Raised to the Third Power

Eleven.

Eleven was an odd number.

Eleven was a prime number.

There were eleven students in the fifth and seventh year classes of Slytherin House.

Most students were eleven years old when they arrived at Hogwarts.

It took eleven minutes to walk from the largest dungeon to the astronomy tower.

The most recent Slytherin Head Girl had gotten eleven OWLs.

A famous Muggle armistice had been signed at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

There were eleven ingredients in the simplest Alacrity Potion.

Wolfsbane had to be brewed whole for eleven minutes before a potion involving it was begun.

And Severus Snape had been held captive in one of the Dark Lord's makeshift forest fortresses for eleven days.

Eleven was a miserable number.

Severus started into the blackness. In addition to being an odd number, a prime number, and a miserable number, eleven was a boring number. He had to think of something other than eleven, but his brain felt exhausted from the thinking it had done during the previous ten days. The waiting game was tiring in a very special way.

Thus far, no one had made the slightest attempt to harm Severus. Quite the contrary had been true, in fact. David Avery, one of the youngest Death Eaters implicitly trusted by the Dark Lord, had been charged with delivering fresh food to Severus thrice daily. The room which Severus was forbidden to leave was equipped with a perfectly comfortable bed and a perfectly functional shower. The only thing denied Severus-- other than freedom of movement, intellectual stimulation of any sort, and the ability to contact anyone other than young Avery-- was sunlight. He lived below Hogwarts in the dungeons, though, and he was used to quarters dark and dank. Such was the fate of a Slytherin, and Severus bled silver and green.

He smirked. He would be bleeding literally, soon. The Dark Lord would not leave him here forever. It was not the Dark Lord's way.

Severus shifted anxiously, and then cursed himself for doing so. Odds were good that he was being observed, and he had no desire to look nervous or guilty.

He was, of course, guilty. He had been a double agent for most of his adult life. Had the Dark Lord at last come across irrefutable evidence as to this fact? Had he blown his cover? Had someone blown it for him? What would the punishment be?

Severus had wondered what his punishment would be for a good sixteen years. In a way, this imprisonment was only the latest, most dramatic chapter in a waiting game that was well into its second decade.

The first door along a corridor of doors swung open, and then latched itself shut. The other doors followed suit, and Severus slunk down further in his chair, hoping to look merely bored when Avery arrived. A moment after the last door had shut itself, Severus lazily raised his eyelids.

To his terror, he did not see Avery.

"My Lord, I did not see you," he hastily said. He bowed low to the ground as he slid from his perch to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord's robes.

The Dark Lord's diamond-toed dragon hide boot connected with Severus' head. "That is obvious," He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named snarled.

"Forgive me."

"Why in Grindlewald's name should I forgive you?"

"My Lord, I shall not make the same mistake again."

"You shall not have the chance."

"My Lord?"

Severus had pulled his knees under his body once more, and the Dark Lord, noticing this, kicked his head once more. Severus' balance and vision were slower to return this time. Those diamonds are going to leave a bruise thought the section of his brain that, for some reason, found the whole situation humorous. Slytherins had dark souls, practiced Dark Arts, and possessed dark senses of humor.

"My Lord," Severus repeated. "My Lord, I shall never again be so negligent as not to notice your presence. It is an honor to--"

"Save your breath, Snape. You will need it to scream."

Severus looked up through the haze of red behind his eyes to see that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sneering. "CRUCIO!" he bellowed.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was perhaps the most successful user of the Cruciatus Curse in the history of magic. He worked with pain as Michelangelo had worked with marble. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knew how to deny a subject the bliss of losing consciousness. He knew how to spread pain throughout the body without making one spot hurt so well that the other injuries were forgotten. He knew exactly when to keep the level steady and when to create waves. He knew when and how to disfigure permanently.

Ordinarily, when he was frightening a new recruit or punishing a tardy arrival, the Dark Lord used only the smallest fraction of his power. Today, though, Severus was feeling the Cruciatus Curse as it was meant to be felt. Somehow, he was less than honored.

