Don't Raise Your Eye

Chapter Five – Don't Raise Your Eye

He snarled as she descended from the attic. How dare she use one of his spells against him? If this infernal buzzing truly lasted all day, she would not have to worry about him harming her...he would be completely mad well before she returned.

He sat up straighter and scowled at his meal. All of his favorite foods were there. How could she possibly know what he preferred? The toast was burnt, the bacon chewy, the tea laced with milk and sugar. Beans, sausage, black pudding, and tomatoes, all there. Were his future self and the girl close? He did not know her now, nor did he know of any wizarding families by the name of Granger. Probably a Mudblood, then. The universe was certainly odd, sending multiple Mudblood women into his life to torture him.

Not that how he had been treated thus far could honestly be considered torture; she had provided him breakfast and supposedly lunch. She had also left him means of entertainment. Other than the strong Muffliato she had cast, it was shaping up to be a rather pleasant day, this hostage situation and the buzzing notwithstanding.

He sniffed his food and ascertained that there was nothing amiss. He would be out of luck if it was poisoned with anything odorless, but at this point, his options were either death by starvation, death by poisoning, or death by failing to fulfill his master's assignment. At the very least, he could choose which death while enjoying a full stomach.

The food was surprisingly good, but that might have been clouded by the fact that he hadn't eaten in a day. The teacup had a self-filling charm on it, and he was glad to realize he would be able to enjoy hot tea all day. He finished breakfast and set about trying to find a hole in her preparations. She must have lefted something with a date on it. She had mentioned books specifically, so he planned to leave those till the end of his search.

He started in the bathroom, inspecting the labels on the many potions and bottles there for dates. Everything had been spelled nearly blank. The bottles gave away no brand names and merely said things like "SHAMPOO," "CONDITIONER," and "PEPPERUP POTION" on them. He was familiar with every potion in the room, so nothing new surprised him. In frustration, he began ransacking a bit, ripping open drawers and rifling through the contents, hoping for anything that might tell him if the Time-Turner had actually worked properly.

The bathroom yielded no secrets, and he quickly moved on to the linen closet, looking for clothing tags or anything that might tell him something. Of course, all of the tags were missing. This woman was good.

He moved back to the bedroom, going through furniture. Stickers had been removed from the lamps, tags from the mattresses. He moved to her bedside table, rummaging through the drawers. In them, he found a bottle labeled "LOTION," a tube labeled "LUBRICANT," and a vibrator. He grinned...he might not have been finding the answers to his questions, but he certainly was learning more and more about this woman. One toothbrush, one hairbrush, a vibrator...Hermione Granger was clearly single.

The books on the bedside table made him chuckle: Muggle fantasy and Harlequin novels. For someone who seemed to be intelligent (her spells masking the year on everything in the house indicated a certain level of brilliance), her choice of reading material was deplorable. He wondered if the Harlequins were read in conjunction with the vibrator...

On to the living room. Judging from the state of the bathroom and bedroom, he doubted very much he would find anything there that would help him. Learning about his captor, however, would prove helpful at some point. Maybe he would even find that chink in her armor that would force her to release him.

The living room was comfortable. As was promised, he found towels and sandwiches waiting for him. He munched on one of them as he perused the room. She was right; most of these books were his and were still in pristine condition. Whoever this woman was, she was at least respectful of his things. But why were so many of his books here and not with him in Hogsmeade? Had he replaced them with newer editions? That did not sound like him; the notes in the margins of his books were invaluable. Were they even closer than he had imagined? Dating perhaps? If he truly were twenty years into his future, she would be nearly twenty years younger than he. Well done, Severus. Well done indeed!

He didn't know what his future self saw in her. Judging from their conversation this morning, she was a bossy little thing, something he did not normally find attractive in women.

But why would they be in a relationship? She made it very clear their views on the war were different. And he was very sure she was, in fact, a Mudblood. Would he switch sides? He couldn't imagine a scenario where this was possible. Why on earth would he ever change sides? No, they probably were not in a relationship... But why did she have his books?

It was approaching two o'clock, and she had not yet returned. He realized that she had not said when she would actually return, other than a vague indication of "early evening," and he wondered how long he would be alone. The buzzing in his ears was driving him mad.

