Biter Bit

Chapter 8

By Shiv

The summons comes before I was expecting it. Perhaps the Dark Lord had come to suspect something; perhaps the truth was that he trusted no one.

He would be right not to. Someone who is served through fear and not respect cannot rely on his supporters; we are always busy jockeying for position, seeing who can climb higher in his ranks. It will only be a matter of time before someone decided that they would displace him.

Eventually someone would succeed.

I was told to bring Hermione; I didn’t do so. I spin my Master a tale about Dumbledore’s interference and then feed him some information about Potter’s fragile state of mind. He may have believed me; I live, so I suspect he did.

The attack on Hogwarts was to be the next day; orders were given and we were free to leave.

Instead of the long evening spent in the company of my Hermione I face a long evening spent in the company of members of the Order as we plan our strategy. Which was simple really – kill as many of the deatheaters as possible, put Potter in a position where he could kill Voldemort, try and get out alive.

The debate goes on long into the night, far longer than was necessary. Potter, of course, had to doubt my information and my motives; Lupin isn’t far behind. I could hardly say that I was wholly on their side because only their victory would mean me being able to keep my toy.

The debate would continue after I left, I had no doubt.

It could be our last night together and I have better things to do than listen to the complaints of a foolish adolescent, a faded werewolf and a heartless manipulator. One or both of us could be dead by the end of tomorrow. Or we could be free to live our lives away from the demands of others.

Once Hermione is a graduated anyway.

So for old times sake, Hermione is stripped and tied to my bed. Where I want her to be always.

This time she isn’t weeping; this time she is smiling at me. I slip a finger between her thighs and she sighs appreciatively. She is ready for me.

I want to force myself into her again and again.

So I will.

Dumbledore is a fool to think that anyone could give this up, not the fuck, however gratifying but the power. It is the only true pleasure in life: holding someone in the palm of your hand,  literally and metaphorically. I own her. She is bound to me by ties so strong that even death cannot break them. She will never leave me, not unless I set her free; I will never do that.

Mine: I nuzzle at her neck. Mine: I caress her breasts. Mine: I trail my hands over her body. Mine: I finally take possession of her. Such an old fashioned phrase, and yet so entirely accurate. She lifts her hips in welcome, urging me on to take my pleasure of her, as if I needed urging.

My Hermione.

I want to keep her safe at home, but Potter and Dumbledore would be suspicious. Hermione wouldn’t agree to stay behind whilst Potter risked his life, not normally, and so she has to come with us – with them - to the Final Battle.

I, of course, have to apparate to the side of my Master, in the hopes of striking some blow from behind at him or any of my colleagues; Malfoy in particular. I do wonder it its worth slipping him some poison at this late stage, but if Dumbledore fails it will be difficult to explain quite how Lucius keeled over in the middle of the battle without a mark on him.

If Dumbledore fails, I will lose Hermione, though that isn’t certain. I may please my master in some way before the end that will allow me to ask for a favour. I may have to share her for a while, but the others will tire of her, and then she can be mine again. Obliviate is such a useful spell.

The battle is joined. Potter strides forward in his usual style, with no idea of tactics or strategy. He sees it as a simple confrontation between him and my Master. He doubtless has some heroic idea that in this way lives will be spared. As long as he doesn’t get Hermione injured in the process, I am indifferent to his chosen methods.

The Final Battle hardly deserves the name. The two adversaries meet; they duel according to the old rules. Both the hexes and the die are cast.

Potter is victorious.

Which is what I want of course.

I grin behind my mask. Of course, the truly ideal outcome would be for Potter and Dumbledore to fall in battle after having bravely defeated Voldemort, to some sort of cowardly Death Eater attack. I’m sure it would be possible to arrange. Bellatrix seems my best hope, as she hurls herself forward to attack Potter.

And then, and then, and then, in that fractured, frozen moment, before I can move, before I can hex, Hermione somehow comes to stand between Potter and fate’s hand.

No.

I cast aside my mask, and cast the killing curse on Bellatrix with a casual flick of my wand. She dies in an instant. Hermione is still alive. Bellatrix didn’t cast the killing curse, but some darker hex that is stealing her life before my eyes. Potter tries to take her from my arms, but I refuse to let him.

She is mine. She is still mine.

But her light is fading, until…..

Gone.

