From Hell

Chapter 2

By Pigwidgeon37

Severus Snape and Hermione Granger are thinking about their past, present and future—with equally gloomy results.

It is good for them to stay unmarried, as I am. But if they cannot control themselves, they should marry, for it is better to marry than to burn with passion. (1 Corinthians 7: 8)

Of course, every single suspicion Lucius Malfoy harboured against his rival of old, Severus Snape, was right on spot. Snape was a mole, not for but against Voldemort. Had Malfoy known to which extent, he would have burst with indignant fury. Had Snape had the least idea of the dimensions of the Damocles sword hanging over his head, he would have run to the end of the world. As things were, both were more or less ignorant of each other’s projects of mutual destruction and thus able to continue their lives as usual.

In Severus Snape’s case, life as usual meant a lot less comfort than it held for Malfoy. Especially since the first signs of Voldemort’s return had coloured his personal horizon a deep, filthy black. The fact that those signs coincided with Harry Potter’s first year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry did nothing to make his feelings towards the boy any friendlier. When Hagrid had arrived on 1 August, the Philosopher’s Stone carelessly plunged into the depths of one of the uncountable pockets of that disgusting moleskin overcoat, Snape had felt that trouble was coming. Quirrell acting more and more weird, a bout of blood poisoning from the bite of a vicious three-headed dog and his favourite winter cloak singed to the point of being unrecognisable as a piece of garment had condensed this feeling into a certainty. A certainty that had been confirmed by Potter’s regular end-of-the-year showdowns until the point where it had become a fact: Voldemort was back and he, Severus Snape, had to resume his double life.

He had always led some kind of a double life. Practically from the moment he had been able to read. His father, who had been an expert in charms and curses and divided his time between teaching at the university and carrying out research for the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries, had quite an impressive library.  Both parents, truly unaware of the real measure of their son’s curiosity and magical ability, had made the mistake of forbidding the child to enter the room unless in their company. This solemn veto had been all he needed. He had to hunt for his prey and read it mainly at night, so that he was always pale and tired during the day. Alarmed by what they thought were symptoms of a disease, his parents took him to see every specialist there was on the Isle and on the continent—after all, they could afford it—and Severus was charmed, potioned and healed until his skin and teeth took on a yellowish tone and his scalp began to secrete excessive quantities of oil in silent protest.

From the age of six onwards, he was well aware that his parents, but above all his mother, were beginning to look at him as if he were a slightly frightening magical creature which they would have preferred to lock up in some cage had he not been their own flesh and blood. It made him feel sad at times. On the other hand, his child’s brain was well able to establish the cause-and-effect relation between being estranged and left to his own devices. One honest talk with his father and mother would have sufficed to set everything right, but he knew instinctively that, as an inevitable consequence, his nocturne visits to the library would come to an end. No more secret reading, no more forbidden knowledge secretly accumulated—the Honest Talk truly wasn’t an option. Later on, the tedious examinations by various mediwizards decreased noticeably. His parents had given up on him. The long-term damage was done, though, as far as his exterior was concerned. But the inordinate amount of concoctions and healing draughts he had had to ingest had left another trace: Severus had discovered his interest for potions.

In the rare moments when he was honest to himself, he admitted that most of what had happened in his life was his own fault. Most of the time, he blamed the miserable turn it had taken on everybody else. His parents—they had offered him everything but never truly understood him. Dumbledore and the other teachers at Hogwarts—more or less the same. Society—idem. Those morons at the university—they had been too wrapped up in their own self-importance and petty formalities to recognize his potential and treat him accordingly. Voldemort—he had recognized his brilliance, but ruthlessly used it for his own ends. Oh, and Dumbledore again, of course—why hadn’t the old man simply followed the Aurors’ motto “Don’t ASK them, AK them” and killed him? But no. That old fool had believed in the ‘spark of good’ left within Severus Snape—the truly annoying thing being that it really was there—and given him a second chance.

