Breaking the Chains

Caritas

It was ten to eight, and Hermione was ready.

After a morning spent planning, then arguing, then weeping unashamedly, and an afternoon of History of Magic, she was finally ready to do the final check;

Potions textbook, ingredients and notes? - check

Notebook? - check

Decent hairstyle and subtle makeup? - For sure, not that it mattered though

Sensible shoes? - don't own any that aren't

Sanity? - working on it.

Conclusion? - Time for your detention with a teacher that two days ago you hated.

Picking up her bag, and with a final glance in the mirror, Hermione left her room, walked across the common room pointedly ignoring the artificial hush that was created, exchanged greetings with the Fat Lady, and headed down to the dungeons.

* * *

Voldemort was also ready, although a little earlier than Hermione had been.

Now he had discovered the cause of Snape's unusual resilience and 'will to live', he had a new game planned.

A few nights ago he had been impatient for Snape to implode, for that self-control to crack, so he could have reason to kill Snape. Voldemort liked making examples.

However it seemed that however hard he pushed Snape, suicide was not going to be an option. And he couldn't wait for that moralising Granger-girl to get on with things; not that he put it past her to find a way to thwart him even now - Gryffindors had such an interfering tendency.

No, it was time for a change of tactics.

This was why he had summoned Snape to his side tonight, while he was virtually alone. Only the closest few of his Death Eaters would witness tonight's show - not the usual clutch of sadists that made up the 'inner circle'.

It was time for the prodigal son to come home.

* * *

Hence when Hermione entered the potions classroom a scarce few minutes before eight o'clock, the classroom had been empty. Settling herself down to wait, she filled her cauldron with water and set it boiling gently, keeping a close eye on the clock and the door. She was well aware of how noiseless Snape's movements could be when he wished.

However, eight o'clock came and went and there was no sign of Snape, even when she knocked on his office door. It was only then that she noticed the uneven matte shimmer covering the board's surface. Tentatively, she pointed her wand at it and said 'Nudo'.

Immediately letters in chalk appeared on the board - What is your name?

"Hermione. Hermione Granger." No response. Try replying in kind.

Picking up chalk of Professor Snape's desk, she wrote beneath the question the letters of her name.

The writing flickered for a while, as though trying to ascertain her honesty, then faded to reveal a note, addressed to Hermione herself, in Snape's meticulous print.

Hermione -

I have been . . . called away at short notice.

I may not return tonight.

Please finish your potion and leave a labelled sample with your notes on my desk.

I need not remind you of my standards of cleanliness.

Professor S. Snape.

So that's it - I'm here to talk about the most significant event in my life and you remind me to tidy up?

No, don't be petty, look how he's written 'called away'. I don't suppose he can very well keep You-Know-Voldemort waiting now, can he.

Could have been a bit nicer though.

To quell the argument going on in her head, she began creating her eyesight-improving potion (not an overly difficult task), ruminating that trying to referee an argument going on inside your head was probably the beginnings of a split-personality disorder.

And then before she knew it, she had tidied up, placed her notes and vial containing sample on his desk (potion sitting on the parchment sheets - it was his fault if he spilled it) and erased the letter from the board.

Problem was, she'd run out of things to do instead of worry. She couldn't just go back to her room and forget about him. After all, he had come looking for her when she was in trouble.

Turnabout was fair play.

However, she didn't plan on marching up to Voldemort's side (if she knew how to find him) and demanding Snape back alive (if he'd thank her for the gesture). Instead she decided to wait for him. In his rooms.

He'd probably be mad at her (if he was in any state when he got back), but Filch would turn her out of the classroom soon, and she didn't want to be accused of cheating if found in his office.

Settling into the same chair she had sat in the previous night by the hearth - sitting in his chair, though it was more worn and comfortable looking seemed to be pushing it - she decided to say it was his fault for not changing his passwords.

Perhaps it had been an unconscious desire on his part to allow her back in. Or even a conscious one. She could always hope.

To fill the time, she began to gaze around her.

Which was when she saw the bookshelves that made up his library.

* * *

When Snape apparated, after having walked down to the gates under his own invisibility cloak, he materialised in a room with no windows, that most definitely had the feeling of being underground.

