drunk the day that the Brat Who Lived exited through the castle gates.
He would have to withstand the smug, bespectacled teen hero at Order of the Phoenix meetings, but they were weekly, and that was bearable. Snape had managed to interact with a league of red-headed Weasleys on a weekly basis for a number of years without resorting to hexing or jinxing any of their number, though his patience was sorely tried by the eldest son and the twins. His lips twisted in a sneer as he thought of the twin red-headed heathens… brilliant… but functionally illiterate. It was galling to think that their business had been such a resounding success when they’d spurned their last year of school. However, if he’d managed to contain his disdain for them, then he could certainly stand the addition of a messy-haired wizard, his copper-haired sidekick, and his swotty friend, one night a week. It would be a distinct improvement over their daily interaction which, by mutual consent, was carried out with cold civility at best, and open rancor being the norm.
Just thinking of those Gryffindors he liked least, and one of whom he refused to allow his thoughts to dwell upon, turned Snape’s footsteps toward the Astronomy Tower, the favored haunt of the red-and-gold brigade. The Tower was good for a fifty-point deduction from the lion’s house on any given night, and, on this Friday, with the culmination of NEWTs and the end of class instruction, he should be able to reduce the number of gems glittering in Gryffindor’s tallying hourglass significantly. Perhaps he could deduct enough points to give Slytherin an advantage toward the House Cup going into the final week of the year. Snape would dearly like his Slytherins to win it – once – while Harry Potter was a student at the school. Albus I’m-as-biased-as-any-Slytherin Dumbledore invariably granted enough points at the Leaving Feast to award the annual honor to his Dream Team.
Snape hadn’t forgotten the bitter disappointment and the crushed faces of his students the first year Potter had been a student, when victory had been snatched from the rightful Slytherins. Dumbledore had rewarded Potter’s bravado and his compatriots’ rash rule-breaking. Snape had often wondered over the years if Draco Malfoy’s commitment to the Dark Lord hadn’t been determined in that very first year. Sourly, he acknowledged that the aristocratic blond had most likely never been made of stern enough material to break free of the bonds of his father’s rhetoric or daily dose of ‘dark magic is good for the soul and subjugation of our inferiors.’ The degree to which he’d been unable to affect the outlook of a generation of witches and wizards, doomed by birth and blind ambition to a life of servitude at the feet of a megalomaniac depressed Snape further. The melancholy wizard had hoped to save some of his students from the fate that awaited him… even one who had wavered would have been enough to bolster his waning faith… but it seemed that his wishes were futile. As far as he knew, with the exception of two of the current seventh year Slytherins, the rest were planning on pledging to the Dark Lord’s service upon graduation.
His stride lengthened and his customary, tailored robes flared in a swell of black as he reached the dimly lit corridor leading to the Astronomy Tower. There. A sound that brought a lift to one side of his thin-lipped mouth. Gryffindors, unlike their more circumspect peers, felt they had no need for subterfuge or prudence. They never cast keep-aways.
Tonight’s harvest would be promisingly bountiful. For illuminated in the torchlight was the burnished copper head of the youngest Weasley, Ginevra, and her newest friend-with-benefits. The young witch had her entire family wrapped around her pinky, and they were none the wiser to the fact that Ginny Weasley was shaping up to be as slatternly as his own house’s reigning slag, Pansy Parkinson. So far this Term, Snape had caught the sixth year Gryffindor with five different young men. If the Potions master had given it the second or third thought, which he assiduously avoided, he could easily see that the young witch was seeking a substitute for her long-unrequited desire for the boy savior. But he wasn’t that charitable. He was certain that one day she would land the clueless wizard to whom she’d taken a fancy as a child, and then Potter would be endlessly tormented by being tied to a witch with whom the majority of his friend’s had carnal knowledge. The thought actually brought a cold smile to Snape’s lips, shifting the planes of the normally hawk-faced wizard into one of malicious glee. He still despised the privileged brat of James Potter’s.
“Fifty points from Gryffindor, Miss Weasley,” Snape snapped, his air of triumph carefully concealed. Ginny squeaked in unpleasant surprise and whipped around to face her professor. Her face was as flushed as her hair was red. Her companion, seventh year Ernie Macmillan, hung his head in embarrassment. “And ten points from Hufflepuff, Mr. Macmillan.”