His body managed to curl itself into a fetal position on the floor. If he screamed, he could not hear himself for the pain. When clarity began to prick the edges of his mind, he knew not how many moments after the curse had been removed, his body's first reaction was to writhe and wretch and rid itself of the food David Avery had been taking such pains to bring him. His ribs protested, and his throat burned horribly (he now had proof that he had indeed screamed). He lacked the strength to pull himself back to his knees, so the vomit stained his loose, sweaty hair and the collar of his robe. The smell made his head pound all the more, but he was unable to move. Tears would have sprung to his eyes had his eyes not already been mysteriously dried out.

"What have you to say for yourself, Snape?" commanded the excruciatingly amplified voice of the Dark Lord.

"My Lord, I apologize."

"For what?"

"For not seeing you and greeting you properly." Even in his current state, Severus remembered that the Dark Lord most likely did not know the extent of his treachery.

"I do not believe that that is all for which you must apologize, Snape. CRUCIO!"

The curse was lighter this time. It was centered on one of Severus' ankles-- one particular bone, in fact. More specific curses existed for this sort of work, but only a spectacular wizard could modify the Cruciatus Curse to achieve the same ends. The Dark Lord was, in effect, showing off.

When the bone shattered into too many pieces and Severus cried out his anguish, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named resumed his questioning. "What do you think of Peter Pettigrew?"

"Precious little," Snape spat as well as he could. "Not magically gifted and not mentally strong."

"True. Or rather, it was."

"He's dead?"

"The questions are not for you to ask. You are rather like Pettigrew, do you not think?"

"My Lord?"

"YOU DO NOT THINK!" Severus nearly passed out just from the pain in his head. "Crucio!" A bone or two in Severus' foot snapped. "Do you know that I have spies in the Ministry?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"They delivered this to me two weeks ago. Accio!" A stack of papers flew into the room. The Dark Lord transfigured them into an eclectic collection of knives, pins, and even a sharp letter opener before magically thrusting them into Severus' upper body. Another quick spell pulled them into a ball in the air in their original paper form. They burst into flame and fluttered down to rest on Severus once more. Had his clothes and hair not already been drenched with sweat and vomit, he would likely have been set afire.

"Can you read them?"

"No," slurred Severus.

"Stupid! Illiterate! Crucio!" Several more bones met their demise.

"Allow me to summarize," He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named suggested at last. "It was brought to the Ministry's attention that after an ill-fated attack on a group of Dumbledore's lackeys including Sirius Black and Remus Lupin that a great many snakes had been present. They were killed by some exuberant werewolf wrestling matches. They were analyzed and their venom was compared to that found in the snakes that entered Hogwarts through a portal last winter. An antidote was found which expelled the last of the snakes from Hogwarts! Do you know who alerted the Ministry to the presence of the snakes?"

"I did." Severus could not make out his own words.

"You did. I spent countless hours devising a way to use the serpentine over-soul to create potentially deadly hypnotic effects on Dumbledore's lackeys, and *you* informed the Ministry."

Severus went slack with relief. He had been exposed not as a spy but as stupid. Stupid was, in this case, infinitely preferable.

"I was wrong, My Lord. I was unthinking. It will not happen again. Forgive me, please."

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could not possibly have translated Severus' plea. His reaction would not likely have been different if he had been able to do so. "CRUCIO!"

The Dark Lord no longer had any interest in Severus' remaining coherent, so he did not pull his curse even slightly this time. Severus could do nothing but writhe. He did not feel it when two pairs of hands seized him roughly and dragged him from his prison to the forest floor.

His own scream dragged him from a fitful sleep. Damn it he cursed himself inwardly. I hope I didn't wake up--

"Harry?" Ron quickly lit a candle that sat on the table between Harry's bed and his own.

Harry pried his hands from his throbbing scar in an attempt to look happy and healthy. "I woke you up. I'm so sor--"

"Shut it," interrupted Ron. His eyes took in Harry's sweat-soaked sheets and pain-paled skin. "Hospital wing? Dumbledore? Sirius? Common room? Was it a vision or just a dream?"

