The night of 7th of February 2020

19. The night of 7th of February 2020

As he continued to listen to the insane elf rambling to itself, all he could feel was hope. This was an opportunity, and the thoughts started to flit around in his head, like birds caught in a box. And the birds had claws and beaks that ripped at him as they flapped around, trying to free themselves.

The sound from the mortar continued. An even-paced grind that would have pleased him if one of his Slytherin students had managed that kind of perfection in class. The hairs on his arms stood on end as he listened to it.

The plotting and manipulating to get her to accept the position as Headmistress had only guaranteed him having her in a portrait at Hogwarts when she died. He had expected it to be decades from now. He had expected friendship with someone he could stand to be around for longer than a couple of hours. But now she could die tomorrow—at the hands of an insane house-elf. She would die his age. The two youngest Heads of Hogwarts ever appointed, both dead within the year they were appointed. He could have more than the entertaining company and friendship of an old lady he liked. He could have a woman. A woman belonging to him alone.

He could leave now, return to his painting, and no one would ever know what he had found out.

The tuneless humming continued along with the sound from the mortar. He wished he could smell what was in it. With the thoroughness of the grinding the smell would be strong by now, and he would be able to identify the substance the elf intended to use.

He would have nothing to stand in his way this time. No James Potter, no Ron Weasley, no children and no bloody cause of any kind. She would be alone, except for him and a mismatched bunch of old Heads, strange portraits and paintings. Phineas and The Fat Lady appeared in his mind again, and he shuddered.

Severus had clenched his teeth together so hard, he could still felt the tension at the roots of them as he released his jaw. He needed to get out of there. He needed to ensure that the elf would not discover him. And he needed to think.

Hermione would be deprived of human touch if she died and ended up a portrait. She would not handle that well. He had seen her with Potter and Weasley. He had seen her with her children. She was affectionate. She hugged her family and friends.

He would be her closest friend then. Just him and her. Like with Lily for a short time.

He backed deeper into the painting and left and set course to the path of paintings hanging in the hall outside the kitchen. He needed to decide, but he couldn't think of anything but the possibilities, nothing but how much he wanted her dead.

He set a brisk pace along the path of paintings he had followed to the kitchen, but it wasn't enough. The pace didn't satisfy him. He walked faster but the rhythmic beat of his feet still wasn't enough.

The next moment he found himself running hard, the pictures blurring as he sprinted through them, not letting himself slow down even for the openings between them.

He overturned a table on his way through one of the paintings, and the ladies that had been seated around it squeaked and scattered.

He crashed through the passage and into the next painting. Dogs barking, horses neighing and a horn sounded.

A new passage.

A green meadow with fleeing sheep.

New passage.

A cellar filled with barrels and men in brown robes gaping as he ran past them.

New passage.

Children screaming and hiding behind the wide skirts of a young woman.

New passage.

He tasted blood and started to slow down. His thighs were burning. He staggered, was forced to stop, and almost doubled over trying to catch his breath. He supported himself against his thighs, looking down as he tried to breath evenly.

His feet were surrounded by daffodils.

"Scoundrel!" The bellow, which was accompanied with a clanging noise he couldn't identify, came from somewhere behind him.

"Rogue! Did you imagine I would not recognise you, Black? That I would make the same mistake twice? I, Sir Cadogan, who has sworn to protect the school and everyone within from the likes of you!"

Cadogan, the idiot, was stupid enough to think that Severus was Sirius Black? Unbelievable. He drew his wand, still panting from exhaustion, and tried to straighten. But it was too late. He received a hard blow to the back of his neck. The pain bloomed underneath his skull and dug into his brain at the same time as it radiated along his spine, down to the folds of his legs. For the shortest of moments, he thought he had been hit by a Cruciatus.

And then he didn't feel anything at all.