At this obviously unbalanced deduction, the young wizard’s head shot up, he stood almost at eye-level with his professor, and, as he opened his mouth to protest, the young witch interrupted, “Yes, Professor Snape, we’ll return to our common rooms now.”
Snape watched, eyebrow raised, as Ginny dragged the young wizard down the corridor. He fought a battle with himself. One faction wanted to follow the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff to see how she explained the inequity in the loss of points to her ‘date.’ The other side of his brain urged him to continue to the top of the Tower for a larger harvest. His self-imposed quota of Gryffindor points hadn’t been met yet.
The Head of Slytherin was to be disappointed in his quest. For the next two hours, he traversed the ancient halls of Hogwarts, ascending and descending fully a third of the one-hundred-forty-two staircases in the castle. Snape passed the newest trysting place, Sybil Trelawney’s tufted classroom, and each of the House Towers. His dungeons would be last. Nary a Gryffindor was within range.
When his wayward staircase connected with one leading directly to the Gryffindor landing, Snape was highly amused to see Minerva McGonagall, Transfigurations mistress, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor comfortably ensconced in a large, squashy armchair that she’d obviously conjured directly outside the entry leading to her House’s dorms. She was engaged in a spirited conversation with the resident of the large portrait hiding the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.
The snort of amusement that escaped Snape’s lips alerted the spinsterish witch to his presence, and McGonagall interrupted her conversation regarding the advantages of permanent sticking spells with the Fat Lady. Eyeing the wizard knowingly, she said in her prunes and prisms voice, “Trolling for points, Severus?”
“It is the duty of all heads of house to patrol the halls. I am merely diligent in fulfilling my obligations.” He waited for her to react to his implied taunt. How he loved to bait the elder witch. She rose to the occasion like none other – except perhaps one seventh year he refused to consider.
“Why, you slippery sod! What do you think I’m doing?” she spluttered indignantly.
“I think, Minerva, that you are protecting your chances for the House Cup” he sneered at his colleague. “My only question is whether you took your position before or after Miss Weasley was wandering the halls with her most recently chosen lothario.”
“Why, you… you…” She stiffened in her chair, fairly bristling on behalf of her student. Regrettably, she couldn’t really come to Ginny’s defense because Snape had a valid point. The younger witch was quite egalitarian when it came to granting the favor of her body.
“Bat? Greasy git? Vampire? Foul… evil…loathsome… believe me, Professor, I have heard them all.”
“Severus! I have never once called you any of those hideous names and you know it.” McGonagall’s shock pulled her from her chair as if she’d been hexed. She was a tall, thin woman and faced him squarely, anger masking an inner distress that was very clear in her deep blue eyes.
Grudgingly, Snape had to admit that what she said was true. She had been a surprisingly good friend to him over the years, even if the precariousness of his situation kept him from returning her genuine overtures. He couldn’t acknowledge it verbally, but he ceased his baiting.
“Since it appears that my opportunity for evening the score has just dropped to nil, I believe I shall retire to my chambers. Good night, Minerva.”
“You, too, you annoying man.” McGonagall reseated herself, tucking her long legs under her in the posture of a much younger woman, then gave him one exasperated, affectionate look and returned to her interrupted conversation.
Snape made his way down the moveable staircases, his black robes sweeping the stone risers, and stepped into the small broom closet off the entrance hall. Once inside, he closed the door, leaving him in darkness, and muttered, “Serpensortia.” He then re-opened the door which had magically connected directly to his office. The castle was endlessly accommodating, and the coat closet was an access point from which professors were able to reach multiple destinations within the castle without having to traverse long distances. It was a carefully guarded secret, one which the faculty used shamelessly to keep students in awe.
Settling into the hand-carved, much-used desk chair, Snape retrieved a scrolled parchment from a Disillusioned, hidden compartment in the scarred and aged desktop. His hands smoothed over the surface of the well-oiled wooden surface of the wood, fingering the divots and scratches that he’d lovingly cared for year after year. He unrolled the parchment. Following Dumbledore’s confiscation of the Marauder’s Map in Potter’s sixth year, Snape had spent the better part of two months, in collaboration with Filius Flitwick, to uncover the secrets of the map. Very privately he’d had to admit that Remus Lupin and his deceased friends had been a festering cauldron of intelligence – endlessly Gryffindorish – but brilliant.