"Ron," Harry said to buy time. He gave in and let his hands creep back to his scar.

"Right," said Ron as if Harry had answered his question. In one long stride, he collected one of his school robes and one of Harry's. They threw them on over their pajamas and left their dormitory for the common room.

By the time they reached the common room, Harry had regained his ability to speak coherently. "I'm all right, Ron. You can go back to sleep."

Ron gave Harry a look of disbelief that was almost comical. "If you're all right, why aren't you coming with me?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I-- I have to talk to someone." Ron unsuccessfully tried to cover up the insulted expression that began to cross his face. "It's just that I can't go straight to Dumbledore-- he stopped using sweets as his password, at least I think he did-- and I need someone who can wake him up."

"You did have a vision."

Harry nodded. "I'd tell you if I could, but it wouldn't be fair to the person I saw. I think I saw."

Ron's eyes widened. "It wasn't-- it wasn't someone I know?" His face went pale beneath his freckles.

"No," Harry lied with the intent of reassuring Ron. "If it was someone you definitely knew and cared about, I would tell you."

Ron nodded. "Do you want to get McGonagall, then?"

Harry paused before replying. Professor McGonagall was his head of house, and technically the person to whom he should take this problem. However, while he liked and respected the witch, he did not feel entirely comfortable with the idea of explaining what he had seen to her. He knew that the important thing was getting the news to Dumbledore, but he had been so horrified by what he had seen-- this dream was perhaps the most vivid he had ever had-- that he wanted to describe it to someone he could talk to.

"Harry?" Ron asked.

"I'm thinking."

"Sprout? Sinistra? Flitwick? Pick someone. Oh, this is ridiculous. Let's just go to Sirius."

Harry shook his head emphatically. As much as he disliked Professor Snape, he did not want to tell his childhood enemy of his painful situation. Being captured by Voldemort would have been bad enough for Harry-- but having Draco Malfoy be the first to learn the details of his confinement would have been worse in some ways. "It can't be Sirius," he said emphatically.

"Lupin?"

Harry considered. Snape hated Remus intensely, but not as intensely as he hated Sirius and with considerably less reason. Additionally, so far as Harry knew, there was no chance that Remus would get so mad that he would use the information Harry gave him to embarrass Snape. Sirius, when angry, would go for the throat verbally-- and sometimes physically as well.

"Yeah," agreed Harry at last. "It has to be Remus."

They made their way to the corridor where Remus, Sirius, and other visiting members of Dumbledore's faithful few stayed.

"Oh no," breathed Ron suddenly.

Harry looked up quickly, but not quickly enough. Peeves the Poltergeist was flying toward them, cackling madly. "STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" he shrieked gleefully. "Potter the Rotter and his faithful sidekick!"

"Shut up, Peeves," snarled Ron. He drew his wand but could not seem to think of an appropriate spell, for he just stood there, sputtering.

In any case, the damage had been done. Sirius' door swung open.

"Harry? Ron?" he asked, evidently unperturbed by either Peeves' still-cackling presence or by being awakened from a sound sleep.

Harry wondered if he should have brought along his invisibility cloak.

Ron and Sirius were both looking at Harry as if expecting him to speak, but Ron at last ended the silence himself. "Harry had another dream. One of the ones where he sees things that are really happening."

"OOO, IS ICKLE POTTER HAVING HALUCINATIONS AGAIN?" screamed Peeves.

Sirius' eyes turned cold as he drew his wand and aimed it at Peeves. Peeves did not wait to see what Sirius' hex of choice might be; he simply fled. "You can go, too," Harry told Ron.

Ron seemed to understand that Harry did not want an audience, even one consisting of his best friend, when he explained to Sirius that he could not tell him what he had seen. He looked back the way they had come. "If I woke everyone else up, you'll tell them I'm sorry? I'll tell them myself tomorrow," said Harry quickly.

"They understand. They won't be upset, if you did wake them up."

"I'm sorry anyway," Harry repeated. Ron left after Peeves, and Sirius and Harry were alone.

"You want to tell me about it?" asked Sirius, eyeing Harry critically.

