Chapter Text
The Killers. My Own Soul's Warning. Exploding the Mirage
I tried going against my own soul's warning
And in the end, something just didn't feel right
Oh, I tried diving, even though the sky was storming
Thunderheads were forming
October 1998.
Severus stood rigidly in the corner of the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, his most terrifying glower affixed to his face; the one that should have told anyone with half a functioning brain to stay the fuck away. Thus far, he was pleased to note, it appeared to be working. He’d not yet lost his touch, he thought, sipping slowly at the aged Ogden’s in his hand. Black was a fucking arsehole, he reflected, but he certainly knew how to lay down some good whiskey.
Severus was trying to avoid everyone, assuming his usual black robes and expression would help him disappear in the poorly lit, dirty, old room. Other than sentiment, he was unsure why they continued to meet in this filthy hovel. Black had certainly done nothing with the house while he lived. And it seemed Mr. Potter was continuing the tradition.
Looking around the disgusting excuse for a kitchen, Severus noted the older remaining Order members had clustered around the table catching up; Minerva, Kingsley, Molly, and Arthur all had drinks and plates in front of them on the sticky old table. They were reviewing the strategy the group had agreed upon earlier. Severus idly wondered if they were all lip reading; their chatter and laughter could barely be heard over the thumping din of music coming from the crumbling front parlor, where the younger generation had presumably gathered.
Severus had attended this evening under extreme duress. Minerva had forced his hand; requiring him to attend this Order meeting to discuss rounding up the stray Voldemort supporters as a condition of his continued employment under her direction at Hogwarts. How the meeting had degraded into this nightmare of loud music, smoke, and drunken fools was beyond his comprehension. Severus was weighing the conditions Minerva had laid for his continued employment vs the balance in his Gringotts account; did he really need to continue teaching dunderheaded hormonal idiots or could he afford to live on his savings, perhaps open a small mail order potions business or an apothecary. Weighing his options, sipping the smooth aged Ogden’s, he failed to notice the witless two thirds of the Golden Trio appear in front of him until it was too late to escape.
“Professor Snape!” Harry stuttered drunkenly, swaying in place in front of Severus, absolutely reeking of cheap vodka and cigarettes, hair half plastered down and half defying gravity, shirt untucked, and most strangely missing one shoe. “You’re looking well, sir. Thank you for coming. I’m glad the snake didn’t eat you” he said. Waving his hand in front of his face, Severus sneered “Potter, you’re pickled. I’m getting contact drunk from just standing within three feet of you.”
Hoping that ended the conversation, Severus sipped the last of his drink and girded his loins to move toward the Floo, willing to brave the madness of the parlor for a chance to escape. He’d had enough this evening. He wanted to Floo back to the castle, read the remainder of his book, and sleep. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so, as this was when Ron Weasley attempted to sling an arm across Severus’ shoulders.
Shaking the youngest and dumbest Weasley back, Severus glared and thundered “Mr. WEASLEY. I understand you are quite pickled. Perhaps the brains of your operation could step in before I hex you into next week.”
Stumbling back, his grip on Severus gone, Ron fell back on his ass on the cracked slate floor, laughing as he did. “You mean ‘Mione sir. She only stayed for the meeting. Since Easter and the Manor and her scarring, she doesn’t care for loud noises or crowds. Think she’s outside smoking or something.”
Severus rocked back on his heels a bit at this. Thinking back through the evening, he realized Weasley was correct. The girl had stood in the back of the dim kitchen during the Order meeting, bushy hair covering half her face. She’d not spoken at all, not raised her face, not been anything like the little swot she’d been in his classroom.
What had happened to Hermione Granger to change her so radically? When she was his student, she couldn’t go five minutes without waving her hand, calling attention to herself, always looking for validation, and generally being a nuisance.
For a heartbeat, Severus stood still. Why should he suddenly fucking care? She was just a prior student. One of thousands that had passed through his Potions classroom over the years he’d taught. And she was a Gryffindor, not even of his House. She would be unaware of Severus Snape, Guardian of Slytherin students. No, she only knew him as Severus Snape, Dungeon Bat. And it was extremely unlikely she’d welcome any of his concern. But his soul said otherwise. The girl needed someone to lean on. It certainly wasn’t going to be Potter and Weasley, the drunk fucking wankers.
