From Hell

Chapter 8

By Pigwidgeon37

Snape finds out that things are much worse than he believed. Hermione behaves uncharacteristically.

Woe to you, O destroyer, you who have not been destroyed! Woe to you, O traitor, you who have not been betrayed! When you stop destroying, you will be destroyed; when you stop betraying, you will be betrayed (Isaiah 33:1)

Snape was sure that he could easily win the Single-Most-Humiliating-Experience-Of-Your-Life contest, had he presented the experience of trudging along a corridor behind an extremely irate Dumbledore, trying to fight an extremely painful erection, still suffering the after-effects of one of the must powerful stunning spells ever cast on him, having been picked off a hysterical female student, whom he had obviously assaulted, as his entry.  He had no idea how Malfoy had done it, but he was sure, completely sure, that it had something to do with the potion he now understood he had been given, despite all appearances. Had he really been frustrated because Malfoy had challenged him and he had lost? Because his pride had suffered? Because the right reaction would have been to say no? Well, he had obviously needed this lesson to understand what it really meant to be humiliated. Of course, the whole affair could be explained, there would be no consequences… but the fact remained that he felt like a very ill-behaved teenager.

They arrived at the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office.  When the Headmaster gave it the password he did so in a low mutter, and Snape was unable to make out what exactly he had said. It struck him as strange but he did not pay the feeling any undue attention. Probably the old man was so furious that he had to control his voice even more than usually. Understandable, given the circumstances. While they rode up the spiral staircase in silence, Snape could physically feel the waves of anger radiating off the old wizard. Well, he was going to get a good tongue-lashing about having played along with Malfoy’s preposterous little idea. It would cost him a good deal of patience to explain why he had done so, and hopefully the old man would see reason. Although he doubted it. The old man would grudgingly accept. Not understand, though. How could he? He was a true Gryffindor to the core and could never comprehend the workings of a truly Slytherin mind. Snape barely suppressed an amused snort at the thought of how, say, the Black-mongrel would have handled the situation:

‘You think I’m afraid of your little tricks, Malfoy? You think I’m afraid of you, you ferret-faced bastard?’ Then he would probably have transformed into a dog and tried to bite off Malfoy’s head.

The door to the Headmaster’s office swung open. Dumbledore strode straight towards his desk instead of holding the door for his visitor, as he usually did.  Merlin, the man had to be pissed off at him. Understandable, in a way, but not really. Because Dumbledore knew… Or did he? No, impossible. The mere thought was absurd. Snape followed the Headmaster’s gestured request and sat down on one of those impossibly squashy chairs. He would have sold his paternal grandmother—not that anybody would have given anything for that fire-breathing creature, but anyway—for a nice, high-backed, hard wooden chair. The adjective ‘squashy’ had taken on an entirely new, unpleasant meaning, doing what it did to his still-beyond-the-scale-of-hardness erection.

He had just opened his mouth to speak, when Dumbledore raised his hand to silence him. “No, Severus, I would prefer to discuss this in Minerva’s presence.”

Trying to find a comfortable position, Snape leaned back and shrugged. In the end, it didn’t really count whether he had to face one or two of them. And McGonagall’s presence had the definite advantage that there would be somebody to yell at. Difficult as it was to yell at Dumbledore—in fact, he had never done it—Minerva was a wonderful human lightning rod.

When McGonagall entered the office, though, Snape was not so sure anymore about who was going to be the lightning rod. The woman was positively blazing with fury. Snape took a deep, steadying breath. This was not going to be fun.

“She’s in the infirmary,” the Head of Gryffindor informed the Headmaster, “We gave her some calming and some sleeping draught.” Then she turned round to face Snape. “How could you, Severus…” Hectic red blotches were rapidly forming on her face and throat. “She’s the most talented student we have seen in a century, and you… and you…”

“Couldn’t we just try and stay calm?” Snape said. Strange, he thought, that usually was one of Dumbledore’s lines. And with a reason, for coming out of his own mouth, it had quite the opposite effect.

