Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Severus Snape hunched further over his whiskey in the far corner of the Elephant's Head on Camden High Street and tried to quell the awful feeling in his stomach. From his vantage point in a dingy booth at the end of the bar, he glared balefully out at the Friday night crowd.

The last time he had felt this bad was at the height of the Second War. His stomach roiled and knotted, and his head pounded – despite the two variants of pain potion that he had swallowed before leaving his pokey flat that evening. His heart was racing, and he felt lightheaded and skittish with nerves.

In the older days, he would have masked his symptoms with several variants of illegal drugs, but he was worried that The Trace would pick up such brewing activities. He took a deep and shuddering breath, clutching his drink with a sweating hand, remembering snatches of his latest, humiliating conversation with the parole Auror. His eyes strayed unwillingly to the narrow band of ink on his wrist that marked his sentence – the thin row of magical sigils, barely visible on the surface of his skin, which bound his magic to the Ministry.

Fuck it.

He tossed the remains of the scotch back, wincing as he felt the liquid burn its way down his sensitive gullet, then pushed himself upright and stumbled from his seat to the bar to order another.

When he had first started to feel unwell, despite the range of Muggle and magical remedies he had taken, he had become increasingly paranoid, convinced that something or someone had poisoned him. He had sat in his tiny bedsit, drinking cups of peppermint tea to try to master the nausea in his stomach, fighting the irrational desire to contact the Aurors to demand an explanation.

Eventually, he had been determined to get out of the dingy flat in order to mask the unpleasant sensations with alcohol. During the wars, he had tried hard not to drink too much, fearing an increased dependency on the substance.

But now the wars are over, he thought morosely. It's time to celebrate.

Around his solitary bar stool, the noise of the pub was rowdy and cheerful. Snape shot a resentful look to his left at the small group of city types, their shiny suits incongruous in the deliberately grungy interior decor of the small pub. One young man, his expensive-looking shirt tucked into his trousers, his tie artfully pulled loose around his neck, was telling a story to his mates, his eyes bright and engaging as he delivered the punch line to the roaring approval of his fellows. Someone clapped the storyteller on the back and offered to buy him another. Snape watched the young man look at his watch, something flickering across his features, before he straightened back up and laughingly agreed.

Just like Dad, Snape thought. How many times had Toby told stories like that? Been bought another pint by his mates... just one more for the road? With sudden insight, Snape wondered who was waiting for the young man at home while he was getting pissed in the pub instead? The thought increased the sour taste in his mouth from the whiskey.

His stomach kicked again, and he rubbed at his gut, scowling. The pounding in his head had abated a little, but his skin was still itching uncomfortably. He was on edge, awkward... unsettled even. He frowned, picking at the beer mat on the bar in front of him.

Perhaps he should go home.

It had been two months since New Year's Eve, and he was still in London, living in a tiny bedsit in a dingy backstreet a few minutes walk away.

He remembered the concerned and earnest look on the face of his probation officer when he had reluctantly admitted to relocating to the capital: "Why have you moved to London, Mister Snape? Who are you associating with here?"

He had replied carefully, explaining how much better his employment opportunities were nearer to the Ministry – about his desire to develop private clients for a new homeopathic remedy business in the Muggle world. He had assured the nosey idiot that he was seeing no one from his past life, all the time watching the tick-tick-tick of the little machines on the dapper little wizard's desk that confirmed his words.

It was almost completely the truth of course; those were always the best sort of lies.

For how could he explain his utterly irrational decision not to go back to Spinners' End, after he had taken Granger to London, when he did not even understand it himself?

What on earth had prompted him, shortly after dropping Granger off in central London ("Just right here, Professor – Parvati's flat is only around the corner..."), to stop the Cortina outside a garishly decorated classic car sales garage?

And what had caused the equally impulsive notion to come into his head that he could find a new sense of direction in the capital if he sold the car and used that and his meagre savings to fund his keep?

He sighed and rubbed at his temple. He remembered thinking that staying in London was madness at the time, but sitting in the cooling interior of the old Cortina, waiting for the salesroom to open, his imagination had teemed with extracts from the Muggle musicals that his mother had so loved ("If I can make it there / I'll make it anywhere!", "Who will buy this wonderful morning?"). He had succumbed to a strange, unfamiliar, and overwhelming sense of hope.

