Messages

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe is the property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers. Anything you recognize belongs to her. I am not making any money from this.

Chapter 8: Messages

The Chosen One, aka Harry Potter, was wary of surprises since many of the ones he'd received in his life had been less than pleasant. This one arrived just as Minerva McGonagall was preparing to leave the Burrow after their Transfiguration lesson. The imperious eagle owl that carried the package had perched on the kitchen windowsill, but would not allow anyone other than Harry to approach.

"Must be something for you, mate," Ron stated.

"Brilliant deduction, Ron," Harry drawled sarcastically under his breath. The large owl had already tried to snap off the fingers of everyone else to come near it. Ron only laughed in reply. Harry reached cautiously toward the small, brown parcel tied to the owl's leg and, receiving no reprimand, quickly untied it. The bird immediately fluffed its wings, turned and launched itself out of the open window. Harry regarded the box in his hands for a moment before unwrapping it. Inside he found a folded note and a small capped vial filled with what appeared to be silvery-white fluid. Harry's breath hitched. "It's a memory!" he exclaimed softly.

"Whose?" inquired Molly.

"Dunno. Maybe the note will tell us who it's from," Harry answered. He unfolded the note to reveal a single handwritten line in an unfamiliar scrawl.

Something for you to consider until we meet again.

Mystified, Harry handed the note to Molly, who held it so that she and Minerva could read it simultaneously. They both looked up at Harry with puzzled expressions, then Molly passed the note to Ron and Ginny. After glancing at it, Ron gave Harry a shrug as if to say, 'no idea what that's about.' Ginny, however, frowned in concentration, staring at the short missive.

"What's the matter, Ginny?" Harry asked.

"I... I'm not sure.... This writing looks familiar." She shook her head as if to clear it and held the note out for Harry to take back. But as he reached for it, Ginny abruptly gasped. The note fell from her nerveless fingers and fluttered to the floor. All eyes turned to Ginny as she spoke in a shaky voice, "It's from him: Voldemort. The handwriting is nearly the same as Tom's was – in the diary."

A shocked silence descended over the kitchen. Harry was the first to recover. "You're sure?" he asked Ginny. She nodded solemnly. "Well, one thing's for certain," he reasoned, holding the vial aloft, "we can't find out what this is all about without a Pensieve. That's the only way to view a memory like this that I know of." He turned to Minerva McGonagall. "Unless you know another way, Professor?"

"No. I don't know another method," she confirmed. "I believe a Pensieve is the only way to examine an extracted memory such as that." She indicated the silvery contents of the vial with a flick of her bony finger.

"Well, we certainly don't have a Pensieve here," Molly said brusquely. "They are almost impossible to come by – not to mention exorbitantly expensive! No one I know has one," she concluded.

"Actually, I believe that someone you know does own a Pensieve: Alastor Moody if I'm not mistaken," Minerva pronounced. "I recall seeing one when we removed him from his magical trunk at Hogwarts."

*****

The Pensieve stood in the center of the kitchen table, surrounded by Harry, Moody, Remus and most of the Weasley clan. "It's only large enough for three people at a time," Moody growled to Harry. "Remus can come with us, but this lot will have to wait while we have a look." He nodded toward the red-headed horde.

"Um, sir?" Harry began hesitantly. "Would you mind terribly if Ron and Remus went in with me first?"

"If that memory is Voldemort's, you want to be careful when viewing it, boy," Moody responded. "I'd rather you had the protection of two adult wizards when you go in."

Harry shook his head at Moody's eternal suspicion; in this instance it was excessive and completely unnecessary. "Sir," he said deferentially, "it's only a memory. It can't harm us. In this case there's no danger. Besides," Harry continued more confidently, "Professor Dumbledore showed me several memories about Voldemort's history last year at Hogwarts. Nothing dangerous happened. I'm not scared to see anything he may have sent me."

Moody stared thoughtfully at Harry for a few seconds before gruffly capitulating.

