Chapter 5: Legilimens (Hermione’s Memories, Part Three – August 1997)

Chapter 5:

(Hermione's Memories, Part Three – August 1997)

Snape walked over to the fireplace and stood before it, his back facing her. He cast off his cloak, threw it over the arm of a threadbare brocade chair, and leaned on the mantelpiece with outstretched arms. Head bowed in contemplation, black strands fell heedlessly before his eyes.

Hermione was beginning to panic; the boys would be home soon. If Snape didn't rouse himself and get on with whatever it was he intended, they would be walking into a trap. Her alarm forced her to speak without strategy. She called out to him as he stared into the flames, threatening him with false assurances that members of the Order would shortly be arriving for a meeting. He turned his head around to face her, and she saw concern flicker across his face with the reflection of the flames.

He seemed to be considering his next course of action for a moment; then, without speaking, he moved from his fireside position and began a slow walk around the perimeter of the room, wand aloft, weaving intricate patterns into the air and muttering incantations as he did so. Hermione recognised Muffliato, Repello Magus, and several other protective charms she had never come across, which would make them impossible to detect.

Her rash foolishness appalled her – instead of prompting him to leave, she had merely forced him to fortify their den, so that the two of them, holed up in Regulus Black's bedroom, were now impenetrable to outsiders.

'Thank you for the warning, Miss Granger,' he said once the task was complete. 'I don't think we'll be troubled by the upstanding members of the Order now.'

Her frustration was complete, and she let out her exasperation by screaming more abuse at his impassive form. She entreated him to act, goaded him to take her to the creature he served so loyally, but his only reactions were an involuntary muscle spasm in his temple and the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. He took a sharp intake of breath, however, when she called him a monster and berated herself for being foolish enough to trust him.

'To me, you are worse than V... '

Her blatant lack of respect did the trick.

Before she could finish the name that she had planned to spit in his face, he pounced forward, clapping his hand tightly over her mouth. He prevented the utterance with one hand while the other grasped the back of her head.

'DON'T speak his name!' he snarled. 'Foolish girl! You believe that fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself?'

He snorted his contempt, but his hand remained firmly clasped over her mouth. 'Yes, I see you do. Dumbledore's rhetoric will be of no help to you when you are begging for mercy at the Dark Lord's feet! He has placed a curse upon his name. All who utter it will find themselves in the company of Death Eaters. To say his name out loud is a death sentence!'

He glanced over his shoulder as if he was afraid that their security had been breached. Hermione saw his apprehension and wondered why a loyal servant of the Dark was afraid to be joined by his cohorts.

'DO you understand?' His eyes gleamed with fury.

On receiving her emphatic, wide-eyed nod, he slowly loosened his grasp over her mouth and withdrew his hand. Seemingly satisfied that she did not intend to Summon an army of Death Eaters by her insolence, he took a step backwards; his expression returned to its former impassivity. She had noticed, however, how worn he looked when he allowed his face to rest from detachment, like a man who has lived a hundred years and experienced not one day of peace among them. If it were not for the fact that she knew him to be a cold, heartless killer and a treacherous deceiver, she would have felt something like pity for a man who concealed such a wealth of burden.

'Rest assured,' he said, 'my intention is not to harm you.'

Hermione could hardly believe his words, though he seemed perfectly genuine. He wandered back to the fireplace again and picked up the porcelain figurine of a unicorn. He appeared to be examining the object closely, though in reality, she doubted if he registered the delicate curves and smoothly carved surface he caressed so absently. He seemed lost in some reverie, oblivious to the reality of the rancid room and his bound prisoner watching him from its far end. It was some time before he recollected himself and replaced the fragile ornament, which had stood the test of time, hiding its brightness beneath a layer of grime.

He turned to face his hostage and peered at her as if he had just remembered that he still had his former student held captive. Hermione's heart thundered in her chest with all the melodrama of the caged linnet she was when he walked slowly towards her, stopped when he reached her, folded his arms, and looked along his large hooked nose.

