Propensity and the Chaotic Pendulum

Shaking from head to foot, displaying none of his confidence and prowess, Severus Snape went on his knees before Albus Dumbledore.

"No need for genuflecting, Severus. We are old friends, are we not?"

"Headmaster, I simply must--I mean to say--that is," he stammered, climbing to his feet but still dreadfully trembling.

"Slow down, dear boy."

"Dear boy?" came a derisive snort from an unexpected place. "You're calling HIM dear boy? That loathsome creature, that hideous greasepot of a slimeball!"

"Miss Granger, that will quite do," Dumbledore said mildly, his eyes trained on Snape's shaking face.

"She has every right," he whispered.

"Now, Severus. Surely when we explain the dire--"

"Oh, I know all about the dire circumstances! The spy work for the Order, the importance of keeping up appearances! And its all lies! He's nothing but a coward, a simple coward through and through! He's locked up in his past, harboring ill will to anyone with half a brain because he envies them! He envies us all our freedoms. For he has none. And I understand these things, and make allowances. But tonight the evil man, well, he has simply crossed the line," Hermione panted her rant to a close.

"She definitely has the right to say that," Snape muttered.

"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here! I know that I'm 'beneath' you, what with my Mudblood heritage--"

"Stop right there, Miss Granger. I am quite of the opinion that Professor's Snape's transgressions this evening are disgusting, horrendous and deserving of punishment. But I will solidly state that I do not believe he behaved of his own accord." He focused again on Snape, who cast his eyes guiltily down. “Severus, do you believe you were placed under Imperius?”

Snape started trembling even harder, his head spinning. He could feel his face burning beneath Dumbledore's gaze. As if the heat emanating from the dreadfully wronged Hermione Granger was not enough to set him afire. "How have we come to this?" he said, more to himself than anyone else. Hermione gave to sobbing, and Dumbledore finally turned his piercing gaze to her.

"My child,” Dumbledore soothed, holding Hermione’s weeping form gently. Snape kept his eyes firmly on the ground. A voice inside him chided, ‘look at her! Look at what you have done.’ The frightening truth, he realized, was that he was not at all sure if this was a voice of pride or shame.

The power of rape, he reflected. To so utterly and completely own one’s body and soul in one instant of passion and rage. It was worse than murder, but felt infinitely better. And Severus Snape had murdered. He had known the frightening joy which came from watching one writhe beneath his wand, the last fighting breaths leaving their body with torrents of blood. Knowing that at the exact moment the body died, the bowels evacuated--he was of the utmost importance. Not a person mattered more than the one taking your life from you. To be fully honest, Snape had always wanted that power.

As the simple, albeit intimidating, Potions master of Hogwarts, Snape’s power was of limited supply. He certainly had the ability to make many a student quake in their robes as he approached them, his patented sneer and dark robes coming in for the kill. But how long had it been since someone looked upon Snape with the sheer reverence-- the desperate idolatry, that veritably oozed from the pores of one about to die by his hand?

But Snape had not entertained these thoughts for some time. It was the rain, he insisted to himself. It was not at all, he tried to convince himself, her perfume. Nor was it her dress robes, a little tight around the bosom--nor was it her hair, free and loose and tickling his cheek as they stood in hiding in a Malfoy Manor closet.

His head began to swim again, the order of events horrendously out of synch. When had his passion for her, his misguided love, turned into violence? When did their gentle kisses become her cries and his forceful penetration? Why had he abandoned his morality, “why why why why…” he found himself mumbling.

“Oddly enough, that’s what I was going to ask you.” Dumbledore’s voice, containing not one discernible ounce of anything less than complete hatred, broke into his thoughts. Snape instinctively went down on his knees again. “It is telling, Severus, how you seem to equate me with your Dark Master,” Dumbledore continued.

“He is not my master, sir,” Snape argued in a respectful lowered tone. He knew he was acting precisely as Death Eater etiquette dictated one behave before the Lord they had wronged.

“To the point, Severus. What can you say, if anything, to explain your atrocious actions?”

“I can say nothing, sir,” Snape lied.

“Do not lie to me, Severus! You have precisely one hour with which to convince me not to kill you with my own hands!” Dumbledore was yelling, and the very sound of the man’s normally quiet and genial voice so harsh--it was nearly enough to send Snape for the vial of wolfsbane in his robe pocket. Upwards of ten grams and one will simply begin to die. Quite an unpleasant way to go--diarrhea, sweating, cardiac arrest. All quite fitting a man such as Severus Snape, he thought.