Harry glanced at Ron and Remus, motioning them nearer. He uncapped the vial and upended its contents into the Pensieve where it began to swirl rapidly. Grasping the upper arm of each of his companions, he nodded toward Remus' wand. "Remus, if you're ready?" he prompted. Remus poked his wand tip into the miniature vortex, and the three of them leaned over the wide-rimmed bowl. As Harry's nose contacted the surface, he felt the familiar sensation of tumbling head-over-heels in slow motion.

His feet hit the ground and he straightened, relinquishing his hold on the other men's arms. They were in a tiny, dilapidated sitting room. The walls were covered in shelves filled with books and there, on an old, shabby sofa, sat Hermione, reading. Across from her, in an equally threadbare chair, was Wormtail. He also held a book, but from the direction of his wandering eyes, seemed to prefer the girl in front of him to his chosen story. Ron was gaping at the scene in disbelief. "Hermione!" he called excitedly. "Bloody hell, we've been so worried about you..."

Getting no reaction, he looked in confusion to Harry, who responded, "She can't hear you, Ron. This is only a memory. You can't affect anything that happens; you're just an observer."

Ron looked chagrined. "But whose memory is it?" he retorted. "Hermione's? Why would Voldemort send you that?"

"I think," Remus interjected, "that it's his memory." He was pointing over Harry's shoulder. The younger men spun around to find Snape standing in the doorway, a view of the narrow street visible behind him. Snape shut the door, causing Wormtail to jump up and scurry from the room. "This must be Snape's house," Remus surmised as Snape walked toward Hermione, tossing a package into her lap and informing her it contained robes.

"Shhh," Harry admonished, wanting to hear their conversation. In amazed silence, the three men watched as Snape returned Hermione's wand, describing the restrictions on it.

"Bugger!" Ron swore softly. "No wonder she hasn't been able to get away."

"Indeed," Remus agreed. They listened as Snape dropped his second bombshell: the offer to tutor their friend in seventh form classes. "I'll be damned," Remus said under his breath.

"Don't do it, Hermione," Ron advised uselessly in a whisper.

Harry watched, the unease obvious on his face, but said nothing. She's challenging him, he thought as he listened to Hermione question Snape's motives. Good job! Don't trust the murdering bastard.

But when Snape put the decision to the test, asking her outright, Harry knew what the answer would be. After all, this was Hermione: she never turned down an opportunity to learn.

"Well, Granger," Snape asked in a brisk voice, "should I return those books and confiscate your wand for the duration of your stay?"

Looking directly at Snape, she took a deep breath and answered, "No, sir. If you're willing to teach me, I want to learn."

Ron hissed in denial. Glancing at Remus, Harry saw a pained expression on his features. So, they don't like it any better than I do, he realized. A white fog began to envelope them as the memory ended. Harry waited expectantly for the floating sensation that had always accompanied his exit from Dumbledore's Pensieve, but it didn't come. The fog became thick enough to obscure their vision, and then inexplicably, began to thin.

When they could see again, they noted that they were still standing in the small parlor of Snape's house. However, Hermione was now dressed in robes, her hair knotted carelessly at the nape of her neck. It was a different day, a different memory, Harry realized. Hermione was practicing a complex wand movement in conjunction with an incantation. Harry recognized it with a jolt, it was an advanced Tracking Charm that Molly Weasley had introduced to Ron and himself the week before. Snape entered the room and sat opposite their friend, watching her precise wand movements, his familiar classroom scowl in place. She completed the charm and looked expectantly at Snape. Harry waited for the soft, sneering comment that had always followed Hermione's successes in Snape's class, but it never came.

Snape nodded calmly. "That is adequate, Granger," he said. "Now, do you have questions on the theory behind this set of charms?" Hermione nodded, launching immediately into a complex discussion of the topic with her teacher.

"He didn't mock her," piped Ron, clearly amazed. "In fact, for Snape, that sounded incredibly positive."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I'm even more surprised that he actually invited her to ask questions! He never did that at Hogwarts." The fog began to shroud the scene as Hermione and Snape finished their conversation. But still, the observers' feet remained firmly on the ground. Apparently, Harry thought, there's more to come.