Thankfully, his newfound optimism had not dulled his wits. He had known the value of the car, and despite all of his bluster and obfuscation, so did the owner of the salesroom. Snape had walked away, some forty-five minutes later, with a few thousand pounds in his pocket and the determination to begin anew.

He had taken a room in a cheap hotel and subjected himself to a series of desultory viewings of outrageously expensive flats, accompanied by a series of increasingly exasperated and irritable letting agents, until he had encountered the elderly Mrs Claypole and her recently vacated basement room.

Any attempts on his part to find employment, however, had foundered in the intervening weeks on the shores of his own apathy. Instead, he had spent his days listlessly wandering about the city – visiting galleries, museums, and libraries, warming cold fingers on styrofoam cups of tea from frozen street vendors.

The barmaid reappeared with his next round. He paid her and swirled the amber liquid around in the glass.

His thoughts turned to the weekend ahead of him and more specifically to the appointment he had made to tour Granger's work at the Department. He did not want to admit to himself just how much he was looking forward to it. Two days to go. The fingers of his other hand strayed unbidden to his inside jacket pocket and the cool oblong of cardboard that had arrived the day after their meeting in the coffee house. His lips quirked upwards as his fingertips caressed the sharp edge of the note.

"Dear Professor Snape," the note read in her firm and precise handwriting. "It was lovely to see you earlier today. I am sending this note to remind you that you PROMISED to meet me at ten o'clock on Sunday, 8th February, at the entrance to the Ministry of Magic on Marylebone Street. Yours sincerely, Hermione Granger. P.S. I have spelled this note to be flame and ink resistant. It also has a mild sticking charm on it, in case you wanted to put it somewhere to remind you."

Snape rolled his eyes at the memory of her words and pushed the card more deeply into the breast pocket of his worn jacket, his cheeks rather warm. Bloody woman.

He sank the remaining scotch in his glass, shivering a little, and gestured to the barmaid for another. She was a pretty girl with a wide, open face that reminded him a little of Granger... despite the fact that the barmaid's hair was piled high on top of her head, coloured a disconcertingly bright orange, and her lip, eyebrow, and nose all sported elaborate piercings. Severus stared at her, fascinated by the way the metal in her lip sparkled in the bar lights. The girl smiled at him, tweaking the glass out of his hand. She turned to refill his whiskey, and Snape saw that her shoulder blades, virtually bare but for a few spaghetti strings from her top, were covered in brightly coloured tattooed images.

He was so distracted by the way the tattoos on her back and upper arms writhed as she pushed his glass up into the optic, as well as the sickly sensations in his stomach, that he did not see the attack coming until it was too late.

A heavy man sat next to him on the empty stool to his right, jarring against Severus and knocking him slightly off balance. As Snape turned to scowl at his clumsy neighbour, he felt a large hand grip his arm and the unmistakable sensation of a wand suddenly jammed into his side. Fuck! He tensed, his hands splayed out on the sticky bar...

"Don't move, you bastard," the man whispered hoarsely in his ear.

Snape felt a sharp, magical pulse from the wand tip, like an electric shock. "What do you want?" he hissed back. That had bloody hurt!

"You're coming with me, Snape." The man's voice was gruff, but somehow familiar. Severus recognised the clichéd phrase and was surprised. Aurors usually travelled in pairs, threes even. He tried to remember through the fug of the whiskey whether he had recently cast a spell on the restricted list... He knew he hadn't. So why was a Auror here?

He ignored the jabbing pain from his hip and twisted slightly to make out the identity of the wand-holder. Perhaps there had been some sort of mistake? The Trace wasn't always completely reliable, after all.

The answer came quickly. He caught a flash of reddish hair, the whiff of righteous indignation, and groaned: "Weasley."

His own wand was just out of reach, and the list of acceptable spells he could cast without risking his parole was deliberately inadequate. He stared forward, unseeing, the unpleasant sensations from his side rapidly dispelling the effects of the whiskey.

"Outside," Weasley ordered. The hand holding the wand dug pointedly deeper into Snape's tender belly.

Snape turned to look at the younger man. Weasley's fleshy, broad face was red and sweaty. His eyes were bright and wild as he stared at Severus, and he was breathing heavily.