Citing his double duty as a reason, Snape had copied his teenaged adversaries’ methods and created a map of his own. Dumbledore’s restrictions had sorely lessened his triumph as the Headmaster had refused to let Snape include any students other than Slytherins on the map. With a few, judicious, modifications Snape had followed the rules. It had become his custom to check the map nightly before retiring, verifying that his clutch of serpents were indeed coiled within their nest.
Placing his wand tip to the center of the unrolled parchment, Snape intoned, “Show me.”
As if by magic, the manila sheet of parchment began to ooze a small puddle of verdant, green ink. After a few seconds, the puddle seemed to extrude filaments which slithered and snaked their way to the four corners of the scroll, forming a clear diagram of Hogwarts in general, and Slytherin territory in specific. Small hovering names floated above the parchment, the names of his students. Young Malfoy was entertaining Daphne Greengrass… again. The young witch was expecting a betrothal announcement after graduation. She was a raven-haired replica of Narcissa Malfoy: slender and patrician, and eminently suitable as a bride for the Malfoy heir. The only hitch to her plan was Draco’s reticence. He wasn’t willing to settle down yet; he was far too agreeably engaged in seeking out and testing the other available options. Pansy Parkinson, Tracey Davis, and even Marietta Edgecomb had all been visitors to the bed-and-breakfast dungeon, none had been invited to return. Otherwise, his Slytherins were firmly tucked in their beds, or, in a few cases, were sharing sheets – Snape shuddered as he realized that Crabbe and Goyle were sharing a bed. How they fit their bulk into the narrow confines of a student-sized four-poster he didn’t want to know or consider.
His predatory gaze sharpened as he noticed an unidentified body in one of the dungeons. His ability to see the intruder was one of the modifications he’d made to his own map. Any who wandered into his domain would appear on the map… without distinguishing identifiers other than the essentials. In this case, it wasn’t a Slytherin, and it was a student.
Snape’s black eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt, and he grabbed his wand. Perhaps his quota would be met after all. He didn’t worry about Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws, their presence would most likely indicate the completion of an end-of-term dare, rather than any more serious mischief. The end of the year always elicited a flurry of revoltingly juvenile displays of bravado, and every year he caught more than one member of the other houses attempting to find the entry to the Slytherin common room. He’d deduct points and send them on their way. However, if his trespasser was a Gryffindor who’d escaped McGonagall’s notice, then the rewards would be doubly satisfying. He could take the opportunity to see to it that Slytherin took the lead in the House Cup stakes, and the Deputy Headmistress would be so peeved by the fact that one of her cubs had snuck past her that, at the very least, a detention would be in order.
Before opportunity turned to regret, Snape strode from his office while casting a cushioning charm on his shoes, in search of the wayward student who had dared to invade his dungeons. He descended deeper into the sub-levels. Hogwarts was like an aged oak, a massive branch structure above ground balanced and held in place by the breadth and depth of its root system underneath. The castle had many lower levels, but the room he was seeking was only four narrow, darkened flights below his classroom, and, oddly enough, adjacent to the chamber where Potter had encountered the manifestation of Lord Voldemort at the end of his first year.
He remembered that year well, he’d been livid when he’d learned that Harry Potter had passed the series of barriers he and his colleagues had erected to keep the Philosopher’s Stone hidden. His initial understanding that James Potter’s son had bested him had been intolerable, but the reality had been worse. An eleven-year old Muggleborn had solved his conundrum, and that mere fact had served to fuel his initial dislike of the young girl. Had he been a teenager, he would have assumed she’d had help. Had the prejudice he’d been raised to believe matured, he would not have believed her capable. Had he still been a Death Eater, he would have killed her for her presumption.
Resolutely, shunting aside his thoughts about the tenacious and exasperating young witch, Snape descended the stairs and became aware of the first mind-fogging motes of a well-cast, keep-away spell and the lack of torches lighting his way. The cleverness ruled out the Gryffindors who were, as far as he was concerned, too arrogant to think they needed stealth. He didn’t banish the charm. If it had been cast by a Ravenclaw, then there would be a tell-tale tag embedded within the spell to notify the culprit of Snape’s presence, and there were a number of exits from the sub-levels which could be used to escape discovery. The Potions master had been thwarted enough this evening to allow a student to best his skills in subterfuge. He cast a quiet Lumos for light, and continued to stalk his increasingly intriguing prey.
