Ars Necronomica

A/N: If I have seen at all into the darkness, it is because docmara, my psych!beta, holds her hands around my low, sputtering candle; if the darkness shines in these words, it is because Anastasia, my uber!beta, holds the balance of poetry and precision in her ruthless, compassionate quill. Every writer should be so blessed.

5: Ars Necronomica

He'd expected something like this. But it was worse than he'd thought.

-------------------------

As was usual in the morning, Hermione awakened unaware – unaware of her dreams, of the house-elf changing the pillowcase; unaware that by noon she would have a fresh smudge of scarlet ink by her ear.

If she was aware that the wind was rushing higher, closer around the castle, stretching to reach for any tiny cracks or crevices in the ancient stone, her face gave no sign of it as her heels marked her regimented progress down the corridor, down the stairs, and into the Great Hall for breakfast.

Mentally assessing the path her research would follow that day, she barely registered that term had ended and the students had left. A possible breakthrough in her research had suggested itself during the night, as sometimes happened whilst she slept, and her eyes were glazed and distant as she consumed her morning meal.

----

As Severus climbed the stairs toward the Entrance Hall, he found himself idly wondering whether the castle had been instructed to recreate his rooms or whether Minerva had simply allowed them to remain, unused and unchanged, since he had left the school.

His eyes had raked the passage ahead for any signs of the troublesome Professor Granger.

Troubled. Not troublesome, troubled.

Emerging from the dungeon stairs into the Entrance Hall, he was assured by the sound of voices from the Great Hall that the staff was already at breakfast. He paused, leaning briefly on the newel post, sifting once more through his more distant memories of Hermione Granger.

Few specifics suggested themselves. He had taken little notice of her as a student; her work had been acceptable – outstanding, according to the few standards he had been permitted to impose – but his memories of her from her student days were little more than unconsciously cataloged impressions. Muggle-borns like Granger had received the least of his attention, not out of any real bias, but simply because his shoulder-blades did not itch when he turned his back to them.

Except...

He was fairly sure he had seen her in the dungeon on that final night, in his rush from his office, before speeding down the corridor, up the stairs to the Entrance Hall, on his way to...

He shook his head. Troubling.

But –

Envy. That day in Diagon Alley.

Shame. Her cloak, rippling behind her.

And the look in her eyes an echo out of a vacuum, held too long, just long enough for him to perceive something, a sound, a shape, where no sound or shape should be...

Poetry, again. He snorted. Damn it, Snape.

The scraping of chair legs against stone echoed outward from the Great Hall, bringing him back to himself, and he turned and took the stairs swiftly and silently, heading for the Library.

----

The object of his musings settled herself at her usual table and arranged her research materials precisely before her. Glancing once at the ceiling, tucking the wisp of hair behind her ear, she bent to review her notes from the previous evening.

Soon the sound of her quill scratching on the parchment faded in her ears as her inquiry took shape in her mind, emerging to swirl into ever-sharper focus.

Semi-concealed in the library stacks, Severus watched her work, recognizing the outward signs of complete absorption. As the morning progressed, he studied her, although there was little enough to note; she focused ever more intently, and her quill raced to contain her thoughts in language, on parchment. So absorbed was he in observation that he blinked, startled, when the scratching stopped. Her hand hesitated – Almost; not quite – then three more marks, and, leaning back, she set down her quill and exhaled.

Something in the silence that followed sharpened Severus' vigil.

As she re-read her work, he saw her brow grow darker, her eyes unfocused, then – Here it comes... – she tensed and glanced at the ceiling.

His observation had paid off, although he did not fully understand it yet. Something in her look reminded him of... something. Half annoyed, half...

He was still trying to place it when Hermione tucked her hair behind her ear.

Narcissa, Severus thought, finally identifying the look. The look the professor had shot toward the ceiling was all Narcissa Malfoy, the way she had looked at her husband when she was unsure of her footing in the Inner Circle and feared Lucius' certain reprisals at home. Only in Narcissa's eyes had he ever seen that particular combination of arrogance, resignation, and terror.

Then he saw the scarlet smudge left by her unconscious gesture, and he inhaled sharply, all thoughts of Narcissa banished by his suspicions coming one step closer, growing several shades darker.

His thoughts a rushing vortex of realigning principles and theorems; in his chest an iron certainty.

Granger, he thought, drawing a careful breath, what did you do?

He had read every article she had ever published, and he had never known a Weasley whose ears did not flame scarlet when apprehended after hours.

Confession. The word resonated in his mind, unbidden but sure.

Nodding once to himself, and turning decisively on his heels, he retreated through the stacks and circled back, approaching the librarian's counter.

"Professor Snape!" Hannah squeaked, flinching.

"Madam... ah..."

"Abbott, sir. Hannah Abbott," she stammered.

"Indeed." A small smirk that Hannah might have recognized as cordial had she not had her wits scattered by his appearance.

"I... I am Librarian here now, sir," Hannah said, trying to collect herself.

He raised an eyebrow, and she paled. Hufflepuff, Snape remembered, mentally sighing. "I've come to inquire after several back issues of Ars Necronomica."

Hannah's mouth formed a shocked, silent O. She shook her head. "We don't even keep that in the Restricted Section, sir."

"So I recall," he countered smoothly. "Yet I also recall that Irma would reserve certain resources for faculty use."

Hannah's eyes widened a fraction, and her hands betrayed a very slight trembling. "I – I'm not sure, sir. We've had little use for such things since you... I mean, since..." She blushed furiously, not knowing where to look.

"Of course," he said softly. Keeping his voice deliberately smooth, he continued, "I believe she would have kept them in the cupboard in her office. Do you know the Charm to open it?"

The librarian nodded. "I've never – I – yes, sir."

"I'm seeking the volumes from the years I was in Azkaban."

Hannah just stared at him.

"I assume you know which years those were..."

She made a small, high-pitched noise that might have been a "Yes," and retreated to the safety of her office.

Severus turned to lean one elbow on the counter, a low smile darkening his lips. He had found few rewards in teaching, but there had been one or two he had savored.

On the other side of the library, the professor had glanced up at the sound of his voice as it echoed off the slanting stone and through the stacks. Snape? Listening to his largely one-sided conversation with the librarian, she sat poised, her eyes alert.

His voice seemed to carry with it the rustling whisper of parchment on parchment, promising a judgment of metal on stone.

At the words Ars Necronomica, Hermione's eyes sharpened, and she swept her notes into her bag.

Severus heard her footsteps retreating. His smile faded, and his eyes went absolutely still.

A moment later, Hannah returned, levitating several thin volumes before her.

He nodded and took the volumes out of the air. At her shocked expression, he leaned over the counter and spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "They cannot contaminate you through your skin, Madam Abbott."

A faint color rose in her face, and her eyes hardened slightly.

Leaning in closer, he continued, "Only if they touch your mind."

----

In his chambers near the Slytherin Common Room, Horace Slughorn's face relaxed as Madam Pomfrey administered her most potent sedative.

The Bloody Baron cast dark, hollow eyes at her, and she shook her head.

"I can do nothing more to relieve his actual suffering," she said, "but I can keep him asleep."

"Will it be today, then?"

The Healer tilted her head, considering, then shook her head definitively. "No. Tomorrow, perhaps; more likely the next day."

The Bloody Baron drifted toward the door. "I shall inform Mi-"

Madam Pomfrey sighed as his words left the room before the rest of him. Of all the castle's ghosts, he was without question the most adroit at maintaining a polite distance without seeming to do so, but he had absolutely forgotten that the living cannot hear through walls.