Is this it? he wondered. Is this where it ends for me?

Voldemort could fix the apparition point of all his death eaters, so once the Dark Mark burned black, wherever they intended to apparate to, they went where Voldemort bade them to. And Snape had been directed to this dank dungeon.

However, he was not locked in. Seemingly the location was just a ruse to unsettle him, as once his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could see a dim light through the crack of a door left ajar. Yet even once the door was open he could discern little more from the shadows than vague outlines and shades of greyness.

Briefly, he wished his eyesight were better, but thinking of that led him to thoughts of Hermione and the infinitely more pleasurable evening he could be spending with her. Not just because of the fact that she talked to him unaffectedly, with undeniable intelligence, once she discovered he could hold his own in any area of expertise - but because she had requested his company. The little ad endum to her letter he suspected came from clarifying to herself that she wanted to spend time with Snape because he was the one that knew her secret, not just because she wanted to be near him.

And requests to stay rather than to leave were not something Snape heard often. He had savoured hers, until Voldemort had summoned him away with unerring timing. So now thinking of Hermione was just a little too painful.

Instead of thinking he followed the corridor to see where, and to what, it would lead. To whom, seemed to be a forgone conclusion.

It turned out that Snape was right when he found Voldemort in a well lit and suspiciously empty chamber at the end of the passageway. Only the elder Malfoy was present at Voldemort's side; and Pettigrew cringing in a corner, as usual.

Curiouser, and curiouser.

"Ah, Snape, you are finally here." Emphasis on the finally.

"Yes my Lord."

"As you can see there is no gathering, or women, here in your honour tonight" Deliberate slur on the word honour. "I trust you are not too disappointed."

Statement not question.

"No, my Lord."

"Indeed not. I'm sure pickings are easy at that school - all those mudbloods - and so easy to control, no doubt."

"I have to be careful right under Dumbledore's crooked nose."

"Of course, Snape, can't having you jeopardising prime position, now can we." His tone had taken a definite turn for malicious now. "just some interesting rumours one hears about you and Granger. Is she any good?"

He's trying to trap you. Think this through. What can he know?

"Untrue, unfortunately."

"Are you suggesting I lie?"

"No, my Lord. But the rumours do."

"I see." A pause. "Crucio."

Snape's knees buckled immediately as he curled up into a foetal position on the floor trying to block out the excruciating pains that coursed through every part of his body. His lungs were constricting as he cried out, not letting any of the air he expelled screaming back in, and his bones felt like they were shifting positions within his body.

Then, as all the sensations merged into an overwhelming whole that threatened to carry him into blackness, the pain was gone, leaving only the aching behind. Gasping, shaking, weak, Snape struggled to his feet because he knew it was what was expected of him.

"So, what is the truth?"

"Granger was attacked two nights ago. I was the one who found her when a faculty-wide search was ordered. She seems to have attached herself to my side in some misguided belief that I was her rescuer. When Dumbledore was informed of the situation he said that as she had attached herself to me, I should make no attempt to dissuade her until she felt she was ready to leave. My Lord." Almost and afterthought, but not quite.

"And who was this attack by?"

"As yet, she had refused to say, my Lord."

"Will it affect her ability to supply Potter with the intellectual merit he lacks."

"Yes, my Lord."

"How so?"

"She appears to have laid some of the blame for the attack with Potter, my Lord."

"Indeed."

Stay quiet, Severus. Better to be thought and fool than speak and remove all doubt. If only Voldemort weren't so adept at hiding his own feelings, even from an empath, I wouldn't feel quite so stranded.

"You are aware that Potter has to die before my revival can be complete. Yes I see that you are. I think perhaps it is time that we set plans in motion to bring it about. You will have a role to play I think. Tell me, how is Potter behaving?"

"Distracted. He's taken to wandering the castle at night time, and acting out of character, my Lord."

"Out of character?"

"Not as his Gryffindor morals would normally dictate, my Lord." He carefully injected the sneer into his voice, although he didn't feel it.

Voldemort just nodded, and for once a wisp of emotion leaked out - smug, self-satisfaction.

Shocked, Snape had to force his mind back to the details that Voldemort was beginning to trot out. They were doubtless carefully engineered disinformation. Snape doubted he was truly back in Voldemort's good graces.