He moved to the corner of the living room and found a turntable...it was a good set and had only come out last year... last year in his time. Blast! Even her electronics were all "vintage." He flicked through her vinyls...Black Sabbath, The Beatles, the Stones... Damn, the woman had good taste. He selected The Who's Who's Next and queued it up, settling down on the sofa, album cover in hand. The only thing his father and he had ever been able to bond over was this damned album. He flipped the cover over, looking at the back. Scrawled in the bottom corner was his eleven-year-old self's handwriting, in blue ballpoint ink: Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

He growled. Why does she have these things? Books were books and, while unfortunate to say, could be replaced, but something was definitely amiss if he had let this album out of his possession.

"Baba O'Riley" crescendoed around him...Pete Townshend's voice haunting him the same way it always had. The song moved through to its inevitable end, and he crossed back to the player...his two minutes of enjoyment quickly dashed by the gut feeling that something was wrong. Hermione Granger should not have this album. It was just too... personal.

He was terrified. Had he died? Had something really gone that wrong? Had he perished in a battle, or had his master killed him, ripping him to bits like poor Black? Regulus, the only pureblood in the group who had never treated him differently because of his half-blood status. Say what you would about the Black family...Regulus had been a pretty decent bloke.

He would never forget the day that Regulus had died... his barely recognizable body... his face so swollen and beaten. The length of his hair and the Black family ring on his hand had been the only indication of his identity. The Dark Lord had made it quite clear what would happen to those who left the fold. His face had been blank as his wand had slashed through the air, magic pummeling the poor man's body and causing blood to arc through the room, spattering on the assembled group's shoes. Snape would later burn those shoes...

Was this girl responsible for his death? Would he fall yet again for another Mudblood? Would she end up causing his death in some way?

He wanted to damage things, destroy things, to explode anything by using his wand. Which he did not have, of course. He felt as if his left hand had been cut off; it was useless without that magical appendage.

He paced about the attic, looking for something innocuous he could break. He was hesitant to break anything of his but didn't know what she would do to him if he broke something of hers. She did seem powerful.

His frustration was mounting. He started throwing unbreakable things: the towels for his shower, his pillow from the night before, shoes... It didn't help.

He screamed, a howling angry sound that resonated through the room. He stormed through the attic, attempting to open the windows. Each window had a Sticking and Stinging Hex on it; none would budge, and they left temporary welts on his hands. He moved to the staircase, throwing his entire body weight onto it...the stairs did not unfold. He moved to the fireplace, seeing if he could climb out. Charmed soot rained down on his face, blinding him, causing tears to well up in his eyes.

He sunk onto the sofa, head cradled in his hands. What was he going to do? He couldn't leave; that was clear. He was going to fail in his assignment, causing his own mother's death, and he was going to die or be killed. He was bored, his ears were buzzing, and if he didn't do something he would scream. Again.

Procuring a towel, he moved to the bathroom. He got a good look at his face...covered in soot and residual blood from his nosebleed, tear trails leaving paths of white through the darkness, looking like a demented blackface minstrel. He sneered at his reflection, morphing his face into a visage of pain.

He moved into the shower and turned on the hot water full blast. Stepping under the steaming stream, he allowed the water to wash the soot from his face. Bits of particulate made their way into his eyes and stung, but eventually, the water refreshed him.

The hot water burned slightly as it washed over the bruises from his master's torture, but the tingling sensation quickly abated. There were two bottles of "SHAMPOO" on the shelf, one a pinkish color, the other clear. He grasped for the clear bottle and smiled...the witch was good, she was very good. She had not left him a goddamned thing that would tell him what year it was. But she had left him just enough personal touches of herself that he could easily unsettle her when she came home.

He squeezed the shampoo into his palm and began to lather his hair. The shampoo was soothing...it had an almost menthol smell to it, and it tingled slightly. At least it wasn't fruity... He grabbed the soap...it was green and had the word "SOAP" carved into the top. He brought it to his nose, sniffing...Palmolive. Well, that hadn't changed in years, apparently. He passed the bar directly over his body, scrubbing away the last bits of soot that clung to his chest.

When he skimmed over his Dark Mark, he paused and really studied it... It seemed... dimmer than normal. Not the dark black it normally was but more of a charcoal gray. He held the Mark under the stream to clear it of soap and rinsed his right hand as well. Pressing his index and middle fingers to the Mark, he attempted to make a connection with his lord. Certainly, if his mission was successful, the Dark Lord would be expecting him to contact him.