This time, when the veiling mist lifted, they found themselves in the alley behind Snape's house. Wormtail stood in a defensive posture as the sound of running feet approached. The three men saw Snape, with Hermione close on his heels, careen into the alleyway, shocking Wormtail into immobility. Wide-eyed, they watched as Snape and Wormtail dueled, taunting one another cruelly.

Then Snape was down, his legs tangled in a rope of fire, and Wormtail flung an Entrail Expelling Curse, evidently wanting to finish him off. Harry cried out in dismay as Hermione, reacting with a speed he hadn't known she possessed, leaped in front of Snape, shielding both of them with the Protego Charm. Snape, having freed himself from the rope, retreated behind some trash bins, pulling Hermione in behind him.

Harry, Ron and Remus heard the pounding of numerous feet and saw themselves, along with Moody and Fred, dash into the alley.

Snape called out, "Wormtail! The next time we meet, you are a dead man!" Pettigrew's only response was the loud crack of his Disapparition. A second crack moments later signaled Snape's departure with Hermione.

The billowing white fog enveloped them again, and Harry felt a floating sensation as he emerged from the memory, turning a slow somersault to land on his feet in the Weasley's kitchen.

Ron was speechless, a stricken look across his expressive face. Harry grabbed his arm and turned to Remus. "Let's go into the parlor to talk," he suggested pointedly.

As he steered Ron determinedly from the room, Moody asked, "What happened in there, boy?"

Harry looked briefly at Moody and the Weasleys. "You can all have a gawk, if you want. We'll talk later," he tossed over his shoulder.

Remus followed the young men into the sitting room and took a seat across from them, wearing a thoughtful expression. He listened as Harry attempted, without visible success, to reason with Ron. "Why'd she do that, Harry?" Ron wailed. "Why'd she save him? She could have been free..."

"Ron, she probably just reacted reflexively when she heard that curse. You know how she is when something offends her sense of justice!" Harry explained. But Ron merely continued to bemoan the events they had witnessed.

After a few minutes of the same sort of exchanges, Remus broke in. "I, for one, am glad she shielded Snape!" he announced. The others were silent, obviously stunned by his pronouncement. He regarded the two young men levelly as he explained, "If Snape had been hit with that curse while she was tethered to him, she would have been a sitting duck for Wormtail. And believe me, if you two had seen what I saw when I was in Wormtail's head, you wouldn't want your friend to be at his mercy. For some reason – I can't fathom why – he had some very negative feelings towards Hermione," Remus finished grimly.

Fortunately, Remus' revelation seemed to put things into perspective, calming Ron and allowing them all to consider the other events they had witnessed.

"Snape is up to something," Harry concluded. "He never acted like that toward the students at Hogwarts. Well, except for his Slytherins," he amended.

"Yes, I agree, Harry. I think he's trying to manipulate Hermione – to what end I can't imagine, though," Remus admitted.

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

The days seemed to pass both slowly and quickly for Hermione. Slowly, because she found herself increasingly lonely for the company of her friends. Sometimes, it seemed like months since she'd had the kind of relaxed conversation she used to share with them. Quickly, because she endeavored to fill the hours by acquiring as much knowledge as possible. She worked with a single-minded intensity that impressed Snape and even drew the attention (albeit, unwanted) of Draco Malfoy.

"I don't know why you're bothering, Granger," Draco scoffed dismissively. "When the Dark Lord conquers the wizarding world, people like you will be lucky if you're left alive to be house-elves."

Hermione desperately wanted to make a scathing retort to put the arrogant git in his place, but thought better of it before she opened her mouth. Instead she pretended to ignore him and contented herself with private observations such as: Whereas your pure blood has made you such a brilliant success as a junior Death Eater that your precious Dark Lord made you his right hand man! The sneer must have shown on her face as she thought it because Draco began to advance toward her threateningly.

"You had better learn to show more respect for your superiors, Mudblood. Your 'protector' may not always be there to defend you," he hissed. He thrust his face in front of hers to insure he wasn't ignored. "When the new order is established, half-bloods will be taking commands from me! People like Snape will find themselves demoted to their proper station in life."

"Interesting plans, Draco," Snape sneered softly from the doorway. "I wonder who you could have heard them from, as they don't seem to match what the Dark Lord has been telling his trusted advisors," he finished silkily.