He kept his mind carefully focused to ignore the rant in his head -

*You bastard. You made Potter attack Hermione. Bastard. She's too good for playing your games . . .*

Working on this focus, he only had to endure three more bouts of Cruciatus for being too slow to answer, or inexact in his comments.

Shortly before one am he was finally allowed apparate away, and then began to stumble back towards the gates of the main entrance to Hogwarts.

He headed straight for his rooms.

* * *

The bookshelves had kept Hermione occupied for a good while. There were naturally enough a good number of books on potions and their brewing, along with copious amounts of files containing papers on new developments in potions that had yet to make the Hogwarts syllabus.

Fascinating as they were, it was the collections of non-academic books that really gripped her. She had stopped taking down the books without titles and authors on their spines just as soon as she ascertained that the lack of nomenclature was designed to hide the dark magic contained inside. Not that the magic itself was inherently dark - but the suggestions as to how the magic could be used, had begun to turn her stomach.

She was amazed that Snape had a wide collection of fiction (Muggle and wizarding work) on his shelves. He appeared to favour classics and well-critiqued work. He had taste and she approved.

However, tucked well back, she had found the last thing she ever expected to find - a copy of a 1611 King James I Bible. Things had been decidedly rocky between the Church and the wizarding world almost since its inception two millennia ago. Burning of suspected and actual witches had marked the low point. Although it was rare for a full, adult witch or wizard to be killed, children were another matter. The Flame-freezing charm was a terrifically complex one to master, and children exhibiting untrained magical ability before the age of eleven had been especially vulnerable.

The numbers of Muggle-born students that could be lost from the first few years of Hogwarts during a summer holidays (there being no injunctions against underage wizardry back then) had been one of the main reasons sited by Salazar Slytherin to ban Muggle-borns from the school. Whether it was general concern or convenience that motivated him to do so was still a debated point.

Still, a Bible, a well thumbed one, and page marked at that was the last thing Hermione expected to find on a pure-blood's shelf. After all, they only celebrated Christmas because it was fun, and a Christian alteration of the pagan festival Saturnus.

Opening it at the marker, Hermione began to read the passage marked out - Job's Complaint to God. She was worried that it began 'Perish the day when I was born'. Things were not looking good.

Then, on cue, things got worse. Turning the page, she noticed the lines that had been marked out:

'Every terror that haunted me has caught up with me,

and all that I feared has come upon me.

There is no peace of mine nor quiet for me;

I chafe in torment and have no rest.'

Things like this needed taking in hand, she decided. She moved the marker to Ecclesiastics, the passage known as the Heroes of Israel's past. It had been a favourite of her old school, and would surely give him pause for thought. Not to mention let her know how often he read his scriptures.

She had just settled the book back in its hiding place and moved on when she heard a voice behind her, cold a nuclear winter, devoid of emotion:

"What imbecilic notions lead you to believe you have any right to trespass here?"

Hermione turned mouth slightly agape, expecting her Potions Master to be as cold and aloof as his voice.

He wasn't

His whole body language looked predatory, and his eyes burned with fury.

As she stood rooted to the spot, he began to advance upon her.

As Snape strode towards Hermione, taking long purposeful steps, robes less than immaculate and flapping wildly, she backed away hastily.

She was absolutely terrified. Whatever progress had been made in the past days towards regaining her former self-assurance, it had now become totally irrelevant.

Not that she was sure that even an undamaged Hermione could have stood up to an angry Potions Master acting like a wounded bear. His features had moulded themselves into the look she remembered from the Shrieking Shack incident four years ago. Back then, she'd talked to him, tried to explain the situation, and had been told in no uncertain terms to shut up.

Right now silence, and getting out of his way were looking like the best options.

Except that the getting out of his way part was impeded by the bookcase behind her: Snape had backed her up to the wall, and continued to move closer, presumably for the kill.

When he was so close that she could feel the heat of his breath on her face, he finally stopped, and seemed to take a moment to compose himself. The folds of his robes brushed against her legs as he arranged them, and the expression on his face became marginally more impassive.

However, rather than being reassuring, the silence that accompanied this series of events was intimidating. He must know how afraid she was.