It had been Severus’s first true choice and a most difficult one. Not the idea of turning to Dumbledore, oh no, that had been an act of mere necessity; after all, Voldemort’s increasing lunacy had been posing a serious threat to everybody, whether friend or foe. And he had truly expected to be killed by the ancient wizard in a fit of rage after having told him all he knew. No, the truly difficult decision had been that of saying farewell to everything he cherished.  The friends, the easy way of life, the constant play of challenge and success…

Superficially, nothing had changed after he had finally nodded his assent to Dumbledore’s proposal. But his life wasn’t his own anymore. He was alienated from everything that had made his existence worth living. He had a friendly chat at the fireplace with some of the other Death Eaters, knowing that this one, and that one as well, were not going to live until their next birthday because there would be Aurors ambushing them at the house they were planning to raid. He went out with a woman that had caught his eye and knew that, once Voldemort was defeated, his whole fortune would be confiscated by the Ministry—that was part of the deal—and no woman would look at him anymore because his lanky hair and big nose would lack the embellishment by the shine of his gold.

He planned attacks and strategies, excogitated new recipes for all kinds of potions, knowing that the most important ones were destined to fail because he had given them not only to his Master but also to his enemies. He had to keep it all up with clenched teeth, fully conscious that it was only a façade that would crumble as soon as Voldemort was dead and gone. Then the Dark Lord had been defeated but—supreme irony—there was no body, no evidence that he was really and truly gone, and so, just as a provisional measure, Severus Snape had not been allowed to drop the mask and show the world who he really was—nothing to be proud of, but at least a reformed Death Eater who had risked his life on order to bring about Voldemort’s downfall.

A provisional measure… he had not even been granted the possibility of using the subterfuge so many others had benefited from, the excuse of having been put under the Imperius Curse… He was too precious to be lost to the cause like that, just in case it became a cause once more. And so precious Severus Snape was forced to remain a teacher, paid a miserable teacher’s salary, confined to that damnable castle for eternity. Too indebted to Dumbledore to simply leave for somewhere else. He could have left, for he had not been so foolish as to leave everything for the Ministry to grab. Part of his fortune had been prudently stored away in an anonymous Gringott’s vault. But what he had officially inherited after his parents’ death—not a heroic demise, they had gone to Bologna for a congress on Charms Research in 1980 and been among the victims of the terrorist attack on the train station by mere accident—could not be hidden.

He was still more than well-off, not least because he seldom had any expenses and thus most of his salary remained unspent. He could have gone but he didn’t.  Because in his heart of hearts he knew that Voldemort would reappear sooner or later, and unless Severus Snape was there to do the dirty work, who was going to do it? The probability of somebody else turning spy was infinitesimal, and the chances of anybody being able to infiltrate the inner core of the Death Eaters’ ranks even smaller. There really was no other possibility than to stay and wait for the inevitable.

Sitting in his living room and staring morosely out on the moonlit, snow-covered school grounds, taking a sip of Laphroaig’s Very Ancient from time to time, Snape thought that he would do his job—or rather his jobs, for both teaching and spying qualified for that name—more willingly if only somebody, anybody, had the good grace of acknowledging his merits. He had given up everything to come to Hogwarts, to try and inculcate some basic knowledge of potions into the hormone-addled brains of a bunch of teenage dunderheads, and it was regarded as his due penance. Not that Dumbledore wasn’t grateful for what he did. But when the old man thanked him there was always that note of It-Was-The-Least-You-Could-Do-To-Make-Amends-For-Your-Past. Never outspoken but always present as a jarring note.

With a flick of his wand he sent another log onto the grate where the flames were showing signs of dying down. He watched the piece of wood as it landed in a shower of sparks and then caught fire. There was something else that nettled him to no end: he would bet his wand, even his right hand, that the Headmaster didn’t trust him entirely. It was a gut feeling, nothing he could put his finger on, but he knew it. Maybe because he had never shown the true repentance Dumbledore had probably expected him to display. Although he was an accomplished liar—had to be, for otherwise his double game would have come to a not only premature but also painful end—he had no inclination towards manifesting a contrition he didn’t feel. Yes, he had committed crimes. Some of them rather gruesome. What about the other side, though? He had seen Aurors torture and kill as brutally as Death Eaters, or even worse. And certainly Azkaban wasn’t an achievement the standards of which Great Britain’s oh-so-righteous wizarding society should be overly proud of. People had vanished in its mouldy depths without as much as a trial. They would have been better off had they been killed. To let the Dementors administer their kiss—and honestly, didn’t the name alone speak volumes about those hypocrites?—wasn’t exactly the apex of humanitarian enlightenment. It had been a goddamned war, for Merlin’s sake, and wars tended to come along with war crimes. On both sides.