Nothing. The presence he could nearly always feel...that slight itching of his skin, like when you knew you were being malevolently stared at from across a room...was gone. His connection with his master had been severed. Something was wrong. Had the time travel somehow affected his Dark Mark so he could no longer contact his master? Had his master died?

Snape slumped against the wall of the shower, his world slowly crashing down around him. One thing was certain... Hermione Granger had many questions to answer when she finally did return.

The buzzing in his ears crowded his thoughts, sounding like interference over a ham radio. His father had kept one in the attic when he was a child, and he wondered if she had left it somewhere up there. If she removed the years on everything, it was doubtful that she had left any means of communication with the outside world as well.

The water went from being piping hot to icy cold in seconds. Apparently, she hasn't fixed the water heater. Not having his wand, he could not reheat the water. He turned off the showerhead and stood in the bathtub, letting the water slowly drip from his hair and body. Eventually, he reached out and grabbed the towel she had left him, buffing his hair until it no longer dripped. Slinging the towel about his hips, he returned to the bedroom.

He approached the full-length mirror and really took stock of himself. The bruising and swelling was no longer that noticeable. He turned and surveyed his back as much as he could...he looked much better than he had even the morning before. Dobby truly was a wondrous little bugger.

He glanced at the clock...three o'clock. She could be back at any moment, or in several hours.

"'Early evening,' she said. What the hell does 'early evening' mean?"

He threw the towel back into the bathroom, enjoying the way it splatted as it hit the tile floor. "She's a woman; let her enjoy living with a man...wadded up towels and all."

He entered the living room and found the robes she had set out for him along with a tee shirt and a pair of drawstring cotton pajama pants.

"I suppose she wants me to be comfortable in my captivity. Fine, then." Jerking the pants on, he roughly tied the drawstring. The shirt and robes were balled up and thrown across the room.

"Yes, I'll be comfortable. Shirtless, sockless, y-front... less... Christ, how the hell does she know I prefer not to wear pants?" He knew that one of the first signs of insanity was talking to oneself, but he did not much care. At least it distracted him from the buzzing... and the silence. Amazing how both could exist at the same time.

He was grumpy, definitely grumpy. He flopped down once again on the sofa and noticed his bag lying on a chair opposite him. He grabbed it, hoping she had missed something in its contents.

The clothes, money, and potions supplies were gone. He understood why she had taken the potions supplies and money; she would not want him creating something to harm himself or her, and she clearly did not want him getting far if he managed to escape. She had left the food, toiletries (minus his razor, of course). The fags, whiskey, and condoms remained.

"Really, Granger, hoping for a midnight fuck, are we?" He laughed at his own perversion; hell, at least sex would keep him from going completely out of his mind.

"It was really a mistake to leave me the whiskey, Granger. A big mistake."

He opened the bottle and took a healthy swig from it. Placing the bottle on the coffee table, he brought a cigarette to his mouth, surprised when the snapping of his fingers actually procured enough magic to light it. He slowly inhaled the smoke and held it in his mouth and lungs before letting the smoke ooze out of his nose and mouth.

"God, this feels good. I wonder how angry she'll be when she finds ashes and cigarette butts all over her house?"

He continued to take long drags on the cigarette, pausing every few drags to take a healthy swig from the bottle. At some point in the process, he chose a book from the shelves...some Muggle novel. He hated to admit it, but there were certain things about his father's world that he loved, and mindless novels were among them. He did not really even comprehend what he was reading, but the simple act of scanning his eyes over the page combined with smoking and drinking helped to pass the time.

As soon as he finished a cigarette, he lit a new one with the end of the last before crushing the butt into her coffee table. He loved the sound of the wood sizzling slightly...it blended well with the ringing in his ears. He became progressively drunk, to the point where the buzzing almost disappeared entirely. Eventually, he heard a stir across the room and watched the stairs descend.

A slightly disheveled Hermione Granger emerged from the second floor, her wand drawn in one hand and bags of food held in the other. Snape was pretty well pissed by this point, and his face split into a broad grin at her appearance.

"Miss Granger! Finally back, are we?" He lounged on the sofa, shirtless, his arms resting on the back of the sofa. He gestured at her with a cigarette. "Please, do sit. My attic has been so lonely without you!"