"How fitting, Miss Granger. The one time I am actually interested in the answer you were asked to give, and you have nothing to say." His voice was pure ice.

She knew she wanted to tell him that she'd waited because she was worried for him - that he was rapidly becoming the most important person to her at Hogwarts - but on this occasion, words indeed had failed her.

Instead, she did the only thing she could, and forced herself to look him in the eyes, which meant she had to shuffle her shoulders against the bookcase to look up, as he was so much taller than she.

Looking into his eyes gave her the familiar sensation of getting lost in empty, darkened tunnels that lead to only a deeper darkness. But this time she held his gaze longer than she had ever previously dared, and saw something else there.

"You're hurt."

"How observant of you. However you have yet to answer my question."

Okay, Hermione. Concentrate on breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Now think.

But when she finally opened her mouth to speak again, it was with a voice cracked in emotion.

"I was worried, and I - I, um wanted, um - I -" A pause. A ragged breath. "Oh, God, too close." The last words came out in a choked sob.

He finally seemed to realise what he was doing to her, or that realisation had just made it to the top of his priority list, and he backed away a step, looking at the panic written on her face. He seemed to wait for a heartbeat, perhaps to catch her if she fell, the crossed to his chair in front of the fireplace.

He sat with his head in his hands for a while, allowing Hermione to observe him properly. She noticed that he too was shaking.

For her part she stayed pressed up against the bookcase, unwilling to move just yet.

"I wanted to check that you weren't to badly hurt when you got back. I know that there's nothing I could do to help, but I couldn't just go back to my room and put you and your suffering out of my mind."

"I've told you what you need to do about my suffering."

"You still have to help me get my life back first. Well, I'll go away now."

"NO!" the harness with which he answered shocked them both, although it was Hermione that visibly flinched, "I mean, you don't have to go. As you've already broken in, stayed out past curfew and raised my blood pressure to dangerously high levels, you may as well stay a bit longer, that is."

"Okay" she replied, following his gesture and sitting down opposite him, shivering slightly.

"Are you cold?" Please let her be cold not afraid.

"Yes. Could you light the fire?"

He chuckled despite himself. "You mean you've made yourself at home poking round my rooms, but didn't dare light a fire?"

"Well," she said indignantly, "I didn't want any unexpected calls; I guessed this fire was on the Floo Network."

"I see. So it was fear of discovery that drove you to my rooms."

"Well kind of."

"I see. So you'd rather be discovered here and accused of being my lover, than in the classroom suspected of brewing illicit potions, or my office, pegged as a cheat."

"That's about it - but I brew my illicit potions in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom."

"That would be the polyjuice, then."

"What? How did you? Why didn't you put me in detention?"

"Boomslang skin is only used for one thing in Hogwart's textbooks, and I was more than impressed with your abilities, so chose to overlook it."

"Aren't you going to ask who I impersonated?"

"I already know - Milicent Bulstrode's cat. Less than successfully, I recall."

Hermione's cheeks coloured red, but she grinned anyway.

"You just love knowing everything, don't you Professor?"

"Only as much as you do, Hermione. And as were trading such personal insults why don't you drop the formalities?"

"Okay, er -"

"Severus."

"Severus. Okay. You're still hurt. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No. I presume you know the Cruciatus curse (here she paled slightly) works by blocking everything put pain for a while after it ends, so the victim feels the aches it produces, and nothing else."

"No, I didn't. Is it a time-lapse thing?"

"No, other sensations have to build up until they overcome the barrier left in place, then the pain fades with time, as it would with a normal injury."

"Oh."

A moments pause and then she stood and walked round the back of his chair. Ever so gingerly she began to touch his scalp with the very tips of her fingers. Immediately he braced. "Hermione, I -"

She cut him off. "My mum gets lots of migraines. She had me trained to do this by the time I was walking." He still wasn't relaxing. "It's alright, I tell anyone who asks I'm just trying to get better grades, not seduce you."

He grudgingly sat back against his chair, murmuring "Most generous of you."

She worked her fingers along his hair line and then down over his temples, only using the lightest of touches, just enough to register, but not enough to cause uncomfortable pressure. Then moving back up, she traced circles back through his hair, over the crown of his head, down, ending in short brushes at the base of his skull and in he soft hair on the back of his neck.