'I have learned to despise weakness,' he said. 'Only fools allow themselves petty indulgences: the pursuits of pleasure, the betrayal of emotions, the inconsequential needs they imagine make life worth living.' He paused as if waiting for her to respond with an observation of her own. She only stared at him in confusion. He sighed as he continued, 'How can a glass of Firewhisky improve clarity of thought? How can cheering for your favourite Quidditch team lead to enlightenment? Or the touch of a woman result in fulfilment?'

Hermione was fascinated by his uncharacteristically candid monologue. She could not imagine why he would bother to explain his innermost views on dispassion and abstinence to her. He seemed lost, fearful, anxiety ridden: a man who has dwelled too much on life's abominations and put together his own manifesto accordingly.

He continued his sermon to a quietly enthralled audience of one. 'I have never allowed myself the frivolous pursuits that others assume is their right. My purpose has been clear to me for many years; it has given me more strength and fortitude than any Dark Magic could provide.'

His eyes maintained an intimate scrutiny of her face as he spoke. 'I do not touch alcohol unless to do so serves a purpose. I do not share friendships or confidences. I do not seek pleasure for pleasure's sake; all I do is for a reason – I barely eat unless to do so gains me an advantage.'

Hermione was beginning to think that his homily was intended for himself alone. She felt like an intruder, unwanted and surplus to requirement; yet he directed his speech towards her as if he wanted her to hear his morbidly puritanical view of the world. She considered the possibility that he was having some kind of mental breakdown, talking to himself like some deranged St. Mungo's inmate. He seemed more than adequately in control of his thoughts and emotions, however, perhaps more so than ever. It felt as though she were the witness to some momentous breakthrough; the thought that he had never spoken to another soul about such things before both appalled and beguiled her.

He threw her an almost wistful look before turning on his heels and pacing the length of the room. When he returned, he continued in the same vein.

'Perhaps it would not be such an adverse notion to allow myself one indulgence. I have denied myself every recreation and amusement known to man for most of my adult life.'

He looked at her again as if hoping for agreement or sympathy. 'I find that I am, after all, susceptible to human follies. It would surprise you to think that I am not the unfeeling creature you – or rather, all – believe me to be. Why shouldn't I allow myself to be guided by human weakness for once? Why shouldn't I be allowed to have what others merely take for granted? Would anyone deny me that?'

Hermione strived to find context to his words. He seemed to be asking permission to be released from his self-imposed shackles, though why he had chosen such an unswerving, joyless existence, she could not begin to understand. Was his devotion to darkness so fundamental to all that he was? It was as if he wanted some greater being to allow him time off for good behaviour. He had been a devoted servant; couldn't he please be allowed to play a while?

She wondered what possible 'indulgence' he had in mind. It was doubtful that he wanted to help himself to the drinks cabinet. A new sense of dread began to seep into her consciousness as she considered all possibilities. He was a man used to self-discipline, and now a man who wanted to set aside his sacred dedication to renunciation in order to taste what sobriety had denied him. His options were few: only a putrefying bedroom and Hermione Granger were before him. Dread made way for a fresh wave of panic as she felt her newfound courage fail her. The bravado of only minutes ago seemed like childish folly, not real guts and nerve. A rising sensation of nausea added to her fear. She felt her stupidity as surely as if he were berating her for showing off in the classroom. She was weak, vulnerable, at the mercy of a man who was at best unhinged and more than likely gripped by desperation and bitterness. She had been so careless, so foolish: the girl who prided herself on forethought and ingenuity – trapped, helpless and out of resources.