Severus raised his eyebrows. Go outside? Into the dark and unobserved street? Did Weasley think he was completely deranged?

"Who's your friend?" the barmaid interrupted, putting Snape's glass down on the bar in front of him. Snape understood the unsaid question. Decent bar workers have a nose for trouble.

He forced himself to relax and smile. The last thing he needed was for them both to be thrown out of the pub. "It's fine. He's a..." he considered his words carefully, aware of the continuing presence of the sharp point near to his testicles "...an old pupil of mine," he told her. "We haven't seen each other for a long time, eh? Mister Weasley?"

Weasley sat back slightly, leaving his hand, and the wand that it held, still on Snape's thigh. The redhead's jaw jutted forwards mulishly, but he nodded sharply and made no further comment. After favouring them both with a long, suspicious look, the barmaid took Snape's money and turned away to serve someone else further down the bar.

The pub was filling up with patrons and becoming increasingly noisy.

"What do you want, Mister Weasley?" Severus asked, trying to make his voice sound reasonable. The adrenaline pumping around his system was making his head swim, and the vicious sensation of nausea in his stomach had returned with a vengeance.

Weasley scowled. "Where is she?" he asked.

"Who?" Snape said without thinking.

Weasley was grabbing his arm again, pulling him off his stool and shoving him back against the bar. Snape looked about, but the barmaid's attention had been distracted by the rowdy group of city lads, and the general level of business in the pub masked their quiet scuffle at the bar.

"Hermione, you bastard." Weasley's breath was hot on Snape's face. "What have you done with her?"

Snape felt a sudden, sharp constriction in his chest. "Look, you fucking idiot," he gasped, "I've no idea what you are talking about."

The wand spat another shock into him, and Snape pitched forwards. He wasn't entirely sure, but he thought that Aurors usually arrested suspects before they started to rough them up rather than just getting attacking them in the middle of Muggle London. Did he dare a hex? He quickly ran through the list of acceptable spells in his head. The best he could do without setting off the Trace was probably an Impedimenta, and that wouldn't be much bloody use...

He felt Weasley's other hand on his shoulder, gripping hold of his jacket and wrenching him up again.

"Where is she?" Weasley asked again, his chin jutting out aggressively.

"I don't bloody know!" Snape snapped, his frustration mixed with a growing sense of apprehension. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Weasley's lips drew back from his teeth. "Hermione disappeared two days ago, and guess what I found in her diary?" Snape watched him dig about in his trouser pocket and pull out something that looked like a crumpled page from a notebook. He slammed it down on the stained dark wood of the bar.

Snape's heart began to thump irregularly in his chest. Disappeared? His old instincts flared, adrenaline began to course through his veins. Misdirect and provoke, he thought as he twisted his face into an exaggerated sneer. "Are you in the habit of reading Miss Granger's private memoirs, Mister Weasley?" he drawled, putting as much disdain into the question as he could.

It had predictable results. "Fuck you, Snape," Weasley snarled. "She's my girlfriend. We don't have secrets."

Severus arched his eyebrow. "Clearly you are as deluded as ever," he responded with some relish, flicking his fingers at the crumpled up piece of paper on the bar.

Weasley controlled himself with an obvious effort. He spread the diary page out and pushed it further towards Severus. "Wednesday, 5th February." Weasley read, pointing at Granger's familiar script. "Met Professor Snape today in the Ministry, then went for coffee. Persuaded him to come to the Department to see the work. So excited." The last was spat out, the accusation clear.

Weasley leaned forward again. He was so close that Severus could feel the other man's hot breath on his face. "Where is she, Snape?" Weasley spat. "I know you've got her somewhere. You're the only bastard I know who could block my Tracking Spells."

Snape rolled his eyes. "You can't seriously be suggesting..."

Weasley jabbed his wand so hard into his gut that Severus saw stars. The hex combined with the horrible twisting sensation in his stomach left him gasping for air.

"Where is she?" Weasley repeated. "I swear to you, Snape, I'll set the Aurors on you. It won't take much to see you back in your prison cell. This, for example." He flourished the diary page in Severus' face.

Snape dragged another breath into his lungs and tried to focus despite the thumping pain in his head and stomach. He did not doubt Weasley's sincerity, and it was beginning to scare the hell out of him. If Weasley called the Aurors, his parole would be revoked. Had he called them already? The image of his dank prison cell swam before him.