“Calm?” she shrieked, “You want me to stay calm? You were about to commit the most horrible… the most heinous… you… you piece of scum…”

“Now really, Minerva.” Dumbledore. Finally. About time, Snape thought. One more word, and he would have cracked. “Although I do not approve of Minerva’s choice of words, I have to say that I am deeply shocked. I would never have believed—”

“Albus,” Snape said, feeling that he barely controlled himself anymore, “I don’t have to take those insults. And neither your own toned-down version. You will allow me to explain this whole admittedly worrisome affair, or I am leaving this office immediately.”

Dumbledore slowly shook his head. “I cannot imagine what you might have to say for yourself, but please try to explain. We are listening.”

We are listening. Snape began to feel very uneasy. He had had his differences with Dumbledore, but always on a one-to-one basis. This was new, and he certainly didn’t like it. “You know that I have only just returned from Malfoy Manor. Lucius played a little game with his assembled guests tonight, and I had no other choice but to play along.”

Dumbledore’s face relaxed a little during his account, and even Minerva seemed to calm down.

“I see,” Dumbledore said, after a short pause of reflection. “Not that I don’t believe you, Severus, but would you allow me to perform the necessary spell on you?”

An evil smile crept over Snape’s face. “What a wonderfully subtle way to show me how much you trust me, Headmaster,” he snarled. “But of course you may perform the spell. Come to think of it, I insist that you perform it.”

Dumbledore drew his wand and, giving Snape a rather strange look, pointed it at him and pronounced “Evidentia Maleficorum!”

And he knew that Lucius had really and truly outwitted him. This was bad. In fact, this was worse. “I… I assure you…” No. This was even worse. Now he was stuttering and avoiding Dumbledore’s eyes. Typical guilty behaviour. He had to pull himself together. “Then try a blood sample,” he said, trying to ignore the look of growing horror and disbelief on the others’ faces. “Go on, call Poppy, what are you waiting for? Granger is asleep, so I suppose our venerable matron will have five minutes of her precious time to waste on my unimportant self?”

Dumbledore swallowed. “If the spell didn’t give any evidence… I doubt whether a blood sample… But we have to try it, of course.”

McGonagall gave a derisive laugh, entirely deprived of humour. That was enough to make him lose his temper. Slowly, but all the more menacingly, he rose from his chair and approached her, until he was standing mere inches from her. She was tall, but not tall enough to look him in the eyes without tilting back her head, offering the vulnerable throat. A simplistic strategy, based on atavistic instincts. But it always worked.

“You do not trust me, do you?” he purred in his most dangerously silky voice.  “You never trusted me, you just accepted me as a necessary evil, something you had to accept along with the rest in order to get what you wanted. I’m not really a human being in your eyes, am I, Minerva? You don’t understand me, and therefore you are afraid of me and therefore you hate me. Typical Gryffindor-narrow-mindedness. Not that I usually care, and nor do I care right now. But whether you like it or not, I am a human being, and thus have a right to be presumed innocent until proven guilty.”

She backed away, but it did little to raise his spirits. What he needed was not a momentarily intimidated Head of Gryffindor. He was in dire need of a permanently convinced Headmaster. With painful lucidity he saw his chances shrink to almost nothing. Dumbledore had, of course, been right: if the spell didn’t reveal anything it was highly improbably for a magical blood test to yield a result. It had to be tried but it was going to put him at an even bigger disadvantage.

When Poppy Pomfrey arrived, Snape had a tough job fighting his urge to vomit.  Those looks! Those glares of self-righteous outrage the two females were giving him! Implying that he had sullied and offended the whole female half of the world population. The I-Always-Told-You-He-Wasn’t-Safe stares they shot Dumbledore. As if he were a rabid dog the headmaster had taken in out of pity, against the explicit warnings of everybody else. Now the dog had bitten, and the warners, the finger-raisers, the pure ones, beholders-of-honour-and-chastity were satisfied. Because they had been proven right. Although he wasn’t quite sure what he found more disgusting: the two women’s Oh-Merlin-What-A-Monster stares or Dumbledore’s mix of worry and compassion. Poor rabid doggie, it said, I took you in, I fed you and even gave you a nice collar, made a decent dog of you, and you? You bit the hand that scratched your ears. Did I deserve that?