If helplessness was all she had left, then Hermione supposed that her only remaining option was to use it to its full potential: she would do nothing. She would not scream or even speak. She would show no outward signs of emotion. She would be nothing more than an empty vessel to him, a lifeless puppet without animation, or spirit, or zeal. In the absence of any outward signs of feeling or responsiveness, how could he find appeal? She would present no challenge, no macabre excitement for his base desires. If she could feign indifference, then perhaps she could feel it. She had once read that it was possible, under certain, abhorrent conditions, for people – torture victims, prisoners in solitary confinement – to retreat within their own minds, a form of escape from whatever unspeakable horrors their bodies were being subjected to. The human brain is a vast and extraordinary organ, capable of remarkable feats in order to preserve itself from harm, Hermione told herself in a valiant attempt at self-deception.

Hermione was prepared for anything from Snape – brutality, humiliation, violation – but when he took a step forward, tentatively crouched down on his knees before her, and almost apologetically took hold of her wrists, she found it a challenge to maintain the blank, emotionless façade she had promised herself.

He looked into her eyes and she could not look away; his were alive with emotion. She saw anguish, deep and heartfelt. There was an intensity of agony held within those fearsome black depths which she could never have guessed to exist. For as long as she could remember, there had only ever been irritation, anger, or malice conveyed in his look; failing that they were expressionless: two voids of fathomless nothing, concealing, or so it now seemed, a formidable capacity to feel.

The revelation almost made her gasp. He may as well have discarded his robes and stood before her naked and exposed: allowing her to see beyond his wax-like indifference was tantamount to baring his soul. His fervent expression kept her anchored, unable to tear herself away from the sight of so much wretchedness.

'Allow me this indulgence,' he said as his eyes perforated hers.

Before she had time to blink or look away, he was inside her mind. Hermione's panic rose. She had never attempted Occlumency before, though she had read about it and urged Harry to practice. It was more difficult than she had imagined; she found she couldn't muster the will to throw him out as she felt him enter her thoughts, uninvited yet unobtrusive. This was not how Harry had depicted Legilimency. He had described a severe and frightening lack of control over thoughts, memories and privacy. Harry had found it exhausting and debilitating, yet Hermione was experiencing it as nothing more intrusive than a polite knock on the door. Was it possible that Snape had been purposely forceful with Harry, yet was now being deliberately gentle?

It was as if he was standing in the hallway of her house, waiting to be shown around. But he didn't request access to her mind; instead, he took her into his. Her thoughts were invaded by unfamiliar images, and she knew instinctively that he was allowing her to see a particular memory – it was as if she were remembering some past event that she had never been a participant in; the sensation was disorientating, but not as terrible as she had feared.

The Headmaster's office filled her thoughts. In it, she saw Snape again. Not the Snape kneeling in front of her: this was a phantom, a remembered Snape from sometime in his fairly recent past. With sudden realisation, she saw that he was standing over Professor Dumbledore who appeared to be injured and unconscious. Her first thought was that Snape was the instigator of the Headmaster's condition, but closer scrutiny revealed that Snape was actually attempting to heal the injured man. She watched as Snape pointed his wand at the withered blackened stump that was once Dumbledore's hand, muttering incantations as he did so. She saw Dumbledore's eyes flicker open in response to a potion Snape forced him to drink. Snape looked at the Headmaster with a furious expression as the old man stirred – furious and fearful.

'Why did you put on that ring?' he said. ' 'It carries a curse, surely you realised that. Why even touch it?'

Hermione saw Dumbledore's expression – resigned and apologetic. 'I ... was a fool. Sorely tempted ... '

'Tempted by what?' Snape seemed incredulous. 'It is a miracle you managed to return here!' he continued when Dumbledore made no answer. 'That ring contained a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for; I have trapped the curse in one

hand for the time being –'

Hermione watched as Dumbledore examined his hand. He praised Snape's efforts, then asked how long he had left to live as if he were enquiring if there were any tea left in the pot. And when Snape gave his estimate of a year, the Headmaster looked only mildly interested.

'I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus.'

Snape barely seemed to register the compliment. 'If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might have been able to do more.' Snape's eyes glinted with anger. 'Buy you more time!'

The next part of the memory would change Hermione forever.