“Sir, please… allow me one hour to rest and organize my thoughts. I swear on whatever is left of my honor that I will not flee. I will give you my story, however… lacking it may be.”

“I will see you here in one hour. I’ve given Miss Granger a sleeping draught and will be taking her to the home of her parents. I daresay she could use love and rest at the moment.”

Dumbledore swept the limp Hermione into his arms and left Snape standing quite alone in his rooms, to attempt some sort of defense. As if there is any defense for what I have done, he cursed. He slipped a hand into his robes and idly fingered the poison. “You cannot, Severus,” he whispered to himself. “You owe them--you owe HER, at the very least--an explanation.” He pulled the vial and held it in his still trembling fingers, cuticles stained with blood. He felt vomit rise in his throat as he realized the blood was Hermione’s. He solemnly returned the vial to his pocket, with a single thought.

Later.

Until such time as he could escape, he had to figure out a way to make the swirling thoughts in his head make sense. He needed to form the events and moods of the previous few weeks into something Dumbledore could recognize. He sighed and decided he’d begin with washing Miss Granger’s blood from his hands. An hour. Why had he only asked for an hour? An hour was hardly enough time to sort out what, precisely, had happened. If only he still had his wand. He could use the Pensieve, make it all make sense.. the Muggle way of doing things takes much longer, he reflected. Before he could stop it, the memory flooded back…

Lucius Malfoy, eyes high and cold; laughing as he snapped Snape’s wand. “You have betrayed us for a filthy Mudblood. Gone against the word of your fellow Death Eaters, for what? The love of the lowest form of being imaginable,” he had spat. “You deserve no less than to live as one of your precious Muggles.” He delivered a swift kick to Snape’s stomach, which sent him onto his knees.

Snape rubbed his stomach gently as he remembered the searing pain. He lay down upon his sofa, bringing his hands to his face. In the dark crook of his elbow, he attempted to take a steadying breath. ‘Perspective, that’s what I need right now,’ he thought. How to explain to Albus Dumbledore that all he had wanted was one moment of power, of love--for one moment to own something other than his own pathetic self? Severus Snape, the greasy, sallow, hook-nosed professor whom all the students love to hate. How to explain to Dumbledore that usually, that was just fine with him? He could retreat into his own world of simmering cauldrons and ceaseless knowledge, content not to be bothered by snot-nosed children and their petty concerns. How to explain that when she was a student, he had seen Hermione Granger as brilliant, surely--perhaps the smartest, quickest student he had ever taught. Nonetheless, the girl was a bloody nuisance--hand always in

the air, nose always in something that was most certainly NOT her business.

How to explain how that had all changed in one night, and how it steadily grown within him since that time. How keenly it had hurt when he discovered she was in danger, how swiftly he had flown to protect her--only to find she had betrayed him.

He sighed again, his breath remaining within the crook of his arm. Stale and foul. Perhaps he would need to go back, way back, to the moment when--against all his judgment and every bit of logic in the known universe--he had fallen in love with Hermione Granger. Maybe he would need to explain to Dumbledore the sheer frustration he felt when, one recent night when his senses were apparently out to tea, he had advanced upon the lovely Miss Granger. And been met with the same thing he had always been met with in such endeavors--rejection. To Miss Granger’s credit, she had attempted to soften the blow, but had indeed made everything worse.

Maybe Dumbledore could understand how Snape had been unable to forget this incident when shoved in a closet with said vixen. Particularly when his pride had just taken the deepest blow of all--he had been called a Muggle-lover, beaten, his wand broken--in front of a crowd of Death Eaters and Slytherin students. Perhaps he would even need to explain how much more the words “Muggle-lover” stung when Draco Malfoy was the one hurling them. Particularly when Draco Malfoy himself had broken every rule set forth for a Slytherin, and taken a Muggle-born as his bride.

Maybe Dumbledore could understand the rage that had welled up within him when he walked the halls of Malfoy Manor, bleeding, and found Miss Granger--pardon me, Mrs. Malfoy. Wasn’t it understandable that when the little tart grabbed him and shoved him into the closet, he would feel a bit of anger? Anger at her, obviously, for turning him away and then taking up with an even fouler creature. Anger at himself, for not having the wits to outfox the Malfoys before they found out about his infatuation with Hermione.