I hardly notice the rest of the battle raging around me, or its end. I just sit. I sat. I do nothing but sit, I think I will never do anything other than sit.

Around me there was movement, the shifting of people, the sound of them talking. One of them was talking to me I realise, but I had no will to move, to speak, to respond. I just sit.

“Professor. Professor. Professor Snape. Are you alright?”

A hand rested on his shoulder, gripped him, shook him.

“Professor, you have to move. Please Professor.”

It was easier to move than argue, so I move. Once I started moving I couldn’t stop. I stopped when I reach my rooms. I could sit here without interruption, so I sit.

The impulse to drink, to eat, to urinate came and went without impelling me to move. Time passed, perhaps; if I have any will left, I would will time to stop, so that there would be no after, but only before. No now, only before.

There must be something I can do, something to turn back time to put things right…..

It is the work of minutes to break into Dumbledore’s office, to find the timeturner and make the necessary adjustments. My hands are shaking and I can’t seem to count properly, and then there is a shimmer and I am in the past.

I stride out to the Quidditch Pitch, to find that it is dark. I have miscalculated. I have gone back too far. What time is it? What day is it? I catch sight of a figure skulking in the darkness. I realise, with a sense of shock, that it is me. The flare of the Dark Mark tells me that I am being summoned, summoned to the Revel that started this all.

The words of the killing curse fly from my lips. I fall. I transfigure me to a twig and grind it beneath my boots, then apparate away to do what I should have done all along.

Rescue Hermione.

I stride into the meeting. Greet my master, and make the same vile suggestion as before. My master agrees as before, and I simply cross the clearing and apparate her out of there before anyone has time to act.

Dumbledore will not be pleased. I have destroyed my cover.

I told them my story, and they didn’t believe me. Well who would?

Madness they said, brought on by too much crucio; a dark spell of Voldemort others said; so instead of the Kiss or a lifetime in Azkaban I was packed off to St Mungo’s.

She believed me.

She came to see me, and I told her the truth of what happened between us, and she believed me. I could see the horror and revulsion in her eyes.

I didn’t expect to see her again, but she did. She couldn’t forgive me for what I had done, because what I had done, I had done to someone else; but she could try to understand.

I will never be free; I should never be free. These walls keep me safe as well as others. I had the strength to turn away once from the dark path, but I am not sure I could do it always. Yet, I no longer fear death. Perhaps that other Hermione still waits for me beyond the grave; if she does, there is still a chance that I might be forgiven by her. I know that if the subservio lasts beyond death that I will release it, and there will be a whole eternity to make amends.

That may be how long it takes.

She said, once, that she came because she needed me to know that she had done the best that she could with her life: that she was happy and contented. And that is my penance, to know that she is married, has children, a career, a life, happiness and that maybe I could have had that with her if only I had done things differently.  It is also my great joy.

It is little reward for giving up my life for her – four visits a year, a letter once a week – and yet it is far more than I deserve. 

An alternative ending that I tried out was for Severus to die in the Final Battle, saving Hermione from Bellatrix:

Harry is standing over me. He says something about treatment, about Madam Pomfrey, all I have to do is release the spell holding Hermione. How very Gryffindor of him. Doubtless he thinks he is being merciful, letting me live, rather than hexing me where I lie. He doesn’t understand that I would rather die than live without her.

I say nothing.

Hermione is next to me, holding my hand, begging me to see Madam Pomfrey. I look on her one last time; even with red eyes she is still beautiful. She is looking at me with such love in her eyes.

And I am thinking that maybe the stories are true, maybe the spell lasts after death. If that’s true, then we will be together again soon. In the scheme of things a lifetime is a brief moment to be separated, and when, at last, she dies I will be there, waiting for her.

But even as I think it I can feel the spell falter. It’s like having a barbed arrow pulled from your flesh – it’s buried deep and it will take time to rip from me, and each jerk is agony, but eventually the arrow will be free.

I look at her one last time, and then close my eyes. I don’t want to see her face change, from love to hatred; I don’t want to see the moment when she is finally free of me forever.

My ears are filled with a strange roaring, and it is only dimly I can hear Potter asking her if she is alright. I lie on the brink of death, I feel the bond between us finally dissolve, and I hear her answer as if from a great distance: “I’m not, but I will be.”

And then nothing.