Going against his soul’s warning just didn’t feel right any longer.
Fucking therapy. And fucking Minerva, forcing him into it as a condition of his employment. He should just quit and run a potions business, like he always threatened.
Grabbing Potter’s flailing arm before he could stumble drunkenly off, leaving Ron to pick himself up off the floor, Severus asked in a low voice “The Manor, Potter. What happened at the Manor?”
Sobering a bit at this question, shrugging, Harry looked up at the taller man. “Dunno. Ron and me were in the dungeons. We know there was Cruciatus torture. And Bella carved a slur into her arm with a cursed dagger. But she’s sitting on a secret, sir. And she’s got some scars on her face that Malfoy swore in his trial weren’t caused by his crazy aunt. And she won’t let us, any of us, touch her anymore.”
From the floor, where it appeared he’d decided he would remain sprawled in an ungainly mass of limbs, Weasley chimed in “’Mione always gave the best hugs. Not for ages, though. Not ages.”
Releasing the drunken Potter boy to resume whatever activities caused him to enter the kitchen in the first place and Weasley to become a permanent fixture of Grimmauld’s sticky kitchen, Severus turned towards the garden door reflecting as he did. He knew, better than most still alive, that the Manor was a dark place in the depths of the war. The Dark Lord had filled the stately home with the dredges of what could loosely be called humanity. A lovely young woman, any woman really, in that house would be in danger from not only Death Eaters but also from other dark creatures that skulked through its halls.
His heart beat a bit faster now, an unaccustomed little flare of concern bloomed in his breast for this particular girl.
Gripping the tarnished brass knob of the garden door, Severus took a deep breath. Did he want to interfere? Why did he feel the need to check on his old student? It was unlikely she would welcome his interference. He knew he’d not been particularly kind; to her, though he’d been especially cruel.
Stepping out into the night, Severus surveyed the overgrown back garden of Grimmauld Place. It was dark, any semblance of order or structure long since gone, though the old warming garden spells seemed to still be hanging on. An old oak tree loomed in the corner, dead branches intermingled with the living, its last leaves of the season barely hanging on. The old kitchen herb garden had overrun its beds; the mint, rosemary, and sage had all but taken over the old lawns. And in the far corner, a leaning garden hut, partially concealed by tall rhododendrons in desperate need of trimming.
He scanned the garden once more. Against the garden shed, the tip of a cigarette suddenly glowed against the dark.
Stepping further into the garden, Severus walked slowly toward that glow. His wand remained in his pocket; his hands swung loosely at his sides. He was trying to be non-threatening. He didn’t really know how to be. But he was concerned, a curious feeling for him, for someone not directly under his care.
The scent of mint and sage wafted through the still garden as his heavy dragonhide boots crushed the herbal lawn beneath his feet. The girl was braced against the shed, wand in one hand, lit cigarette in the other. She was watching him through a curtain of curly hair, leaving it to cover the right half of her face; her wand raised slowly in her right hand as he approached.
He was within ten feet or so of her, he estimated, when she said in a low voice “stop right there.” Severus stopped immediately. He was close enough to smell her now, over the herbal scent now perfuming the air. She smelled acrid, like old fear. There were small trembles moving through her whole body. Her wand arm shook a bit, wavering as it pointed at him. Still not looking fully at him she said in a voice that seemed to tremble against her will, “Professor Snape wouldn’t give two shits about me. How do I know it’s really you.”
Ah, smart girl, thought Severus. Slytherin students had known him to be a fair Head of House, a supportive mentor, a not precisely kind man but a protective one to the students in his care. He’d not extended that same level of concern to other students. She would of course question why he was approaching her in a dark overgrown garden. Especially if what he was beginning to suspect happened to her was true.
“Ask me something only I would know, Miss Granger” he said, his baritone voice soothing, like you’d speak to a wounded animal or a terrified child.
Still not looking, arm still trembling, she asked in a shaky voice “what did Professor Snape say to me in fourth year, after Malfoy hexed me.”
Wincing a bit, he replied, “ah. Yes. Not my finest hour Miss Granger. I regretfully said I see no difference.”