He couldn't go back.

He wouldn't.

Granger is missing. He could feel the back of his neck begin to itch, sweat prickling under his arms. He replayed their conversation in the cafe, remembering how her earnest features had come alive as she had teased and bantered with him. He thought how jealous he had been of her academic passion, the way that she had leaned forward, her eyes sparkling and animated in the bright lights of the bizarre, subterranean coffeehouse.

He tried to cudgel his memories into order, but could think of no clue as to her whereabouts. She had spoken about her work, but only in riddles – bloody woman! No, that's not right, he corrected himself. She had made an oath, so she couldn't tell. Clearly, she was involved in something secret... something significant.

What's the bloody girl done now? he thought in exasperation.

Suddenly, he remembered the note in his pocket. "I did see Miss Granger this week," he rasped. "But not since Wednesday, and I have an appointment with her in two day's time. Perhaps she has gone away for a few days... a holiday?" He winced at the weakness of the notion, even as he suggested it.

Weasley barked out a laugh. "Do you seriously expect me to believe you, you lying bastard? If you won't tell me, then I reckon the Aurors will be able to loosen your tongue..."

Weasley drew his breath and flicked his wand upwards, and Snape knew he was preparing to incant the Auror summons.

Whatever the hell had happened to Granger, they'd pin this on him.

He'd be back in Azkaban in hours.

He had no choice; he had to run.

Snape tried to remember what Weasley did at the Ministry. Granger had mentioned something, hadn't she? He was prepared to bet that it wasn't law enforcement.

If that was the case....

Severus sagged a little to one side and twisted his lower body away from Weasley's wand hand. Sure enough, Weasley lurched forward, off balance, and Snape reached down, grabbing his wrist with one hand, pushing the wand away from him and using his momentum to shove the taller, heavier man along the bar, towards the empty booth at the end where Severus had left his coat a few minutes ago.

Weasley grunted and turned, his wand rising, but Snape was too committed to care. Pulling his own blackthorn wand from his sleeve, he cast a curt, "Consopera Maxima!", pushing the younger man backwards into the empty booth. He watched in satisfaction as Weasley crumpled onto the leather seat and slumped insensate onto the table in front of him. Not as severe as a Stupify or Petrificus, two spells he was forbidden to use under any circumstances, the charm, Consopera, was one that a parent might use to lull their child to sleep. His lip curled in a sneer. If someone jostled the idiot, then he would wake up, but he had bought himself a few moments to get away without causing too much of a scene.

He walked quickly to the door of the pub and then outside onto the street. For a busy Friday night in the capital, the pavement was virtually deserted. Severus supposed that the weather had something to do with that; it was raining hard and bitingly cold. He shivered, the sharp droplets stinging his eyes, freezing on the skin of his chest through his thin shirt.

Severus ducked around the corner, into the alley behind the building where they kept the rubbish bins. The horrible cramping sensation in his stomach made him catch his breath as he tried to compose himself sufficiently to Apparate, running through a series of possible destinations in his mind. He could not afford to splinch himself. He forced himself to be calm, to find his focus, his back pressed against the wet brick wall, chest heaving with the effort.

Perhaps the Consopera spell had not aroused suspicion? Almost the moment that foolish hope had suggested itself, an Auror Notice appeared in front of him with a sharp snap. Without thinking, Severus snatched the black envelope out of the air, crushing it in his hand.

Shit. They would only be a few moments behind.

Blood pounded in his ears.

Granger is missing.

Granger is missing.

His head throbbed painfully.

Granger is missing, and Weasley thinks I've kidnapped her... or worse.

Fuck!

His stomach heaved suddenly, and a flood of choking, bitter liquid surged up his throat.

He spun around, propping himself up on the slick metal side of the bin next to him and vomited, his legs wide apart and trembling as the stream of bile and whiskey splashed on the broken tarmac at his feet.

His stomach clenched and clenched again until he was dry heaving and coughing.

Bloody woman! Where the hell has she gone?

He coughed again and spat the bitter liquid left in his mouth against the bin's base, allowing his forehead to rest gently against the cold metal in front of him as he tried to compose himself.

He had to go. He had only moments before Weasley righted himself or the Aurors arrived.

But go, where? Could he find her before the Aurors caught up with him?

