The Breaking Web

Lacrimosa dies illa,

Qua resurget ex favilla

Judicandus homo reus.

-- "Lacrimosa", from Mozart's Requiem

---

There is something about enchanted places that makes them seem even more enchanted in the late hours of the night. It is as if the halls take on new life; or that the very air glitters with magic - that the shadows, gloomy and foreboding before, suddenly become harmless and playful, and dance among the moonbeams. The dullest corridors become mystical and exciting. It is during these late and strange hours that the suits of armor take their evening strolls; that the portraits leave their frames and exchange whispered, juicy gossip, that the ghosts appear en masse to haunt the halls; it is, stated precisely, at this time that (according to the well-studied ancients) magic is at its most potent, and any difficult enchantment is best performed.

Hogwarts castle teemed with life at this time.

Even outside the castle, things changed. The lake, ugly at best by day, and far too unpleasant to swim in by half, because of a disgusting, scraggly growth of a limp, smelly seaweed that had molted all over its murky skin, became flat; smooth as a looking glass and nearly as shiny. The moon reflected beautifully on top of it, and off the towers and Quidditch pitch too -- the stone turret that was the Astronomy tower, dull and lackluster in the sun, positively glowed; and the air around Gryffindor tower's enormous spire shimmered and crackled. Even the looming Forbidden Forest seemed more magical, if that were possible -- the forest was probably more enchanted than the castle itself, given the sheer number of (dangerous) magical beasts and plants inhabiting it. Somehow, its trees filled and grew taller; the shadows they cast stopped being shapeless, but became living shadepeople, who moved stealthily over the grass. The clouds became purple and soft, and were all the more tempting to pluck from the sky.

It was rather marvelous.

Hermione Granger most certainly thought so -- at least, during the moments she chanced to glance out her window at a late enough hour (rather often, actually -- her irrepressible reading habits tended to drive her to bed at infernally early hours of the morning). Actually, it was this reading habit of hers that began her habit of window-gazing. Often Hermione would grow so excited by what she had read that she could not go straight to sleep, but had to mull everything over; and on those nights, she would sit in the soft-cushioned rocking chair by the portrait window of her residence in Gryffindor tower, her orange cat Crookshanks well-ensconced in her lap, and review what she'd learned. When she grew tired enough, she would begin to rock the chair, and look outside -- and marvel at the enchanting shimmer of the lake; and the glinting hoops of the Quidditch pitch; and the stone Astronomy tower, which was the only tower she could see directly from her room. It was very relaxing, looking out the window.

Today was one of these thinking, window-gazing days. Hermione, as the Hogwarts Charms Professor (Hogwarts was a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry), had spent the evening reviewing a
thick stack of academic periodicals -- Charms Monthly and Charms Master International, to name a few (incidentally, Hermione also subscribed to the sister publications Potions Monthly and Potions Master International; both of which she, admittedly, found somewhat more interesting -- but those came out at a different time of the month). She was now attempting to recall their contents.

She wasn't doing very well. The articles had been depressingly technical (Levitation Charms and Wand Technique: A Study in How and Why We Use Swish and Flick was, of them all, the least academic)and far from interesting, although she had read drier things before, and wasn't all that fazed. She'd mentally steeled herself to absorb every word. She'd made her best effort to stay focused. And yet now she couldn't remember a single new wand technique. . .

You're going to read through each and every one of these articles again, and take notes. It's absolutely horrendous that you can't remember Stein's improvement to the Trapping Charm!

Hermione was greatly displeased. Greatly. The pretty shimmer of the lake did nothing to lift her spirits, either. If there was one thing that frightened Hermione Granger more than anything else, it was the threat of a blunting to her intellect.

Of course, it did not cross Hermione's mind that it was past three o'clock in the morning, and that her abilities were perhaps dulled by lack of sleep. No, it did not cross her mind at all. It would not. Never.

How could she not remember such a silly article?

She blew out a breath of frustration, and clenched her fists until the knuckles turned white. Crookshanks was asleep on her lap, so she didn't dare to get up and start knocking things about, but she desperately wanted to. She started rocking the chair.

How she loved the shimmer of the air at this time of night.

She'd reread the articles in the morning. If she was indeed getting stupider, she would deal with it tomorrow. It was summer, she could afford to have a leisurely breakfast in her rooms -- yes, that would be nice, Stein with coffee . . .

She smiled a little, and some of the tension held up in her chest fell away.

That was a plan. She didn't feel good enough to have a look through the window tonight, but tomorrow -- yes, tomorrow everything would be alright.

She picked up the sleeping Crookshanks from her lap and stood, the hem of her nightshift swaying around her bare ankles. She glanced disinterestedly at the window, noted the brightness of the moon, and shadows in the forest, then left the window nook, all of a sudden very ready for bed.

++++++++

Not much later, she was awakened by a dreadful pounding on her door.

"Mmph," she said into her pillow. She lifted her head slightly and licked her lips, feeling an acute soreness in her limbs; and abruptly realized the noise wasn't going away.

"Damn." She turned to her side and passed a hand over her eyes, clearing them of a groggy film, and began fishing for her wand on the nightstand. She was well tangled in her sheets and it took a moment to yank them off. She swung her legs over the edge; fought the impulse to get back under the covers as her feet touched the icy floor -- she didn't have carpets because Crookshanks shed.

"Who is it?" she called in a whining sort of voice, as she summoned her Spyglass. The surface was enchanted to show her anything directly outside her door; she tapped her wand to it once and muttered a password.

The silvery surface wrinkled, blurring into the features of a bearded old man wearing twinkling half-moon spectacles.