She pulled the cord for the stairs and quickly warded the exit. She crossed in front of him, wand still drawn, and sat stiffly on the chair opposite him. He watched her eyes flick repeatedly towards his left arm.

"Oh, do please calm down, Miss Granger. I shan't harm you! I am a gentleman! And 'sides, you are the bringer of food! How could I possibly harm the woman who is keeping me alive?"

He thrust out his hand, startling her, and grabbed at the bags of food. "So, what have you brought me?" He rifled through the bags, ripping through the fake newspaper and tin foil.

"Fish and chips? From The Cottage? How did you know that Mum and I would go there while Dad was at work?" He began to dig into the meal like a child ripping apart wrapping paper on Christmas. "I haven't had this in years!"

"Fag?" he asked, holding the soft pack of cigarettes towards her, raising one up from the bunch with a flick of his wrist.

"No, thank you, Snape. I don't smoke." She then noticed the fair pile of butts on her coffee table...along with their accompanying scorch marks...and winced. He grinned.

"'s fair. Did you bring any beer, luv?" She shook her head. "No? Well, I guess whiskey will continue to serve me fine." He stuffed a few chips in his mouth, rubbing the excess oil onto his pajama bottoms.

"So, how was your day?"

He raised his eyebrows. What an incredibly inane question. She must be more nervous than she's letting on. "My day? Well, let's see. I ate your breakfast, which was lovely, by the way...the toast was burnt just exactly to the right level of burntiness." He paused, procured another cigarette, and began smoking as he recounted the day's events.

"Then, I began going through our belongings. I say 'our' because you have things you ought not have, Miss Granger. But, we'll get to that later. First, I went through your bathroom...it is wonderful to know that Palmolive hasn't changed in years, apparently. And you were right...nothing there allowed me to figure out what year it is. Someday, you will have to explain to me what spell you used to make that happen.

"I then moved to your linen closet, and sure enough, no dates there. You told me not look; I should have listened to you. But I was bored, and what else did I have to do? I did enjoy your collection of negligees, my dear. You must model them for me later.

"I then moved to your bedroom and went through it thoroughly."

She flinched.

"Yes, you do well to twitch, Miss Granger. And guess what I found: lubricant and a vibrator! You must tell me what those are for when I finish speaking, madam. Or, perhaps, you might show me?" He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously.

She glared.

"I then slowed my efforts, moving to the living room to try to find something to distract me from the infernal buzzing you left me with. Speaking of which, could you please lift my spell?" With a wave of her wand, the buzzing stopped.

"Ta, dear. Where was I? Ah, yes, I was trying to stop the buzzing. Well, guess what I found to do that? Music. And not just any music..." He rose and climbed over the back of the sofa, reaching for the Who album.

"... but my music. See, right here." He climbed back over the sofa, leaning across the coffee table to thrust the album cover under her nose. "'Property of the Half. Blood. Prince.'" He punctuated each word with a jab of his index finger against the album. "And guess what? That's me." He pulled the album away from her, cradling it against his chest, flopping back against the sofa.

"So, I asked myself, why does Miss Granger have my most precious possessions? I can only assume my Time-Turner had, in fact, sent me to when I wished to appear, or else you would have been more forthright in answering my questions about when now is. Then I asked myself, what kind of relationship does my present self have with you? Certainly, we would not be dating... In this time, assuming I am right and this is on or about the year 2000, I would be around twenty years your senior, yes? So, what kind of relationship could I possibly have with you? My other idea is that you may very well be my child, but as I see absolutely none of myself in your face, thankfully, I quickly discounted that possibility.

"I ran into other problems. Such as this." He threw aside the album cover and exposed his left arm. "Look at it. All grey and faded. And guess what? It doesn't work to contact him anymore."

Her body jerked, and she averted her eyes. He reveled in making her cringe.

"So, I cannot contact my master, my mark has dimmed, and you have all of my most personal belongings. I can only come to one conclusion, Hermione...

"How long have I been dead?"

AN: Cliffhanger! And I'm leaving the country until July 3! I'm a horrible author! I will update as soon as I can after returning, though. I hope no later than July 6!

As always, thanks to everyone whose eyes, thoughts, and words made this chapter shiny!