Draco straightened rapidly, his complexion paling. "I was just giving the Mudblood something to think about," he said non-committally. "She should be prepared for all the possibilities that the future holds."

"As should you," Snape replied coldly.

*****

That evening, Hermione hesitantly broached the topic of the future with Snape. She didn't exactly value Draco's opinion, believing that he was too spoilt and biased for his information to be trusted. She wanted to hear Snape's viewpoint, if he would give it to her. They were sitting before the hearth in their shared bedroom; Hermione was tucked into one of the two chairs Snape had asked the house-elves to bring in. It was a cozy little reading area, conducive to long, tranquil conversations, although Snape wasn't.

"Sir? I know he's just an arrogant little ferret, but... is there any truth in what Draco said this afternoon?" she asked in a rush.

He was silent, and Hermione, thinking he wasn't going to answer, sighed and looked back at her book. "I suppose the answer to that depends on who you ask," he said finally. Hermione searched his face and waited; she had found that silence often elicited more answers from Snape than a barrage of questions (which seemed to annoy him). So it proved tonight. "Draco may just be parroting things he heard from Lucius and his friends all his life," he began in a neutral voice. "However, his specific mention of myself leads me to believe that some of the more fanatic pure-bloods are hoping to sway the Dark Lord to such a plan." He closed the book in his lap and stared into the fire.

"If they only knew..." Hermione whispered. Snape raised an eyebrow, prompting her to elaborate. "The pure-bloods," she explained, "if they only knew their precious Dark Lord is a half-blood himself. How it would shake the foundations of their bigotry... I'd love to see that." She grinned.

Snape didn't smile. "It's more likely that you would get to see the far side of the veil if you told them that! Learn caution, girl." A short pause followed his words. "How did you learn of the Dark Lord's parentage?" he inquired. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she was regaining some of her memories regarding his master's history. His face was set in its customary mask of indifference, revealing none of his apprehension as he waited for her answer.

"Oh, well, we figured it out a couple of years ago. I've known since second year that Tom Riddle was the last surviving descendent of Salazar Slytherin. He told Harry that himself when he emerged as a memory from the enchanted diary. And Professor Dumbledore confirmed it; he told Harry that Riddle's mother was a witch. Then, at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, when he reestablished a corporeal form, he told Harry that his father was a Muggle. Wormtail was there too, so he must know as well," she deduced.

"The Dark Lord seems to have carelessly revealed a great deal about himself to Potter," he remarked softly. "Not many of his followers know that much of his history. I myself only know of his parentage because of my long association with Dumbledore."

They were both quiet, deep in their own thoughts. After a time Hermione gathered her courage to ask the question that had been bothering her since last June. "Sir? I was wondering..." She stopped, knowing there was a good chance that what she was about to say would enrage him. She was reluctant to disrupt their calm rapport, but felt it was important to know the truth.

"What now?" he bit out impatiently.

Not a good sign, she thought with trepidation. But still, she was compelled to forge ahead. "Were... were you always a servant of the Dark Lord, or did you truly change sides all those years ago when you went to Dumbledore?" she blurted.

He looked thunderous, but not worse than she had expected. "What makes you think I would tell you that?" he questioned in return.

"I... It's just that I trusted you after the incident with the Sorcerer's Stone. Harry and Ron, they always suspected you whenever something went wrong," she muttered. "I guess I'm just wondering if I was a fool all that time..." She looked into his cold eyes as if searching for the answer.

"You've always been a fool! Nothing I have or haven't done could change that!" he snapped. Tears sprang into her eyes at his words, and she quickly looked away. Bloody Gryffindor brashness! he raged internally. To ask a man outright to spill his secrets – only a fool would do that. He tried to glare at the girl, but incongruously noticed the tears running down her cheeks. He felt his stomach twist painfully. Damn! Damn her tears!