Soon, there was going to be another one. Two and a half years had passed since Voldemort had come back. What the hell did they expect? That the Dark Lord was going to make an appointment with the Minister of Magic, asking him to kindly change the constitution and introduce general elections, so that he could present himself as a candidate for the Dark Party? Not to mention that most of 1970-1981 wouldn’t have happened, if this country had had something like a democratic constitution in the first place. What had they introduced Muggle Studies for if they were incapable of seeing the Muggles’ achievements? All three powers—legislative, executive and jurisdictive—were still in one hand; the fact that it was the chubby, sweaty hand of Cornelius Fudge certainly didn’t contribute to improving the situation.

His return to his resurrected Master had gone off almost without a hitch, and the performance he had given had been worthy of an accomplished actor. Almost a heart attack at catching his first glimpse of Peter Pettigrew (well, there hadn’t been that much need for acting, to tell the truth). Black was not the traitor the world assumed him to be? To what lengths had he, Severus Snape, gone to make him escape, and all in vain! Stunning everybody within a hundred yards’ distance in the process! And what a relief that Pettigrew had escaped as well!  Why hadn’t he made Quirrell tell that he was there all the time, hidden under that ridiculous turban? The Stone would have been his in less than no time, and he would have had to spend considerably less time without a body. Crouch? Barty Crouch? But the boy was dead! No? Well, in that case he had to return to Hogwarts immediately, to save the situation and, if possible, his Master’s most faithful servant! Had he but known!

Dumbledore’s words to him before he went off—“If you are ready… if you are prepared…”—still made him almost choke with fury. It had been a very… well, enlightening moment. The confirmation of his gut feeling that he was not trusted entirely. The old man had got nervous all of a sudden because he was not quite sure whether Severus wouldn’t prefer to change sides once again. Ready, indeed… Of course he was ready, insofar as he was old enough to have understood that serving the Dark Lord again would only mean to exchange one malaise for another.  At least the Headmaster didn’t insist on having the hem of his robes kissed.  Snape had done a lot of hem-kissing lately, but always with the necessary aloofness. After all, he knew that he was fooling Tom Riddle, and it gave him more than just a little satisfaction.

The problem was that he had the indistinct feeling of being trapped between the fronts. Neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort fully trusted him. Both resented the lack of substantial information he was able to provide. And none of them got it through their thick skulls that there was no bloody information he could give.  What did they want him to do? Invent it? Sometimes he was tempted to do so, to feed imaginary results to both and thus unleash the final battle. Only he wouldn’t be able to witness it as a disinterested bystander, which considerably reduced the appeal such a prank might hold. It was unnerving, though. Voldemort expected Dumbledore to transform Hogwarts into some kind of military headquarters, as he had done towards the end of the previous war. Snape had to use all the patience he possessed, and some more, to explain to the Dark Lord that, as long as there was no action, it was foolish to wait for a reaction.  There was nothing to report, apart from a few names he had been authorized to pass on, as those few persons were protected well enough. On the other hand, he was equally fed up with Dumbledore’s interminable musings about the probable motives for the enemy’s silence. Snape didn’t know. Nobody knew. Lucius didn’t know—he’d better not think of all the precious time he had lost in similar ponderings with him!—and was at least as clueless as the Headmaster. It was a mystery, and the only hypothesis Severus could offer was that Voldemort still wasn’t strong enough to try anything more decisive than the occasional ‘Boo!’

Time was passing, and so was his life. At age 38, there really wasn’t much of a perspective for him. He was bitter and disillusioned, and he hated himself for the petty satisfaction he got out of bullying his students. All he wanted was a life instead of an existence. A bit of fun. He wasn’t asking that much: a scholar’s life, basically, but in a house of his own. A concert from time to time, instead of listening to records. A trip to Rome. The end of this thrice-damned, forced-upon-him celibacy. Not that he was likely to ever be bothered by a crowd of women drooling on his doormat, but he was sure enough that even he could find female company if he really craved it. A bit of civilized conversation, a pleasant fling…

Simple enough, but not at Hogwarts.  Back in his early twenties, he had mostly gone for looks. Now he honestly preferred—though on a merely theoretical level—women with brains. Not downright bad-looking ones, but the range had broadened with time, so to speak. It would be nice to be able to exchange a few words before and after getting laid, without cringing inwardly at the other’s obvious stupidity. Once, but only once, he had even succeeded in finding a suitable object for his desire here at school. Ten years ago, or was that eleven? A Ravenclaw graduate of average looks and with an IQ that had made him suspect the Muggles had finally managed to clone a crossbreed  between Albert Einstein and Jean Paul Sartre. But he doubted he would have had much less fun bedding them. What an utter disaster it had been! He chuckled silently at the recollection.