It all boiled down to her, to this impertinent girl that had stood merely centimeters away from him, smelling better than anyone so vile had a right to smell. When she had turned to him and tried to whisper an explanation, he hadn’t been able to control himself---would Dumbledore be able to understand the passion that overcame him? The urgency with which he pressed his lips to Hermione’s? The incredible sense of victory when she did not fight him, when she in fact leaned into him, whispering something he couldn’t hear and moving her hands over his back….

“This is no use,” Snape muttered into his arm. “I’m not becoming any more rational.” Suddenly he became aware of Dumbledore’s presence. How quickly an hour passes. Time flies when you’re loathing yourself, he thought sardonically. He had to suppress a chuckle--amusement was probably not the best emotion to express in this case.

“Headmaster, sir… have a seat,” Snape uttered from within his arm fort. He felt his legs being pushed aside as Dumbledore chose to seat himself on the sofa. Snape reluctantly pulled himself to a sitting position, his body screaming its protest. He stared straight ahead, not daring a glance at Dumbledore. “Why did she marry Malfoy?” he asked before he even realized he needed to know. Dumbledore sighed and shifted a bit in his seat.

“Well, Severus, surely you understand that the Malfoy family is foremost in Voldemort’s plans. And with your compromised position within Lucius’ inner circle, we had to find another willing to spy.”

“I don’t understand why it was allowed. She’s Muggle-born. Is there anything Lucius hates more?”

“Severus, I cannot pretend to understand how the mind of a Malfoy operates. I can only assume Miss Granger--”

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Snape hissed.

“Miss Granger. She never legally married him, its all been arranged for months. I’m sorry, Severus, that you had to find out while on the floor of Lucius’ dungeon, but I could not have safely communicated the matter to you. She is obviously working at great personal risk--as once were you.”

“I still am. I am still on your side, sir.”

“That remains to be seen, Severus. Do you intend to tell me that you have--” Dumbledore stumbled over his next words, “violated our Miss Granger, out of… jealousy?”

“Albus. Please. Give me… allow me to gather my thoughts.”

“You have been given time with which to prepare. I demand an explanation now, before I am forced to call in others to assist me in this matter.”

“All right.” Snape sighed again. He was doing an awful lot of that tonight. “I’m not implying that my behaviors were motivated by jealousy. Although I certainly did feel it. I’m sure you agree that nothing I felt could justify what I did. But jealousy certainly is not a reason to harm one so precious.” Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at Snape’s description of Hermione, but said nothing. Snape took a deep breath, pain shooting throughout his body as he did so, and continued. “They called me a Muggle-lover… they broke my wand… beat me. I’ve taken abuse from the Death Eaters for so long, while never truly being one of them. And never truly being one of you. Always on the outside, and, sir, I know that is no defense. It is childish. But Hermione, what she said tonight… it’s the absolute truth. I envy you all your freedoms.”

“What freedom is there, Severus, in a Death Eater’s hatred?”

“The freedom of knowing where one belongs! Knowing that there are others like you, who feel as you do. The freedom of belonging to something, no matter how horrible that something may be. The freedom of community, of brethren, of camaraderie!” Snape was pacing the floor suddenly, heat and passion taking over his voice.

“Severus, I must ask you to calm down.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m being quite irrational, I know.”

“So you were jealous of the Death Eaters, jealous of the Order, spited by Miss Granger… where exactly did you cast aside all reason and morality?”

“I cannot explain myself, sir. I think I just felt the rage so keenly at that moment--I wanted… I only wanted…” he trailed off, unable or unwilling to put words to his horrid feelings.

“You only wanted a bit of power. You only wanted to strike fear in someone’s heart. Someone who mattered, someone who--you feel-- deserved it.” Dumbledore spoke coolly, his voice for the moment free of judgment. Snape lowered his head in shame.

“I don’t think she deserved it. Miss Granger--Hermione… she deserves nothing less than absolute respect and love. As for the rest of it, help me, it’s the truth.” Dumbledore heard something in Snape’s voice that he understood instantly. Severus was in love, and after all, aren’t people in love most capable of insane behavior? Dumbledore stood and forced Snape to meet his eyes. At this intimacy, Snape felt himself close to breaking, screaming, crying--all things which Severus Snape was not inclined to do. Perhaps Dumbledore sensed this, understood that they had merely scratched the surface of the issue, and suddenly realized he wanted to hear no more for the night.

“Rest, Severus. I shall contact you tomorrow… perhaps in the light of day, this will all look different.” He released his hold on Snape and swept out of the room, leaving a tired and broken man, who decided that what he very much wanted was to sleep.