Yes, he definitely wanted to throw up. Preferably into their faces.

<><><>°<><><>

Dear father,

Mission accomplished. The Imita Scripturam spell worked to perfection for both Granger’s and Professor Snape’s handwriting. I sent the owl to Granger after she had left her quarters for dinner, and pinned the note to professor Snape’s door at about 9. He even did me the favour of flinging it to the ground, so I didn’t have to bother with Accio. And Dumbledore spared me the trouble of having to run and fetch him, because it seems he had been waiting for Snape’s return. In any case, he came to the Potions Laboratory. A bit early, though, for Granger had only just been stripped of her blouse. Sorry, but there was no way I could prevent that. I would have liked to watch the Mudblood be raped and put the memory into a pensieve for you to enjoy. More’s the pity.  I hope you and mother are well. What about spending part of the holidays at home? I’m getting bored here, but you know that, don’t you?

Yours

Draco

<><><>°<><><>

At least those two harpies had been told to leave the room. Not that it was a vast improvement, but he preferred what he expected to be a very distressing conversation to remain between himself and Dumbledore.

The Headmaster was sitting behind his desk, his face buried in his hands. He remained like this for a long time, and when he finally lifted his head and spoke, his voice was hoarse. “You know what this means, Severus, don’t you?”

“No, Headmaster, I’m afraid I don’t know what this means. And even if I did, I would certainly not save you the trouble of telling me.”

“You want to make it even harder for me than it already is?”

Snape gave a short, barking laugh. “Hard for you, you say? I am truly sorry, Headmaster, but right now I am unable to consider anybody’s distress but my own.  After all, we Slytherins are notorious egoists, aren’t we?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “You are so bitter, Severus. I thought…” His voice trailed away and for a while he looked out of the window into the darkness. “I thought that what you had here might have changed you. Obviously I was wrong.”

“And that is what is really bothering you, isn’t it?” Snape said calmly. “That you were wrong. Or think you were wrong. Omniscient Dumbledore—wrong. My feelings are not worth a rotten shrivelfig. Where is your trust now, Headmaster?  Your unshakeable trust that you have been carrying like a flaming red-gold banner? I tell you where it is: it never existed.

“You said you trusted me when I brought you the information you wanted and needed during the war. But that wasn’t trust, because whatever I told you was proved right. You said you trusted me when Voldemort was finally gone. Was that trust? No, because you had me at the balls. One word from you, one single word to the Ministry, and I’d have landed in Azkaban. But since Voldemort’s return… Since the evening of that goddamned Triwizard final, I have felt your so-called trust waver, Headmaster. And tonight, when your trust was really put to the test, you failed. Miserably. And you have the nerve to look into my eyes, telling me I’m embittered?”

He had never seen Dumbledore lose his composure, but obviously his words had done the trick. It was a satisfaction, if a small one.

The Headmaster’s right fist came crashing down on the tabletop. “Then tell me what I should do in your opinion!” he shouted and rose from his chair. “Tell me how I should trust you despite an evidence that is so incriminating that it crushes whatever hopes I had for your innocence. You claim that Miss Granger wrote you a note. Where is it?” he started to pace the room. “You declare that you never wrote her a note, but we find it in her room. You maintain that Malfoy drugged you with some lust-inducing potion, but neither is there a trace of it nor can you explain why you didn’t assault one of the female dinner guests. This is too much to be counterbalanced by mere trust, Severus. Even you have to admit that. Give me something, give me anything, and I will gladly believe you. But not like this. Not with every single detail screaming that you’re guilty.”

“You forgot the spell, Headmaster,” Snape retorted calmly, conscious that he was playing his last trump card. “The Coelibatus Spell, remember? It would take a very potent curse or potion to override it.”