Checking his watch, he saw that it was already well past midnight and decided that he could just as well go to bed.

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Not far from the place where Severus Snape was wallowing in self-pity, Hermione Granger was spending her time in a surprisingly similar way. She had no idea that she was nearer—both emotionally and geographically—the Potions Master than she or any other Hogwarts student imagined. Maybe she would have disliked the thought immensely. But Snape did not, as everybody presumed, dwell in the dungeons. His rooms were in the teachers’ quarters, and those were located a mere stone’s throw away from Gryffindor Tower, carefully dissimulated in the castle’s east wing.

Hermione had been studying all evening until well after curfew; after all, they were more than three months into the school year, and the N.E.W.T.s could already be seen lurking round the corner—by those who could be troubled to look, at least. Being the outstanding student she was, McGonagall, her Head of House, had offered her a private room at the beginning of her sixth year, so that she could dedicate herself to her studies with more peace and intensity. Despite the eerie feeling of being an animal in a zoo, transferred to a more suitable habitat, she had accepted. The sensation of living in a cage had increased when, about two weeks after school had started, McGonagall had knocked at the door of her new room, slightly embarrassed at the topic she had come to discuss with her star pupil. More than one year later, Hermione still wasn’t sure whether she ought to laugh or cry when she remembered that particular conversation.

“Miss Granger, could you spare a few moments? There is a matter of some… er, delicacy I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course, professor, please have a seat.”

“Thank you. Before going any further, let me say that, whatever your decision might be, I and, of course, the whole faculty are going to accept it.”

“I… I am a bit at loss about what to say, professor. Is there a problem with my grades or my behaviour?”

“No. Certainly not. Both your performance and your conduct are as impeccable as always. I suppose that you would like it to remain thus, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, professor, and I assure you that I’m doing my best to—”

“I know, my dear. I know. But there are always circumstances that escape our control. You are sixteen now, Miss Granger, and chances are that you might… er, become sentimentally involved. And you wouldn’t be the first gifted student on whose academic success a relationship might have a disastrous effect.”

“I see. But, professor, the whole school knows that I’m merely friends with Ron and Harry. Victor Krum was… well, an error, and a brief one at that, and there isn’t anybody else.”

“I know, Hermione, I know. All the same, you never know what will happen tomorrow, whatever Sybil Trelawney’s opinion may be on that particular subject.  There are always events nobody can foresee. We are living in difficult times, and Merlin knows how long this situation will remain unchanged. It is the responsibility of Hogwarts to ensure that the various talents of our students be developed in the best possible way. It would be a shame to lose a mind such as yours, only because you fancy yourself in love and everything else loses its importance.”

“That’s true, professor, but I don’t quite see a solution to the problem, assuming that it might become a problem. I can’t vow not to fall in love, can I?”

“No, that would be useless. There would be a way, though. And it would be a temporary solution, just for as long as you are a Hogwarts student, maybe during university, if you feel like it. Nothing permanent, anyway.”

“Sounds interesting, professor, please tell me more.”

“It is quite simple, actually. Have you ever heard of the Coelibatus Spell?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It is a rather complicated spell that has to be cast by someone of the opposite sex. As long as you are under its influence, you neither feel nor evoke any… er, sexual desire. All of us… well, almost all of us have undergone this procedure, and so far it has proved to be of great advantage to the school.”

“Oh. And… what if I want it to end?”

“You only have to tell the wizard who cast it.”

“But isn’t that a bit risky, professor? I mean, in times like these… what if there’s another war and the one who cast it dies? I don’t want to appear uncooperative, but this seems to be quite a risk. And if it really is such a complex spell, I couldn’t simply ask, say, Dean Thomas or Ginny Weasley to do me the favour.”