Upon descending further, down to third level, a Distraction charm had been put into use. He felt strongly inclined to use the passageway leading to the old wine cellars rather than continue in the direction he had chosen. Snape knew that his prey wasn’t in the direction of the wine cellars. The best of the Hufflepuff students never cast a secondary layer of protection, and he ruled out any student from the badger’s lair. Only Ravenclaw was left to consider. The subtleties of the charms he’d encountered leant credence to the idea that the trespasser was a seventh year student. As far as Snape knew there wasn’t a sixth year capable of casting the tell-tale.
Mentally cataloguing the list of seventh year Ravenclaws, Snape dismissed the idea of any of the graduating witches. They were all too afraid of him set foot in the dungeons after classes, let alone after curfew. As he continued to take the darkened staircase deeper into the sub-levels of the castle, the dank chill of unused and neglected passages and chambers assailed his sensitive nose and his nostrils flared at the rank odor. He silently followed the small glow that blossomed at the end of his ebony wand, and considered the brighter of Ravenclaw graduating wizards: Terry Boot, Michael Corner – Snape snorted at that thought and relegated Corner to the list of highly improbable – Stephen Cornfoot, Kevin Entwhistle, and Anthony Goldstein.
Of the four possibilities, Snape eliminated Cornfoot and Entwhistle out of hand; he’d already deducted House points from them this evening. He doubted either of the young wizards would brook his displeasure after he’d already borne the sight of their naked arses in coitus interruptus. That left Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein as the most likely candidate for the identity of the intruder. Both wizards were capable of the level of competence he’d encountered thus far, and they were members of Dumbledore’s Army, or the Defense Association. Snape would deduct fewer points for cleverness. Of course, he wouldn’t mention it to the young wizards.
Turning into the corridor where his prey was pursuing some nefarious plan, Snape had to fight the increasingly cloying suggestion that he really should be somewhere else, that perhaps he’d forgotten a cauldron in mid-brew. His assessment of the student rose with each successive layer of distraction he encountered. These were extremely competent charms that he was broaching, and only the certainty of his prey’s whereabouts let him persevere.
When he approached the doorway leading to the chamber in which he was certain one of the Ravenclaw wizards was lurking, there wasn’t a door in sight. A well-constructed Disillusionment charm had been warded into the thick wooden door. It would have fooled many a witch or wizard, perhaps even a number of the faculty. Snape derisively listed Rolanda Hooch and Hagrid among those, and most likely Pomona Sprout as well. He had no particular negative opinion of the Head of Hufflepuff, however, she would have no way of knowing what chambers existed at this sub-level so wouldn’t look beyond the superficial illusion of solid wall.
Snape’s assessment of the young wizard he sought was rising with each layer of privacy he detected. The most trusted spy for the Order of the Phoenix stepped up to the door he knew existed and cast a hushed illuminating charm. Immediately, three shimmering layers identifying the spells on the door were revealed. There was a tell-tale jinx affixed to the door handle’s surface, one which he didn’t recognize, and he could deduce a strong Imperturbable. Additionally, he recognized the cerulean glow of a soundproofing charm. Distraction, camouflage, warding, silencing. Perhaps this young wizard would be worth cultivating for membership in the Order of the Phoenix, if his loyalties were easy to ascertain. Snape was seriously considering awarding points to Ravenclaw for the competence and subtlety of the spells.
Resorting to the faculty override, Snape did not dismantle the soundproofing but used the faculty’s prerogative, “Praeceptor Alohomora,” to unlock the door. The musty stench of the vaulted chamber was subtly sweetened, and he silently stepped into the dark room. It was lit only by the light of a single, suspended bluebell flame, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks.
It wasn’t a Ravenclaw.
In fact it wasn’t a wizard at all.
It was the one student who was guaranteed to get under his skin, and the one witch he refused to contemplate beyond superficialities. It was Gryffindor’s Golden Princess, the brains behind Harry Potter’s success, the young lioness herself: Hermione Granger.