He stared sullenly into the fire, wondering why he had not simply told her to bugger off. It would have been preferable to provoke her anger; that he could have simply ignored. He glanced at the girl again, only to see her wiping her cheek and biting her lower lip in a partially successful attempt to suppress her emotions. He sighed, thinking, What difference does it make if I tell her? She won't be sharing her knowledge with my enemies. He took a deep breath and started talking before he reconsidered his decision. "Granger," his voice rasped harshly in the quiet room. "The things I've done, both then and now, I did to survive. It started the night Trelawney made the prophecy. I was spying for the Dark Lord, but was caught. Dumbledore convinced me that it was in my best interest to feed my master only partial information."

"What do you mean?" Hermione queried. "Harry said you were caught before hearing the entire prophecy."

"No. Dumbledore lied to the boy. That night, he proposed a deal to me, in lieu of handing me to the Aurors. In exchange for giving only half the prophecy to the Dark Lord, he offered me sanctuary at Hogwarts and to vouch for me if I should wish to leave my master's service. Needless to say, I took the offer. I had seen what happened to others who had tried to leave – Niall Zabini, Regulus Black, Julius Dobbins – all dead within a month of abandoning the Dark Lord's service. I had only to propose to my master that I could spy on Dumbledore under his very nose. So I became a double-agent, attempting to satisfy two masters. After the Dark Lord's demise, I stayed at Hogwarts. I kept out of the public eye. I assisted Dumbledore however he needed, whenever he asked. In spite of everything he did," he added in a bitter undertone.

"In spite of...?" she repeated in confusion. "I still don't understand. If you were loyal to Dumbledore, then why did you betray him?"

At that, his temper snapped. "I did not betray him. He betrayed me!" Snape snarled.

Hermione watched fearfully as he tried to control his rage. His lips were pressed together in a thin line and his face was white with anger.

He took several breaths and glowered at the girl. "How many attempts on my life was I supposed to forgive? How many times was I supposed to excuse his favoritism, his slurs to my knowledge and pride? And then, the ultimate betrayal..." he trailed off.

He was staring at the fire again. Hermione dared not speak, uncertain if it would anger or appease him.

"Black tried to kill me when we were sixteen. His attempt failed, but Dumbledore didn't even punish him. Anyone else would have been expelled for such an act! And when I brought Black back to the castle after his escape from Azkaban, Dumbledore and Potter somehow helped him escape. A year later Dumbledore forced me to shake hands with that excrescence, Black. I was supposed to just forgive and forget. "'Work for the common good' Dumbledore told me."

"Salt in the wounds," Hermione whispered. Snape nodded jerkily. "I never knew Sirius had done that. It's hard to believe... I always thought he seemed irresponsible, but essentially harmless," she remarked sadly.

"Yes, his good looks and Gryffindor affiliation gained him instant trust from most," Snape observed. "Whereas my appearance ..." He gave a short, bitter laugh.

After a minute he continued his story. "I practically begged Dumbledore for fifteen years to let me teach my strongest subject, Defense Against the Dark Arts. He consistently refused, thinking it would tempt me back to the Dark Arts. He appointed idiots, frauds and even werewolves rather than me. Could I need any clearer proof of how he saw me?"

"He didn't trust you," Hermione reiterated. "A bitter pill to swallow."

Surprised by her understanding, Snape locked eyes with her. He saw sincerity in her gaze. Of course! he thought. Knowledge is crucial to her; she, too, takes pride in her accomplishments. For the first time in years, he felt he was facing someone who shared his need to be acknowledged. Indeed, he realized, I have always known this about her. It had simply not dawned on him before today that her more blatant attempts to be recognized were akin to his own.

But he wasn't quite finished yet: there was one more thing to tell. He spoke in a voice barely louder than a whisper, just discernible above the crackling of the fire. "And after all that, Dumbledore sent me back to the Dark Lord. Back to grovel and kiss the hem of his robes. To be punished for not answering his summons promptly. I had to renew old alliances, combat the old prejudices again. I despised him for that," he said vehemently.

"Then last summer," Snape related, "after Lucius' botched attempt to gain the prophecy, the Dark Lord punished the Malfoys by assigning Draco a near-impossible job: to kill Dumbledore. His mother came to me distraught, pleading for the life of her son. For the sake of my long friendship with Lucius and Narcissa and to allay the lingering suspicions of Bellatrix and her ilk, I made an Unbreakable Vow. I promised to keep Draco safe and to help him finish his task, if necessary. It was necessary. It was either kill Dumbledore or die," he finished.