“Very true, Miss Granger. I have discussed the matter at length with the Headmaster. There are few wizards able to master that spell, and there has to be some kind of connection between the subject who performs it and the one who receives it. In fact, both professor Dumbledore and myself agreed that Professor Snape would seem the ideal person to assist you. Although he’s the only faculty member who flat-out refused to have it cast on himself.”

“Snape? But he’s… I mean, he is one of those who are most likely to die! It would be more sensible to choose Professor Dumbledore than him! Not to mention that chastity is not on my list of issues to discuss with Professor Snape.”

“You may, of course, choose whomever you want, Miss Granger, supposing you consider having it done. It is not necessary for you to take any precipitate decision. Ponder it carefully and give me your answer whenever you’re ready.”

Of course she had accepted, driven by the unquenchable desire to please. It had taken her one week to decide. Not a week she liked to remember, because she had constantly been thinking about the nagging problem, weighing Snape’s relatively young age against Arthur Weasleys relatively unimportant position. Dumbledore’s seemingly eternal lifespan against Alastor Moody’s gloomy perspectives due to his profession. Her own pride against the Greater Good. The sacrifice against the gain. As was typical of her, she had tried to tackle the problem all on her own, anticipating that nobody was able to give any valid contribution. Finally she had admitted to herself that she would run mad unless she talked it over with somebody else. Owing to her deplorable lack of social skills, mostly because she concentrated solely on her studies so that another Mountain Troll would have been necessary to make more friends, her possibilities were limited to Harry or Ron. She invited both of them to her room and delineated her dilemma. Their reaction had been more than foreseeable, not to mention annoying.

“Snape refused to be put under the Coelibatus Spell? Now that’s what I call news!”

“Oh, come on Harry, why would he need one? Or do you honestly think somebody would wind up falling in love with the greasy git?”

“No, but the greasy git might develop a crush on somebody. Just imagine him, luring some frightened fifth-year into his lair, blackmailing her into giving him a blow job by threatening her with bad grades!”

“Eurgh, Harry! I’ve just eaten dinner! No need to make me throw up all over Herm’s carpet.”

She had sat by them, hands folded in her lap, patiently waiting until it was over.

“What do you say then?” she had asked.

“Say? To what?” Ron—sensitive as ever.

“Regarding my question. Should I do it? Would you do it if you were in my place?”

“Don’t take that as an offence, Herm, but it’s a little difficult to imagine being you.” Harry—sensitive as ever.

“OK, so just think of yourselves. Would you do it?”

“’Course not! I could miss something more important than grades!” Oh, Ron!

“I’m not sure… probably not, I suppose. Well, maybe, if Voldemort turned out to be a poofter…” Oh, Harry!

She had tried. Nobody could claim that she hadn’t at least attempted to discuss the question with her peers. Of course she didn’t bring up the issue with her parents—they would have instantly nominated McGonagall for a Nobel Prize, had they heard that she had proposed a means of making their daughter study even more. And so she had accepted. Feeling like a cat that was castrated so that it wouldn’t pee on the carpet anymore. Not that she would ever have done anything of the sort to Crookshanks, but then Crookshanks was an extraordinarily lucky cat…

Young age outweighing every other argument, she had chosen Snape to perform the spell. Strangely, had hadn’t acted at all like she had expected him to. No sneers, no abrasive comments. Maybe, she thought, he knew a great deal more about being used than anybody else and thus understood better than she thought.

The effect of the Coelibatus Spell was, to say the least, astonishing. She could have watched porn movies without becoming aroused. What it did not prevent, though, was the pang of envy she always felt when coming across a kissing couple, which was a rather frequent occurrence. But it was only envy, nothing else. Nothing that couldn’t be coped with.

During the last summer holidays, she had received a letter from McGonagall, telling her that she had been the ideal candidate for the position of Head Girl, but that, due to her enormous workload, it seemed unwise to burden her any further. Surely she would understand… Hermione understood. Swallowed. Accepted.  Silently, needless to say. She had been looking forward to being Head Girl, of course, but at closer inspection it was nothing but a title. A vanity. It was better for her to concentrate on what was really important, all the while hoping that Snape wasn’t going to die, leaving her in a state of perennial un-libido and inspiring the same lack of enthusiasm to the male half of the world population.

With a sigh, she put away the book she had been trying to read and checked her watch. It was well past midnight, and she decided that she could just as well go to bed.