"I can't," Harry said weakly. "I just need you to get me into Dumbledore's office."

"You know I can't do that without knowing the reason."

Harry shrugged helplessly. "It was a dream. I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I just can't. Please, Sirius, trust me?"

"I do trust you. But Harry, for the moment I'm technically as Hogwarts faculty member. I have to follow the rules closely or there will be trouble. The problem isn't my trusting you, it's your trusting me."

Harry recoiled at the hurt that momentarily passed through Sirius' voice. Snape can't possibly be worth this. Sirius is the last person in the world I should hurt. What did I do? He looked up guiltily to meet his godfather's gaze, but what Harry had privately termed the "Azkaban Look" had made an appearance. A door seemed to have slammed shut behind Sirius' eyes.

"Who do you want to tell?" asked Sirius with complete detachment. "The rules are in place to keep Dumbledore safe while he's draining so much of his magic with the defensive spells."

"Sirius, I--"

"Who did you come up here to see?"

"You," Harry lied. Forget Snape. If Sirius was going to place so much importance on his knowing, then he would know.

"I don't believe that. You know the rules."

"Aren't you always saying that the fun thing about rules is finding out how to get around them?" asked Harry, desperately trying to lighten the mood.

Sirius scowled and rapped on a nearby door. "Remus?"

Remus opened the door almost immediately.

"Deal with this," said Sirius, gesturing at Harry before retreating to his own room and locking the door.

"Harry?" asked Remus kindly.

Harry was staring after Sirius. "I didn't mean to--" he began, but Remus waved him off.

"It probably has nothing to do with you."

Harry hung his head. "It does. Peeves-- well, I had a dream and I have to tell Dumbledore, and I can't see Dumbledore without telling a professor why, and I told Sirius I couldn't tell him about my dream."

Remus nodded. "Sirius is in a bad mood for reasons having nothing to do with you."

"Because of the war?"

"Largely. Now, who can you tell about your dream?"

"You?" whispered Harry, feeling helpless again.

"Come inside," Remus said gently.

Harry shook his head emphatically. "No. I'll tell you on the way. You will let me in."

"I don't doubt it." They began to walk toward Dumbledore's office together as Harry explained the dream.

" . . . And I just thought how horrible it would be for me if something happened to me and Malfoy found out right away. Snape hates Sirius. I mean, he hates you and me, too, but I still thought it would be nice if I didn't go to Sirius right away."

Remus had been paying rapt attention. "You didn't do the wrong thing, Harry. We'll be able to get him back now."

***********************************

Severus was not particularly glad to have been retrieved and brought back to Hogwarts. He hated the hospital wing; and he hated the knowledge that he belonged there. The damage that the Dark Lord had done to his body could not be instantly healed, even by magic. A persistent corner of his mind wished that his body had expired on the floor of the Forbidden Forest so that he could have had done with the mess that was his life.

The rest of his mind was simply bored. He was not physically capable of reading for long periods of time, let alone teaching a full schedule. Albus visited him, but Albus was busy defending the world. Besides, Severus did not like people. He was not lonely. He had not grown accustomed to his students and he did not miss them.

A soft noise sounded near the door to his room, and he sat up quickly. The tiny, private room was off-limits to students who might want to have their revenge on a teacher who had exposed their inadequacies one too many times.

"Mr. Malfoy?" he called smoothly.

Draco stepped into his field of vision. A smirk played about Draco's pale features. "Hello, Professor."

"You aren't supposed to be in here," Severus pointed out unnecessarily.

"The door was left open." Draco drawled. He felt no need to lie convincingly, obviously; Severus never punished Lucius Malfoy's son unless it was absolutely necessary. Conveniently, Draco virtually never misbehaved in Severus' presence.

"What can I do for you, then?"

Draco shut the door gently and slid closer to Severus' bed. "When are you coming back to teach us?"

Severus half-sighed. "As soon as I'm healed. Operosus potions, you know, do damage that can't be healed instantly."