Snape’s eyes narrowed, his heartbeat sped up and his stomach clenched uncomfortably. The lank-haired wizard told himself it was because she was at his mercy. Gryffindor’s chances to win the House Cup had just been lost. The tall, saturnine wizard fully entered the large, vaulted chamber and shut the door behind him, warding it with three flicks and a swish of his wand. That he was surprised by her presence in the dungeons was an understatement. That she was alone was almost as startling. Since her return to Hogwarts for the Summer Term, the witch had gone nowhere alone. He’d sneered at her for seemingly dangling her two ‘friends’ on a string, she had been accompanied by either Potter or Weasley everywhere she went for the past two months.
Stealthily, Snape stepped forward to give her a good scare when he realized what she was doing. She was looking into a large, ornate, gilt-framed mirror, her free hand tracing her reflection on the mirror’s smooth surface. The blue light of the flame hovering above her head cast a surreal tint to her features. Hermione’s slender frame was devoid of student robes and she was wearing Muggle jeans and a rather old-fashioned, fuchsia-colored cardigan which appeared almost lavender in the blue light. Her shoulders were slumped and the unruly mass of chestnut hair she was known for hung in a great tangle of curls between her shoulder blades.
The golden girl of Gryffindor was speaking in a low, choked voice, “Know-it-all… swot… silly little girl… presume to be a witch… Muggleborns aren’t real witches…” And then in a voice so filled with derision that Snape recoiled, she snarled, “Mudblood!”
The level of contempt was familiar to him. He’d lived with such self-loathing for many a long year, and despite his determination to keep this witch at bay, he was drawn by a force greater than he wanted to acknowledge to step behind her. Before he was close enough for her to see him in the mirror’s reflection, he recognized the gilt frame. It was a sibling of the Mirror of Erised. He’d forgotten it was in this chamber. There was an inscription in raised letters framing the top arch of the reflective surface: TNEM TNAH CNELLAH TAEN EBENOEHT TUBECAF CILBUP RUOYT ONWO HSI. Snape had long ago translated it, ‘I show not your public face but the one beneath all enchantment’. The trick of this particular mirror was that it dispelled glamours, and it had once been owned by Rowena Ravenclaw. She’d kept it in the foyer of her chambers. It had been the forerunner of Foe-Glass, and had kept her safe from harm for decades.
Snape had no idea why Hermione Granger would be looking at herself to see beyond an enchantment, but when he took one step closer, careful to keep his breathing shallow and silent, he caught a glimpse of the witch’s reflection in the bluebell flame-lit mirror. He was shocked speechless by the sight of a lurid, crimson gash of thick scar tissue slicing across her throat, and sharply sucked in a lungful of air.
Hermoine’s response was immediate, she whipped around to face her foe simultaneously casting, “Nox,” and, in a fluid movement, one which the Professor could no longer see she shouted, “Protego!” The golden glow of her shielding spell, in full force and effect, gave away her position which was now several feet from where she’d been.
She had learned well, this student of theirs, and Snape was more impressed than he wanted to admit. But she was now at his mercy, and he had a number of questions that required answers.
The glow from her shielding charm abruptly winked out and the great room was cast into darkness… and silence. His glee at finding her in the dungeons after curfew was diminished by the suspicions that had erupted like smoke from a Longbottom cauldron, after the brief glance at her reflection. She obviously had knowledge that was being withheld from him, and he couldn’t take the chance that she would find an escape route. He needed to stop her even as he was certain she was seeking an alternate exit while he wasted his time processing the scant information in his possession. Part of him catalogued and weighed the grim reality staring him literally in the face: she’d been different since the Easter holidays, and he’d been kept ignorant of whatever events had included Hermione Granger’s participation.
Before she could cast what would undoubtedly be an effective and defensive hex, and considering events, one for which he couldn’t reasonably chastise her, Snape wandlessly ignited the distant wall sconces in the chamber. They flared to life and the seventh year Gryffindor, veteran of annual and increasingly lethal brushes with the Dark Lord, had already taken shelter behind one of the numerous columns holding up the vaulted ceiling of the chamber.
“Show yourself, Miss Granger, and explain why you are not only out after curfew, but alone in the dungeons. Surely a witch of your self-acclaimed intellect knows that you are not welcome.”
Hermione stepped from behind a pillar – not the one he’d expected -- her wand still held in her hand, in the balanced grip that indicated she dueled often. Evidence that she trusted him, but only so far. His heart clenched, and his eyes narrowed, he could see no evidence of a blemish upon her skin… her throat.