"Stand up!"

Two hands grabbed him roughly from behind and pulled him upright. Snape spun around, trying to bring his wand to bear on his attacker, but it was knocked roughly to one side as his assailant grabbed the front of his sodden jacket and shirt and pushed him back against the wet brick of the alleyway.

Snape lashed out with his other hand, his fist connecting with a satisfying crunch into the side of the man's nose.

"Ow! Fuck!"

He was shoved backwards again, his head hitting the cold bricks behind him with a force that made him see stars. Nonetheless, he struggled to free himself from the tight grip the other man now had on his jacket collar until he was brought up short, staring in disbelief into the face of his attacker.

What the...?

"It's me, you idiot!"

That voice! Severus stared in disbelief as an exact copy of himself grunted a quick "Episkey!" and wiped blood from his nose and chin with the back of his hand.

The Snape before him, his harsh features illuminated by the guttering street lamp above, was wearing a voluminous set of black robes that wrapped about his body, secured by a thick leather belt. About his neck was a thick swathe of dark material that Severus dimly thought could have been fashioned into some sort of turban. His face was dark, tanned to a deep bronze, the effect making the whites of the man's eyes stand out with an even greater intensity in the flickering light from the street lamps. A thin cut, recently healed, ran across the blade of his cheekbone. The man glared at Severus as he swiped his sleeve across his upper lip, smudging the blood that still ran sluggishly from his injured nose, then returned his grip to Snape's shirtfront.

Polyjuice? Snape thought, still stupid from shock and the pain in his stomach. Who the hell would want to Polyjuice into me, for Merlin's sake?

Other-Snape's eyes were piercing, irresistible. "If I've timed this right, Weasley has just tried to hex your balls off, and you know that Hermione..." the man's voice cracked "...Hermione has gone missing."

Severus stopped struggling. "What? How do you...?" he breathed.

His doppelgänger glared at him. "I told you: I'm you, fuckwit." He shook Severus slightly for emphasis. "Shut up and listen. There isn't much time until the Aurors arrive." He nodded his head towards the High Street, then reached inside his strange, flowing robes and pulled out a golden pendant.

Is that a Time Turner? Severus' breath caught. "Where did you...? But they were all destroyed!" he blurted. What I could have done with one of those bloody things a year ago....

"Yes," the other man said with obvious impatience. "This one is new. Here." He pulled the chain over his head and thrust the device towards Severus, who received it in numb fingers, his hand closing about the circular device automatically.

"I can't say much, but you feel terrible because she's gone," Other-Snape said urgently. "You need to get her back or...don't interrupt me! You need to get to the Department of Mysteries to find her." He stared at Severus for a moment as if trying to find the right words to say.

"You must go after her," he continued after a few frustrated seconds. "I can hold the Aurors for a while. You've got about fifteen minutes or so until the Timeshift aligns and the paradox is resolved. Then the Aurors will come after you again. You must follow her, or the stupid woman will be lost forever."

Snape gaped at him. Timeshift? Paradox? His head throbbed painfully, and his stomach felt like it was on fire.

Other-Snape made a growling noise. "Look, I know you feel like shit," he said. "But you have to get a fucking grip." He pulled Severus towards him, snarling into his face, "You must go to the Department of Mysteries. Do you understand? The Ministry."

Severus nodded dumbly, fighting to reconcile the impossibility of the situation with the apparent sincerity of his assailant's intentions.

" And you have to take Weasley with you," he added, then rolled his eyes at Severus' reaction. "I know, it sounds impossible to believe, but he will help."

There was a sudden shout from the entrance to the pub and Other-Snape twisted around. "Fuck it. They're here! I'm going to give myself up. They'll have me and so won't pay any attention to your weaker signal for a few minutes until... well." He shrugged. "Redundant timeline."

Severus stared at him, the cramping in his stomach was suddenly so painful that he could barely breathe, let alone move. He grimaced.

Other-Snape frowned. "Oh, yes. Right." He pulled at Severus' shirt front impatiently and placed a hand over his bare midriff. The palm of the other man's hand felt painfully hot on the sensitive flesh there, and Severus could not suppress an involuntary whimper. But Other-Snape refused to budge, staring intently into Severus' eyes as he murmured an incantation. A numb sensation spread from the hand on his stomach through his body, and Severus recognised what the other man was doing. He relaxed fractionally as the pain waned.