Dumbledore abruptly stopped his pacing and threw both hands up in a gesture of despair. “Don’t you see it, Severus? Is it possible that you don’t see it? You cast the spell, Severus! You cast it, and you were the one against whom it didn’t work! What is the logical conclusion?”

Snape was feeling exactly like in one of those hideous nightmares where you picked up a precious diamond, to see it turn into something disgustingly slimy in your hand. “Headmaster, you’re not implying—”

“I am not implying!” Dumbledore shouted, “I am drawing the only logical conclusion the evidence leads me to!”

“Headmaster, I cast that spell more than a year ago!” Now he was truly losing his patience. “I would have had every occasion I wanted to assault that girl!  She’s doing an extra credits project in Potions! She is in my laboratory at least once a week! I could have raped and obliviated her as often as I wanted, had that been my intention!”

“Yes, I know,” Dumbledore replied, not shouting anymore. “But then, the blood test revealed that you had a lot of alcohol tonight. In fact, Poppy was astonished you could walk on your own.”

“Which only proves my bloody point!” Snape shouted, “I have a high tolerance for alcohol, because I drink a lot. But I. Am. Never. Fucking. Drunk! And even when drinking a lot, I never assaulted Granger. So why should I have done so today?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “It proves nothing, Severus, nothing. Only that you’re emotionally unstable and drink a lot. I hardly believe that this speaks in your favour.”

At this very moment, Severus Snape recognized that he had lost. Not only this battle, metaphorically speaking; no, he had lost the whole bloody war and it meant… “You’re going to sack me,” he said, still incredulous, “You’re going to sack me and I… what the hell do you think I’ll do?”

Slowly and wearily, looking even older than his already venerable age, Dumbledore returned to his chair and slumped into it. “I… I have no idea, Severus. I only hope you won’t…”

“Do I have another choice? I have no money, no job, and no reputation. Or rather a very bad one. Who would hire me? Or would you write me a letter of recommendation? Professor Snape was sacked because he assaulted a student, but apart from that I can highly recommend him—just keep him away from the female staff?” Dumbledore raised his hand to interrupt him, but Snape continued, “There is nowhere else I can go and you know it. And if any of them has a suspicion on behalf of my loyalty, it will be a very short outing. I hope you can live with this on your conscience, Headmaster.”

With those words, he rose and left Dumbledore’s office.

<><><>°<><><>

The quality of the light was definitely strange, Hermione thought when she opened her eyes. It was too… white. Yes, definitely too white. Her room was decorated in Gryffindor colours, and even when the sunlight invaded it full force, the brightness always had a yellowish hue. And… she rubbed her tongue against her palate and pulled a face. What was that? Her mouth tasted like the sewers of Calcutta. Why hadn’t she cleaned her teeth? Deciding that she needed some more sleep before answering these questions, she turned and… winced. Her right shoulder definitely hurt. Gingerly she touched the left one, and it hurt, too.

The realization hit her like a tidal wave and left her just as breathless. She had been assaulted by Snape! Which accounted for her hurting shoulders. And they had taken her to the hospital wing, to force some vile-tasting potion down her throat. Which accounted for the white light and the muddiness of her mouth. No more sleep then. Thinking was in order. Hermione reopened her eyes and sat up.

This had not been a wise move, because her still-potion-fogged brain was immediately flooded by two female voices she identified as Pomfrey and McGonagall’s.

“Hermione! Miss Granger! Are you all right?” She had never been aware that McGonagall’s voice was that shrill.

“Wait, Minerva! I have to check her up first!”

Although she was feeling perfectly all right, Hermione patiently endured the examination. If nothing else, it provided a brief respite from the fussing-around she expected from her Head of House.

“Do you think I might have breakfast first?” she asked—with perfect timing, for Madam Pomfrey had just finished her examination and McGonagall had not yet opened her mouth.

“Of course, child, of course! Something light, though, you have been under a lot of stress…”

“Uh, not really,” Hermione said, “And, to say the truth, I’m quite hungry.”

She did not really like the worried look the two women exchanged, and began to grow downright angry when she saw Pomfrey mouth ‘denial!’ to McGonagall with a meaningful wriggle of her eyebrows.