Snape realized that she’d changed remarkably in a short few months. Over the winter break he’d heard her loudly proclaim his trustworthiness to her friends at Grimmauld Place. He hadn’t been meant to hear it, but her words had sustained him during more than one life-threatening occasion since that moment.
“I’m sorry Professor Snape, I didn’t realize that it was you. If you will assign me detention and deduct points, I’ll leave.”
Her audacity was astounding; her voice didn’t hold a trace of the self-mockery from moments earlier and her posture was erect, her shoulders easy. She’d been drilled well, he thought, complimenting James Potter’s son in spite of himself. He knew that she’d been an active member of Dumbledore’s Army, if not the instigator. For three years, the select group of students, which had grown to include members of all four Houses – although Blaise Zabini and Malcolm Baddock kept their membership strictly secret from the rest of Slytherin – had met twice weekly to train in the practical application of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Snape had never discussed the club openly because, in all actuality, if he’d ever had the opportunity to teach the subject he would have insisted on something similar. It served no purpose to teach the abstract application of defensive skills if you couldn’t practice them.
Snape’s umbral stare searched the young witch’s face in the low light for evidence of what he’d seen revealed by the mirror. He beheld the same, rather pretty, recently mature young witch he’d been laying eyes on three times a week in his class and daily at meals for the past seven years. But he’d been a spy for too long not to ignore his instincts, or even the partially seen evidence of his own eyes.
“Not quite yet, Miss Granger. We have unfinished business. I have some questions to ask you,” he drawled. He watched her spine stiffen and her hand twitch spasmodically, as if she were weighing the advantages of Stupefying him. He forestalled the moment she would put thought into action. “I would not take that chance if I were you. You can only get the draw on me once, and, if memory serves me correctly, you have already used your quota. Even then, it was under extenuating circumstances. I assure you, I am fully cognizant of my surroundings now, and you… are… alone.”
There. She’d twitched again. She was increasingly tense, and Snape thought that she just might chance the spell if she thought she could succeed against him. His instincts, honed by almost two decades of espionage and frequent deadly peril, were reacting as a Sneakoscope gyrates and whistles in the presence of someone not to be trusted. Hermione Granger was not leaving the room until he had some answers. Absently, he raked his long fingers through his limp hair, while formulating the appropriate questions to ask her. He believed he was entitled to the information she was obviously concealing, such as what had happened to her. Snape’s continued existence hinged on information. The more accurate his information, the more likely he was to survive, at least until his next summons from the Dark Lord.
He noticed that her stance was perfectly balanced and she looked ready to take flight. The window of opportunity was rapidly thinning, and it was time for Hermione to be forthcoming, even if he would have to coerce her in a less-than-conventional manner. In an instant, he flicked his wand toward her and shouted, “Expelliarmus!”
Her “Protego,” was a fraction of a second too late, and Hermione’s wand flew from her hand, clattering on the stone floor.
She didn’t hesitate, “Accio wand!”
Jumping lightly to the right, Hermione reached for the hurtling, slender rod. Snape had anticipated her movement correctly and fired a binding spell at the witch. Thin, lashes wrapped around her arms and legs preventing her from catching her wand as she toppled, backward onto the cold, stone floor. A puff of dust rose with the impact of her body, and Snape strode to her side. He looked down at her, the light in the room cast his face into a harsh, hawk-like mask, and, leaning down, he retrieved and pocketed her wand.
Hermione’s eyes glittered as she followed his movements. She was livid. “You sod!” she seethed, but didn’t attempt to break free of the bindings.
She was a clever witch indeed. She’d obviously realized that the more she struggled, the tighter the bindings would become.
“Tut-tut, Miss Granger. Ten points from Gryffindor for insubordination.” His voice was as cold as he could make it. He’d been known to terrify adult wizards with that voice. Quickly levitating her body, he ignored her accusatory glare, and towed her in the direction of the mirror.
As they neared the gilt-frame, Snape knew the second that Hermione realized what he was doing. She began to struggle, her curly hair swaying in jerky movements as she attempted to free herself despite the fact that it was clear she’d recognized the constricting element to his spell. She seemed not to notice the tightening of the cords on her body, and cried, “No! You can’t. Don’t do this, Professor. Stop! Please, please, don’t do this.”