"Occlumency block," Other-Snape said matter-of-factly. "It'll help, but it won't last for long."

"Take these." Other-Snape pushed a thin vial of swirling memories into Severus' hand. "They might survive this time. It's worth a try." His harsh expression seemed to soften. "I'm sorry I can't tell you more, but I can't risk straining the paradox even more than I have done already.... Weasley will still be in there if you hurry. Tell him you know where she is, and he'll follow you. Get to the Department and... you'll see what to do."

Severus heard one of the Aurors at the entrance to the alleyway call out, "He's out here!" and he locked eyes with his counterpart.

Other-Snape made to say something, hesitated, and then placed one hand heavily on Severus' shoulder. "Go," he said simply and strode away.

Severus watched as he walked out of the alleyway, empty hands before him.

Predictably, the Aurors began to shout at him to put his wand down, to kneel in the street, to keep his hands where they could see them.

Severus barely had chance to hear Other-Snape sneer something insulting before the sharp crack of hexes drowned everything else out.

"That's got him," a deeper voice called out.

"Is that him? Check for Polyjuice!" A woman's voice, high with fear and excitement.

Severus' breath hitched.

A pause, then a third voice said, "It's him alright. It's the right magical signature. Bastard. Why d'you think he threatened us?"

Severus forced himself to resume his breathing as he froze, hidden in the shadows behind the bins. Three of them at least. His fingers clutched convulsively around his wand.

"Disillusion him, Abbott, and let's get him back to the Ministry," the deeper voice said. "Hurry up you two, or we'll have to Obliviate half the bloody street."

Severus heard a muffled spell, a short, scuffling noise, and finally the unmistakable crack of Apparition.

He sagged for a moment against the wall.

It had been true, then.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Granger was missing, and he had to find her.

Picking up his wand, Snape lurched to his feet and moved tentatively into the light. The rain was still falling, and he shivered in the keen wind. The strange Time Turner was an odd, heavy form in his fist, and he uncurled his fingers to look at it. The black sands in the tiny hour glass at its heart glittered, surrounded by four delicate rings of finely wrought, golden metal. Tiny runes were inscribed carefully into the edges of the concentric circles.

He had never used one before.

Albus had kept one of the damned things in his desk drawer, but he had made it clear that it was off limits. Snape closed his eyes and remembered the argument they had had about it. How useful it would be, should Voldemort truly return as Dumbledore insisted he would, for the Order's spy to be able to travel through Time with impunity... the opportunities it presented to be able to gather crucial intelligence, perhaps even to save...

"No, my dear boy." Dumbledore had held up his hand, and Severus had seen the briefest flash of the ruthlessness that lay at the old man's core... but just as swiftly, the harsh look that the old wizard had given him softened into the more familiar, kindly countenance.

Dumbledore had patted his hand. "Too dangerous, my boy," he had said. "Far too dangerous. The temptation would be too great for you to bear. Time Turners are the most dangerous of all magical objects."

Severus had known he was right and hated him for it.

He turned the object over in his hand carefully. Far too dangerous for everyone except for a fourteen-year-old girl, that is, he remembered with a rueful snort. When Minerva had told him that Hermione Granger had been granted permission to use the Time Turner in her third year, he had stormed up to see the Headmaster, to rail at him again about House favouritism and the absolutely preposterous idea of providing a teenager – one of bloody-Potter's-friends at that – with "the most dangerous of all magical objects", only to find Dumbledore at his most maddeningly evasive. As usual in his dealings with the man, Severus had left the Headmaster's office unsatisfied.

Granger.

Shit, Granger.

Severus' fingers closed about the Time Turner, and he shook his head, willing himself to get his focus back and get moving again. As he turned to go back into the pub, to wake Weasley and drag him to the heart of the Ministry, he felt the ghost of that sharp, throbbing sensation return to his gut again and winced.

Bloody woman.

He didn't have much time.

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A/N: The plot thickens... Huge thanks as always goes to my alpha and beta team of beaweasley2, Clairvoyant and nagandsev, without whom you would not be reading this! I do not own the Harry Potter world and make no money (*rolls eyes*) from this endeavour. Thank you also to everyone who reads and reviews - you really do help me to carry on writing!