“Listen!” she said, slightly astonished at her own daring—but she had to get that idea out of their heads, “I am neither in shock nor in aftershock. I’m not in denial. I was frightened yesterday night, and I’m eternally grateful to Headmaster Dumbledore for having interrupted Professor Snape in time. But not only have you drugged me sufficiently to make me offer Voldemort breakfast, should he come through this door, I’m also a sensible person and know that this wasn’t really Professor Snape’s doing. I mean,” she hastened to explain when she saw the two women shake their heads, “I know it was he. But he must have been under some Dark Spell, maybe even the Imperius Curse, to behave like this. I can’t say I like him, but I’ve known him for almost seven years, and he would never do such a thing.”

If they continued shaking their heads like this, they were going to come off, Hermione thought.

“I think,” Madam Pomfrey said in the cautious tone normally used with dangerous lunatics, “that we should discuss this after you have eaten your breakfast. The Headmaster would like to see you in his office.”

<><><>°<><><>

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Hermione asked—not that she really needed an explanation, but the truth was simply too horrible to believe.

“Exactly what I said, Miss Granger. Professor Snape is not a teacher at this school anymore.”

Now she was shocked. Where were those calming potions when you really needed them?

“But… but what does he do? Where is he?”

Dumbledore merely wagged his head. “I… do not know,” he said finally. “He has refused to tell me where he was heading. I have, of course, my suspicions…”

This had to be a dream. A nightmare. The worst she’d had so far. “You mean you simply let him walk out of the door and into… into whatever is out there?”

“He committed a very serious crime, Miss… Hermione. He was lucky that I chose not to inform the Ministry.”

“You must be joking, Headmaster. It’s as clear as daylight that he wasn’t quite himself when he assaulted me. Besides, nothing happened. My shoulders are bruised, that’s all. Thanks to your timely intervention,” she added dutifully.

“Yes, you were lucky,” Dumbledore agreed gravely, “But had I not arrived…”

“But you did arrive,” Hermione said stubbornly, “And that’s not the point anyway. He was under some curse or—What?” she asked when the Headmaster shook his head.

“No, Hermione, he wasn’t. Or did you really believe we would not have checked?”

“Well… no,” she admitted. “But I was there, and you weren’t. I could feel that something was wrong with him.”

Another grave nod. “Yes, something was undoubtedly wrong. You didn’t write a note to him, did you?”

“Uh… no, I didn’t.”

“But you received one from him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“I was as reluctant as you to accept the sad truth, Hermione, probably even more. But you have to acknowledge the facts: he attempted to rape you in spite of the—”

Hermione jumped out of her chair. “The spell! The Coelibatus Spell! He’s the only one who can take it off! And you let him GO?”

Had she been less exasperated, she would have had the pleasure of seeing Albus Dumbledore become slightly fidgety.

“I know… it occurred to me, but… he was already gone when—”

“Then FIND him!” she yelled, completely oblivious of who she was talking to.  “It’s your bloody responsibility! You talked me into this, you and Professor McGonagall! I accepted for your sake, and now you’re letting me down? I can’t believe it!”

“Miss Granger, please try to be reasonable. You graduation is six months away, and before that—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she shrieked, “Six months? He’ll be dead within the next three days if the death eaters get hold of him, and you tell me to wait?”

Why was he silent? And why did he have that pained look? He didn’t think that… “You don’t believe that he’ll change sides again, do you? Do you?”

“It is… possible,” Dumbledore replied, avoiding her eyes.

She had to close her eyes and try to get some control over herself—otherwise she couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t simply strangle the Headmaster. “Fine,” she said, voice trembling, hands balled into painful fists, “So he will be killed by the Aurors. The difference is not that dramatic. Not for me, anyway.”

“Miss Granger, please try to calm down. I am sure we will find a solution—”

“No!” she said, reopening her eyes and meeting his blue gaze defiantly. “You know that there is no solution. None. So don’t lie to me.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I would never have thought that I might say that to you one day: don’t. Fucking. Lie. To. Me.”