Snape halted their forward progress. In truth, he had no desire to hurt her or to humiliate her; he’d done that more times than he could count. But those were times during which he was on public display. This was out of the public’s eye, and he’d simply wanted to scare her into answering his questions. “Then we have a deal. You will tell me what I wish to know.”
“It depends on what you want to know.”
Gone was the respectful witch she’d been for seven years. In that eager-to-please witch’s place was a furious young woman whose huge, brown eyes were sparking in anger… and fear.
“You are not in a position to negotiate, Miss Granger. I suggest you capitulate.”
“I’m afraid you do not know me at all, Professor Snape.”
“That might be. However, I have the wand hand.” He levitated her once again. “It seems that you were not in earnest when you asked me to stop. Shall we see what the mirror holds in store?”
He confidently expected her to beg and plead with him. But she didn’t. Nor did she pull the standard, bold Gryffindor face and act as if it didn’t matter.
Instead she countered with, “I’m certain it will give you great pleasure, Professor.” Hermione’s voice took on the scathing tone he’d heard earlier, and it twisted her words into something tangible and painful. “See the Gryffindor know-it-all taken down a few pegs. Show the Mudblood she doesn’t belong in the wizarding world. The great irony is that if I had anywhere else to go now, I might just give you what you’ve wanted all along. Go right ahead, Professor Snape, make me look in the mirror. Remember to look, too, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the entertainment.”
Snape was so taken aback by the tone of her attack that he lost the focus of his spell, and allowed her to drop to the floor. “I do not understand you. Of what are speaking?”
She was silent, her eyes were shining with unshed tears and she appeared determined to ignore him. Her gaze was unfixed at a point beyond his shoulder, somewhere above him on the vaulted ceiling.
“Bloody hell! I want to know what happened to you! When… how did you get the scar?”
She ignored him, but he could tell that she was crying. Remarkably, her face bore no trace of her tears. The glamour was excellent, and had obviously been cast by someone with great power. None of her friends had the ability to cast such a spell. The Boy Savior might have the raw power, but not the finesse. It had to have been cast by Dumbledore.
Anger like Snape hadn’t known in several years -- since before Harry Potter had delved into his Pensieve -- consumed him. His hands shook and his shouting could’ve been heard in the Slytherin dorms had it not been for the Imperturbable and soundproofing charms on the room. “What happened? When did it happen? Tell me!” Spittle flew from his mouth and his face was contorted with rage.
In a voice as dry and lifeless as the powdered bicorn in his potions storeroom, Hermione gave him his answer. “Do you really want to hear this, Professor? After all, what do the deaths of two Muggles really matter? It might’ve been the entire family, but I was too slow, just as I was too slow tonight. It won’t happen again. Trust me when I tell you that Harry is not the only one of the Dream Team who’s been orphaned by Tom Riddle.” Her eyes sought his, and the condemnation in them was crushing.
Snape felt as if he’d been hit in the chest by a bludger.
Her meaning was obvious. If she was correct, which, knowing her, she was, then it didn’t take a genius to realize that action had been taken against one of the Gryffindor Dream Team and he’d been kept completely ignorant of that fact… by both sides. Snape couldn’t breathe. Pops of white light flickered in his vision. There was only one, inescapable, conclusion to draw from this information. His life was forfeit.
The final blow was delivered in a choked whisper, “I thought you would know… that you would warn us in time.”
Snape sought the support of a nearby pillar.
Her look had carried the weight of judgment.
He sank to the cold ground and buried his head in his hands. He hadn’t known. If he had, he realized, with a certainty that was a little frightening in its intensity, that he would have prevented the attack on her family, even if it had cost him his life. A life that had been rendered insignificant by her confession. His voice lacked his customary control and he couldn’t feign it. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I… I… had no idea.”
In a voice rigidly under control, even if a little shrill, Hermione told him what he wanted to know. “I’d gotten home the day before from school. I’d had to talk the Headmaster into letting me go. It took a week before he agreed. We’d planned to go to St. Tropez for the hols. Our last trip before I graduated and we went into hiding. Mum and Dad…” her voice broke, and he waited for her to continue, “had sold their dental practice and were waiting for a safe house. We never went on holiday as everyone thought. Instead, my parents died… and I lived.”
~o0o~