His breathing was slowly growing more regular and easier, as her fingers became slicked with the grease from his hair. Strangely enough, she didn't mind, the satisfaction she felt from helping him outweighing what would otherwise be truly disgusting.

After a while she fell into a pattern of motions and repeated them over and over allowing her thoughts to wonder as he seemed uninspired to talk more. She was here, she finally admitted because he had saved her. Not from jumping, but from that wild, uncontrolled run from the tower, and from spiralling depression that would have surely followed. He had drawn her out when she was in real danger of withdrawing within herself, with pertinent questions that she had answered to herself later, if not to his face at the time.

Eventually, she noticed that he was drifting towards sleep, and at the end of her cycle, lifted her fingers away. He murmured slightly, so she asked softly, "Have I done enough?"

"If I say yes will you stop?"

"Not if you want me to carry on."

"No, you've done enough." With which words he seemed to fall asleep.

As quietly as she could, Hermione retrieved her cloak, and headed for the door.

* * *

While she closed the door, he heard her mutter 'sweet dreams, Severus,' before leaving him alone.

Alone. Again. As always.

Not that it was her fault - if he hadn't have pretended to fall asleep, she would have stayed and talked all night.

He still had the bitter aftertaste of her fear in his mouth, although he had consciously tuned it out at the time. She had committed the unforgivable sin, invaded his private space, the buffer zone he kept around him to stop anyone getting emotionally of physically too close, and adding to the scars on his psyche. She had violated his refuge.

And it had taken her tears to prove to him that he didn't care. He'd rather she be there and happy, than somewhere else and crying over him.

He didn't deserve her tears.

On top of that, he could still feel the tingles her fingers had caused running over his scalp and down his spine. How she had been brave enough, or cared enough, to do that, he would never understand.

The aches of the Cruciatus were gone, replaced by a deeper, older ache of need and loneliness.

He didn't deserve her. He could never deserve her.

But she was better gone.

That way she'd get some sleep. And he'd be free to relieve himself of his throbbing erection, concealed by the robes.

With a supreme effort he got out of the chair and headed for the shower.

* * *

It was much later, as he finally got round to a review of the nights event, that he remembered he hadn't shared his discovery with her. The way that Voldemort had hinted that he was behind Potter's sudden change of character.

He wondered if that was the same explanation she had come up with, which she had wanted to tell him tonight.

He knew that she was desperately seeking his approval - the way she had glowed at his praise earlier in the evening was proof enough.

He owed it to her to hear her ideas out, and you never knew, she was quite capable of producing a stroke of genius.

After all, she was simply amazing. For a Gryffindor, of course.

Picking up his quill, he began to write, as expressively as he could.

* * *

The letter was waiting for her at breakfast, as was Snape.

When she retrieved the letter and noted the handwriting, she looked up to the head table to see him looking at her.

A ghost of a smile crossed his face.

She began to read;

Dear Hermione,

I should begin with my sincerest thanks for your skills - they turned out to be invaluable. Your mother must dread being without you.

I suppose I should also apologise for falling asleep before you had chance to tell me your theories. I am still keen to hear them, especially now I have a few ideas of my own on the subject, gleaned from various . . . meetings.

If your work is heading where I think it is, it will be less of a fairy story and more of a fairytale ending. I feel privileged that you want me to be a part of it.

As today is Saturday, I suppose you had noticed, there are no lessons, but I keep office hours for any student who should need to see me. If you were not too offended by my behaviour last night, I would appreciate a visit.

To discuss the ideas I mentioned, of course.

Yours hopefully

Professor S. Snape

(Severus)

Hermione looked up and grinned, only to find him gone.

Foolish man, she thought, so insecure he can't even bare to wait for my reaction. He'll just sit at his desk and lurk in his dungeon and sulk till I show up.

Still, this letter was a vast improvement on the last one, and showed some improvement in his usually dour outlook on life.

And, better yet, he wanted to help her work on her theory.

It just went to show that every cloud has a silver lining. She'd get to do the research she'd spent a good few years pining to do, and earn the respect of the teacher she most desired to impress.

Breakfast forgotten, she bolted back to Gryffindor Tower to fetch her notes.

It was time for the war-council to convene.