"No one should have to make a choice like that," Hermione said in a horrified voice.

"At least this way, I have only one master, rather than two." Snape regarded the girl, fully expecting to see revulsion on her face, but instead he saw a curiously tender expression. Feeling uncertain, he reverted to his customary sneer. "I don't need your pity, Granger! I did what I had to do to survive, and I don't expect someone like you to understand!"

Hermione looked offended. "I don't pretend to understand what it was like for you," she offered coolly. "And I don't pity you. I can't imagine what I'd do if faced with the same choice. But pity is not the same as compassion. Pity is for those you look down on; compassion happens between equals, and between friends."

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

September was half over, and Harry was contemplating his next trip to Bogin and Burkes when another message arrived at the Burrow for him. A large, strong Great Grey owl, carrying nothing more than a letter in its beak, alighted on the kitchen windowsill, rapping politely for entry. Molly, who was busy making an evening snack for the family, promptly opened the window and the bird hopped inside. As the direction on the envelope read 'To the Chosen One' she immediately called out, "Harry, dear, there's a letter for you!" She busied herself by getting water and food for the big Grey, which it gratefully accepted after Harry had taken the letter from it. "Why, he's famished!" she exclaimed, watching the owl gulp water and inhale the meat she had placed on the sideboard for it.

"It's no wonder," Harry commented. "I think this owl has been traveling for two days; that's when the letter is dated." Harry frowned in confusion as he read the short message.

14 September, 1997

Your One-Time Opponent

"It seems to be a riddle of some sort," said Ron, reading over his shoulder.

Harry passed the note to Arthur Weasley, who perused it rapidly and handed it back with a shrug. "It means nothing to me," he remarked. "But it sounds like whoever wrote it wants you to figure it out – not at all like the nebulous message from You-Know-Who."

"Harry," Molly interjected, now having read the note over his other shoulder, "what's 'the thing that you miss the most'?"

Her phrasing jolted Harry and Ron's memories and they yelled simultaneously, "Krum!"

"What?" Molly asked in confusion, "Crumb? What does that mean?"

"Not crumb," Harry answered. "Krum...Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Quiddich player, and my 'one-time opponent' in the Triwizard Tournament," he finished with a smile. "The message is about Hermione. Remember how taken he was with her that year? He even escorted her to the Yule ball." Ron glowered angrily, but Harry paid no attention. "In the second task," he explained, "we had to retrieve the thing that we would miss the most from the Merpeople. Hermione turned out to be the one that Viktor Krum would miss the most! This note is telling us that he's seen her, and that she's safe."

"But that means Krum is a Death Eater!" Arthur exclaimed. "The Aurors will be very interested in that information."

"But, Dad," Ron objected, "if they arrest Krum, how will he be able to send us word about Hermione?"

"Anyway, we can't be sure from this note that he's really a Death Eater," Harry reasoned. "It sounds to me like he's spying on them. Why else would he be willing to send us information?"

Arthur looked uncertain for a moment until Molly spoke up. "Arthur, I think the intent of this note is clear: he's trying to reassure Harry about Hermione. Why, he's even said he'll contact us if anything changes," she assured her husband soothingly.

Finally, Arthur nodded his head resignedly. "All right, I won't contact the Aurors," he sighed.

Harry let out the breath he had been holding and regarded Krum's owl, which was now tearing at a second helping of meaty chunks Molly had given him. "Would you be willing to take a reply back?" he asked the bird. The large Grey clicked its beak and stepped closer to Harry. Harry took up the original letter and wrote two short sentences.

Thank you. Please, keep in touch.

He refolded the parchment and slipped it back into its envelope, holding it out for the owl. After a last swallow of water, the Great Grey owl clamped his beak over the envelope, turned to Molly and bobbed its head, then winged out of the open window.

"How do you like that," Molly murmured. "A bird with manners!"

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Author Notes:

--A big thanks to my beta Larilee for keeping my Potterverse terms cannon-compliant and for all her help!

--Niall Zabini and Julius Dobbins: I made them up!