They spoke of Lord Voldemort's plans to use Draco Malfoy as the Headmaster's assassin: the assassin expected to fail. She could hardly believe that she was being allowed to witness Snape and Dumbledore's macabre discussion. The two wizards spoke of Snape's role as mentor to Draco, Dumbledore calmly ordering him to assist the young, ill-fated Slytherin in his futile endeavours, to offer him guidance and mentorship. With sudden clarity of reason, Hermione understood that Snape and Draco were merely pawns: helpless, condemned prey barely able to make the decision of whether to have milk in their tea unless a tyrannical master gave them a nod. She never imagined it possible to feel compassion for Draco, the over-privileged, obnoxious coward who had made her flesh crawl with contempt so often. Yet she did, and the sensation was like opening one's eyes after a deep sleep to the harsh, unwelcome light of day.

She watched like some sneaking school-girl when Dumbledore informed Snape that he must be the one to cast the Killing curse, not Draco. She observed Snape's reaction: his attempt to remain emotionless, his sardonic reply, his revulsion at the task set before him, and finally, his reluctant acquiescence. A wave of nausea struck as Dumbledore gave his reasons for saving Draco from the repellent burden.

'That boy's soul is not yet damaged. I would not have it ripped out on my account.'

'And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?'

Hermione's own was crying out in protest as she witnessed the abhorrent sight of Dumbledore's serene countenance and Snape's stricken one. Yet still the Headmaster calmly insisted – confessed that he would prefer a quick death to anything Bellatrix Lestrange or Fenrir Greyback would likely inflict. And she felt hot tears moisten her cool cheeks as she witnessed Snape's stoic nod of acceptance and Dumbledore's quiet thanks.

The harsh radiance of daylight to sleepy eyes now became the full heat and brilliance of a heady midday sun.

The image of the Headmaster's office was gone, and Hermione realised that she had been shown out. Her memories were her own again, and she was fully conscious of her surroundings: the warmth of the fire, the glow of the wall lamps, the feel of bulky bedclothes beneath her legs, and the coarse rope still binding together her wrists. She saw the material, solid, kneeling figure of Snape in front of her, caught his scent, less pungent with prolonged exposure. He broke their intense eye contact and rose slowly to his feet.

Hermione watched the retreating figure of the man she had just witnessed debating the sanctity of his soul. He was staring into the firelight again, drawn to it like a magpie to rubies. She struggled to keep her emotions in check. In truth, she didn't know how to react or how to feel. All hatred was gone now, but her anger towards him had been a positive force; it had fuelled her determination to fight and stay strong. Her initial shock on discovering him to be an agent of the Dark had been stunned disappointment, but that quickly turned to a disgust so deeply felt that sometimes it felt like an inducement to dissent. The place in her gut where she kept her revulsion must now be replaced by something else. She observed the rigidity of his stance and tried to remember if she had ever seen him relaxed. How could he, with such a burden pressing so heavily upon him?

She wanted to cry, shout out her repulsion, question his resilience, reassure him of her loyalty: she would be the guardian of his secret, protector of his good name. No one would dare to speak ill of Severus Snape in her presence. Emotions were battling for release, and she was thankful for her still-bound hands, rooted legs, and the lump in her throat: without them, she may have resorted to forcing an unwanted embrace on him.

The mirror above the writing bureau showed her Snape's resolute profile; the sagging velvet curtains closed against the world; the marble-top wash stand beside the bed; and her own pale, tormented face, hair a riotous mess, most of which had escaped from its clasp after the trials of sleep, shock, and exertion. Hermione barely recognised her own reflection, yet it was Snape who gave her the most trouble. She looked at him through a tarnished, imperfect mirror and saw him clearly for the first time. She saw no murderer or traitor now, she saw a loyal spy who had carried out Dumbledore's wishes despite the infamy it would bring and the hatred it would inspire. Rarely lost for the right thing to say, she had no idea how to convey all she felt to the man who caught her scrutiny through the mirror and turned around to view her.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

'I don't need your compassion,' he replied, crossing the room. 'It is not necessary,' he added as a concession to her mortified expression. He Vanished the ropes that bound her with a stiff wave of his wand and walked over to a chair so frayed it had lost any claims to grandeur it once had. He dragged it a few feet closer to the bed and sat down stiffly, allowing her to rub life back into her aching wrists before speaking.