The girl lowered her wand, nodded, and raised the cigarette to her lips, the rest of her face still shadowed, head dropping to focus her eyes on the herbed lawn at her feet. Hermione inhaled deeply, then exhaled the smoke in a ring. As Severus moved closer to her, quietly, slowly, as if approaching a wolf with its paw in a trap, she breathed in the blowback.
“Do you have any more of those Miss Granger” he asked, leaning against the shed to her right, not close enough to spook her but close enough to hear her low voice. Reaching into her pocket, she handed him the gold packet of B&H.
Trying not to loom over the terrified young woman, Severus shook out a single stick and handed her back the packet. Turning the cigarette over in his fingers, he slowly moved his hand in her direction. He assumed she was still watching through her hair; he didn’t want to scare her away. “Would you light this for me, Miss Granger” Severus asked.
Raising her trembling right hand, Hermione did, the light at the end of her wand illuminating her face briefly just as the light night breeze ruffled her hair away from her face. A long scar ran from the outer edge of her right brow to her lip. A second ran from the side of her nose to her jaw just below her ear; the two thick lines forming a large X on the young woman’s otherwise lovely face.
Severus hid his shocked inhale, taking a drag at his cigarette to mask his sudden fury, pity, pain, and surprising respect for the small woman at his side. Whatever had happened to her, she survived. She certainly wasn’t thriving, he thought, as he looked at her from the corner of his eye as they smoked in silence in the still night. She came to his chin, slight and shaking like a leaf, thoroughly swathed in oversized clothing. She looked as if her slender stick of a neck could barely support her wild mass of curls, he thought.
Inhaling, mimicking her earlier action of blowing smoke rings on his exhale, Severus sighed. “I’ve not indulged in a smoke in a long while. Brings back memories, this does. You have my thanks, Miss Granger.”
The silent girl at his side nodded, eyes still on the lawn. He could feel her taking quick, assessing glances at him, gauging his movements, ready to hex him and run if he made any sudden movements her way.
Those bastards he thought, she didn’t ask for this. No girl ever does. Raging internally, he compared this broken, beaten down young woman to the assertive girl he’d known. Taking another drag, he asked softly, “what are your plans now, Miss Granger? Will you return for 8th year for your NEWTS when the castle opens next month? I’m certain Minerva is chomping at the bit to have her star pupil return.”
Beside him, he felt her trembling increase. A small sniffle broke the night air, and he saw her wrap her arms around her body beside him. Severus ached, then, knowing this damaged young woman would not accept his comfort. Or his pity.
He allowed the silence to fall again, as he smoked in quiet contemplation beside the softly weeping young woman. “Miss Granger” he said, after a time, “may I reach into my pocket to offer you my handkerchief?”
Softly, so softly he would have missed it had he not been so attentively listening for her voice, she said “yes”. Slowly, making his motions as small and as slow and as non-threatening as he could, he handed her the embroidered linen square and returned to his place, leaning against the creaky old garden shed.
“I can’t go back sir”, Hermione said, as her sniffles faded, her shoulders rounded inward as if protecting herself, her gaze still on the herbal grass garden.
Inhaling the last of his cigarette, Severus tilted his head back, blowing his last smoke rings toward the night sky. Softly, so softly, he said “We all have scars, Miss Granger. The war took from all of us; some of our scars are internal. Some are external. Like mine. Like yours. Some certainly worse than others, yes. It’s just a matter of time before no one stares anymore.”
With some effort, she raised her head, tilting her pale slender throat to look directly at his face for the first time since he joined her in the garden. He noted the way the moonlight highlighted her cheekbones, the slender upturn of her nose, her intelligent brow. She was still lovely, if that’s what she was concerned about, he thought. No doubt that dunderhead young Weasley had said something to her.
“It’s not my face or my arm, Professor”, she pulled a face at that. “Those aren’t the only reminders I have from the night at the Manor” Hermione said, bitterly. Extending her right arm again, she pointed her wand at herself, canceling her glamour.
Reluctantly moving from the shadow of the shed, Hermione stepped in front of him then, standing rigidly in the shaft of moonlight that had broken through the clouds which illuminated the garden around them.
Severus stared at the slender, scarred, young woman in front of him. He couldn’t help the low voiced “fuck” that escaped his lips then.
Hermione Granger was heavily pregnant.