"I can't believe you managed to let one explode, Sir." Draco kept the irony from his tone, but Severus knew that Draco was not speaking idiomatically. He honestly did not believe that Severus had been injured by a freak accident in his lab. In fact, Severus suspected that Lucius Malfoy had told his son the truth, the whole truth, and then some.

"Accidents happen."

"It was really an accident?" Oh, yes, Draco knew the truth. Everything in his manner suggested that he was discussing something of much more importance than a simple-- well, a complex-- potion.

"Why would I do something like that on purpose?" asked Severus, wondering if Draco knew the answer.

Draco shrugged with feigned casualness. "I heard something interesting. You know, prefects hear all the rumors."

"I hope you don't put too much faith in rumors."

Draco grinned coldly. "Of course not. But this was an especially . . . intriguing rumor. I heard that you were found in the Forbidden Forest and carried back to the castle."

"Surely you know that a side effect of Operosus potions can be dementia. One can be affected even by the fumes. I wandered into the Forbidden Forest."

"You were demented? Honestly?"

"Why would I go into the Forbidden Forest otherwise?" The conversation was becoming circular. Severus wondered if Draco was interrogating him on his father's orders or if he was just frightened. Draco was about to turn sixteen, and sixteen was an important age for a child of one of the Dark Lord's greatest supporters.

"There are interesting things there."

"More rumors?" asked Severus dryly.

"They say that the Death Eaters have outposts there."

"Dumbledore doesn't like his students to know so much about Death Eaters," Severus said without a bit of reprimand and with a considerable bit of encouragement in his tone.

"It's just something I heard. When I was in the library . . . studying. For the OWLs."

Severus nodded.

"I'm almost sixteen," Draco continued.

"Next week, I believe," Severus agreed.

"The youngest Death Eaters are sixteen years old."

"Did you pick that up in the library, too?"

"Overheard it on my way to the Great Hall for breakfast." Draco paused, and his face, already more relaxed than usual, became still less arrogant. "Are you all right, Sir?"

"I'm fine, Draco."

"The textbook says that Operosus potions gone wrong can be very painful." Almost sixteen he surely was, but Draco did not look even that aged.

"Aren't the books on Operosus potions in the restricted section of the library?"

"Next to the books on Veritaserum," Draco agreed shamelessly. "I heard someone mention-- when I was playing Quidditch-- that when the Death Eaters initiate someone, they use Veritaserum, and if they think someone is the least bit unsure, that person dies, right on the spot."

"I believe that that has happened, yes," said Severus. He tried not to think too hard about the last time it had happened. Such deaths were not pretty. Death rarely was.

Draco looked so nearly ill that Severus took a risk and took pity. "Sometimes things do happen," he said carefully. "You know about Percy Wesley?" Draco nodded. "He got past the Veritaserum."

Draco's face lightened considerably, and he regained his customary smirk.

"You didn't answer."

"Didn't answer what?"

"My question. When are you coming back? When will you be healed? Black and Lupin really can't teach potions. I know more about potions than they do."

"I know you do," agreed Severus. "And I did answer your question. I can't be certain when I'll be healed." Even this conversation was sapping his strength. Suddenly, Draco's words made their way to his brain. "Dumbledore allowed Black and Lupin to teach potions?"

"They aren't really teaching the older students. Just drilling us out of the books for OWLs and NEWTs."

"Are they allowed in my office?"

Draco shook his head emphatically. "No. They aren't doing much damage. They're just being annoying. They took points from Slytherin today because I corrected one of Potter's answers and Weasley tried to hex me. I didn't even hex him back, just reflected it." He never hexes if he can help it. Wonder if Lucius knows? "I should have hexed him," Draco added. All talk. Always has been. "He lost points, but Potter was the one who got sent to Dumbledore."

"I'll give the points back to Slytherin when I come back," Severus said non-committaly.

"Thank you, Sir." Draco stepped back toward the door. "I'll let you rest. Seeing as I'm not meant to be in here."

"Good bye, Mr. Malfoy."

"Good bye, Sir. I hope you feel better."

Severus barely had time to raise his eyebrows as he considered the reaction most members of the Hogwarts community would have upon receiving apparently sincere get-well wishes from Draco Malfoy before falling asleep.