'I have been appointed as new Headmaster of Hogwarts,' he said softly. 'Somehow, I don't think my return will be heralded by my former colleagues.'

Still, Hermione could not answer him. She considered his terrible predicament. He would return to Hogwarts as Dumbledore's executioner, hated and despised as Voldemort's favourite. The other teachers and most of the students would show him their contempt instead of respect and awe at his unswerving loyalty and devotion to duty. Her heart was ripping apart as if it had suffered a mortal wound. She looked at him, her face pale and anguished, her mind racing to find an appropriate response. He had leaned forward in his chair, and his outstretched arm offered her the wand she had recently fought for like a cornered tiger.

'He had no right to ask that of you,' she said.

Snape seemed to understand that she referred to Dumbledore, not his recent promotion by Voldemort.

'He had every right, as he well knew.'

'Does anyone know?'

'Apart from you?' He shook his head.

'Not even Professor McGonagall?'

His look gave her to understand that he had already given her a clear answer.

'How do you ... manage?' she asked, knowing how inadequate her question was.

'Manage?'

'Without ... without someone to share ... I mean without a release.'

'What would you call this?'

'A poor substitute.'

'Better than nothing.'

Hermione stared at the threadbare carpet again and wondered why he had talked himself – no, allowed himself this 'indulgence', this decision to reveal the truth about himself to her. If it was for comfort and support, she was failing spectacularly. No words of wisdom or expressions of comradeship were winging their way from her sympathetic heart to his troubled one.

Was this honour nothing more than fortuitous placement? Had he happened upon her at the right time, under the right circumstances? Would anyone have done or was she singled out as one who would react with the good sense and strong heart of a chosen one?

'Professor, may I ask why you came here? Was it to find Harry? Do you have something for him?' she asked eagerly.

'I did not expect to find anyone here,' he admitted. 'However, I was concerned, once I discovered you to be here alone, that Potter had been captured. You were sleeping, Miss Granger?'

It was as if he were berating her for letting them out of her sight for a moment, and the realisation that it gave him unease gave her more pleasure than all of her seven years of 'Outstandings' and acquired House points.

She told him something of the mission they were on at the Ministry and noted the sneer that glinted in his eyes, but avoided his mouth, when she mentioned Harry's invisibility cloak.

Snape made some vague excuse for his own presence at Grimmauld Place, but Hermione was certain he was concealing the truth. She wondered if he, too, was looking for a hidden Horcrux; perhaps Dumbledore had not put all his eggs in one basket after all. She dared not probe, however; if she was wrong, Harry would never forgive her for revealing their secret.

Hermione sighed. She stood up, threading her wand through her fingers as she walked a few steps away from the bed and Snape's chair. She turned to look at him and almost faltered in the face of her own inadequacy: she was about to make assurances she knew he was likely to scoff at.

'Sir,' she said, 'I don't know why you've shown me this, but I promise that I will explain everything to Harry and Ron. I'll make them understand; I'll make them see that you had to do it, that you are not loyal to ... him. I will not let them speak ill of you. Harry must see the truth; he must see that you had no choice, that you never betrayed the Order, that ... '

Hermione had walked towards him during her speech; she had knelt at his feet in the hope of conveying the sincerity in her expression.

The look in his own eyes caused her to stop; they did not show the contempt she expected. Regret and resignation replaced derision. She realised that Snape did not intend for her to share this information with anyone, least of all with someone with a connection to Lord Voldemort. Her eyes mirrored his as the reality of his intention became clear.

'You mean to Obliviate me,' she said.

~*~*~

Author's note:

I'm sure everyone will recognise that the italicised dialogue is straight from chapter thirty-three of Deathly Hallows: The Prince's Tale.