Several corridors and floors away, Harry had indeed arrived at Dumbledore's office.

"You asked to see me, Sir?" he asked when the door was opened.

"Come in, Harry," said Dumbledore pleasantly. He must not be too mad about potions, then-- but that git Malfoy started it! Harry thought. "Sit down." Harry sat. "I thought you might be interested to know of the outcome of our last conversation."

Harry blanched as he recalled his dream. "Yes, Sir."

"Your dream was apparently quite accurate."

"It was," repeated Harry.

"He will recover completely. He is resting in the hospital wing."

"Can't he be magically healed?"

"Magic is not always an instant cure, Harry. As I recall, you spent quite some time in the hospital wing at the end of your first year, for example."

That's true. I was lucky to make it out of that alive. Dumbledore barely got there in time. If he hadn't known I would go after Voldemort, and made sure that Ron and Hermione and I knew how to get by that obstacle course . . . And then a mysterious thought popped into his head. "Sir?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"First year, my first year, why did you let me fight Voldemort?"

Before Dumbledore could answer, another memory clawed its way to the front of Harry's confused mind. He and his classmates had been beginning an ill-fated field trip that fall when Parvati had begun to talk to him.

He turned to look at her. “Hi,” he said by way of greeting.

“Hi. Having fun yet?”

“Any day we miss Potions is a good day.”

“I agree. Oh . . .” she looked beyond Harry to the street, and his eyes followed her gaze. The Slytherin fifth years were walking down the opposite side of the road, looking haughty and unpleasant as they always did. Seeing that Harry had noticed him, Draco Malfoy instantly began to yell.

“HEY, POTTER! AREN'T YOU AFRAID TO BE OUT OF THE CASTLE? DUMBLEDORE ISN'T HERE TO PROTECT YOU, NOT THAT HE DOES SUCH A GOOD JOB ANYWAY!”

Harry jerked himself back to the present. "I saw no way of stopping you, and I thought you might do well," Dumbledore was saying.

"No way of stopping me? With all due respect, Sir, I was eleven years old and I hardly knew any magic at all. Aurors get killed by Voldemort all the time."

"You are rather unique, Harry."

The evasive answers began to take their toll on Harry's patience. He was emotionally exhausted from the daily accounts of Death Eater activity printed in the Daily Prophet, his latest face-to-face meeting with Voldemort, and his most recent non-school-related conversation with Sirius. "Why does Voldemort want to kill me?"

"He wants revenge, I imagine. You've embarrassed him several times."

"Why did he want to kill me when I was a baby?"

"I told you that I cannot tell you that."

Harry's patience lessened further. "If you've been friends with Mad-Eye Moody since before I was born, why couldn't you tell that he was being impersonated?"

Dumbledore suddenly looked tired. "Sometimes we see what we want to see. We blame circumstances. Your classmates earlier this year certainly had trouble telling earlier this year that Parvati Patil--"

"My classmates aren't some of the most powerful wizards of all time."

"Yet," said Dumbledore with a small, forced smile, but Harry was not to be led into a light mood.

"Why didn't anyone check the maze for things like portkeys? Why re-instate a contest that teenagers die competing in? Wasn't there a reason they ended the Triwizard Tournament in the first place?"

"I am not omnipotent, Harry," said Dumbledore, his voice still calm.

Harry's voice grew calm, dangerously calm, as well. "Can't you attack Voldemort yourself?"

"I can attack him. I cannot kill him, Harry."

"Can I?"

Dumbledore sighed. "To you, he is mortal."

"Why to me?"

"I cannot--"

"Tell me that," Harry completed with the headmaster. "I'm almost sixteen. If I were the son of a Death Eater, I'd be old enough to join Voldemort. I've faced him three times, plus once from the diary. I'm old enough to know what's going on!"

"You'll be old enough soon enough," said Dumbledore in a tone that left no room for argument. "I believe you have prefect's duty this afternoon," he added by way of dismissal.

Harry left as he was commanded. He thought not of prefect's duty, however. He had only one thought.

He set me up.