Albus.

Hermione groaned -- this is so typical -- and waved her wand at the door, murmuring an unlocking charm, putting her other hand to her temple. I have a migrane.

The door clicked open.

"Did I awaken you, my dear?"

Obviously, Hermione thought uncharitably, removing her hand from her eyes to give Albus a long practiced look of irritation. Merlin, the man had no sense of timing -- this had to be the fifth time this summer he'd woken her up before dawn --

Except --

Albus was fully dressed -- embroidered velvet school robes, not a nightshift -- and had the gravest, most deeply sad look in his eyes Hermione had ever seen.

Albus always looked happy. Unbearably happy. Even when he was talking about Voldemort.

This is serious . . .

Hermione's jaw dropped open. "What happened?" she blurted.

Albus gave her a weary smile. Those twinkling -- they weren't twinkling now -- blue eyes suddenly seemed very, very old.

"Severus," he said simply.

Hermione kept her face a careful blank, but blanched inwardly. Severus Snape was the Potions Master at Hogwarts -- an admittedly brilliant man -- but as a fellow teacher and colleague, rather difficult to work with. (Snape is arrogant, insufferable, and boneheaded, Hermione ticked off mentally. An all around bastard.) If there was anybody on the Hogwarts faculty Hermione could honestly say she disliked, it was Snape. Hermione got the idea the sentiment was mutual; they both tended to avoid one another. Hermione suspected that he thought her some sort of dangerous plague.

Snape was also Dumbledore's best spy.

"Oh," she said, in a somewhat strangled voice. "Is he. . . is he all right?"

"He is not dead," Albus said.

"I see," she said slowly, taken aback. Her migrane was threatening to explode; she ran a hand over her temple, feeling her stomach begin to sink. If something. . . of such great magnitude . . . had happened to Snape, and Albus was in her rooms to tell her about it, that meant he didn't know what to do. And that Poppy didn't know what to do.

And that he wanted her advice.

"I see," she said again. "Could -- could you elaborate?"

Albus shook his head. "I believe it is better if you saw for yourself," he said. "Harry is somewhat confused as to what happened himself --"

"Harry?" Hermione interrupted, straightening visibly. "Harry is here?"

"Yes, as is your friend Ronald," said Albus, and a bit of his old twinkle returned, sparkling in his glasses."They were the ones who brought Severus here."

Brought him . . .

Hermione gulped. "I see," she said. "I - I guess I'd better see him then. Severus, I mean," she added hastily.

Albus smiled tiredly. "That would be most excellent, my dear. Your opinion on this . . ." He trailed off, and sighed. "I apologize for the rude awakening, but there was simply no alternative."

I'm the alternative.

"I understand," she said smoothly, summoning an outer robe and slippers, and standing up to put them on. Her entire appearance -- bushy brown knots swept into a makeshift bun; her eyes puffy and red; a lopsided blue houserobe -- was appallingly deshabille for the upright Hogwarts halls, but -- she glanced at the clock, and it read half past four -- she had an excuse, and thus didn't quite care. She slipped her wand up her sleeve and followed Albus out the door. Once they were in the hall she locked the door.

++++++++++

There were curtains surrounding his bed; drab, hospital-issue cotton that had pilled from too many washes. They'd been pulled shut; tightly, as if they were the lid to some Pandora's box and Pomfrey (the mediwitch) was afraid to leave any inch of them open. The air was heavy with the scent of sanitizing charms.

They'd neglected to light the room.

It was as if Snape had caught some sort of disease. But Albus would have said something in that case, would he have not? She couldn't possibly get contaminated by Snape's condition . . . he'd been cursed, after all, not given a transmittive potion . . .

She stepped forward hesitantly, Albus still at her side, and saw Harry sitting in an armchair next to the bed. His cheeks were sunken and gray, and he seemed to be staring into space. Ron stood behind him, in a small nook between the armchair and the wall, his mouth curled into a frown. Poppy Pomfrey stood at the foot of the bed, wringing her hands, while two other teachers -- Minerva McGonagall and Ceres Sprout, the Transfiguration and Herbology professors, respectively -- stood to Pomfrey's side with vacant, dazed expressions on their faces. No one was saying anything.

Ron spotted Hermione first, and, with a tight smile, edged out from the space behind the armchair to wrap her in a hug. He seemed tense, but considerably more relaxed than Harry, whose green eyes weren't properly focused, and whose hands were poised on his knees, gripping the caps so tightly there was no blood in his fingers. He looked, in Hermione's opinion, like a timebomb -- as if he was working very hard to hold off the urge to explode.

"Hermione," Pomfrey said with some relief, raising her head from her hands. "Thank Merlin."

Minerva McGonagall blinked owlishly from behind her square spectacles, and frowned at Hermione.

"She won't get any further than the rest of us, Poppy," she said in a stiff, stilted voice, jerking around to face Pomfrey. "I think we're all just going to have to admit that there is absolutely nothing we can --"

"Minerva," Albus began warningly. Unabashed, Minerva pressed her lips into a thin line and gave Albus a steely glare.

Hermione was shocked -- Minerva was never this belligerent. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it and turned to Ron.

"What happened?"

"Voldemort cursed Snape," Ron said, his eyes glazing over with -- was that ecstasy? No, it couldn't be, because he was frowning. "It wasn't pretty."

"Voldemort discovered his true loyalties, obviously," Harry added from his chair. He glanced up at Hermione. "I've been working with Snape for awhile. There's a system we have that alerts me whenever he Apparates -- he agreed to it, because it was to help monitor Voldemort's activities -- and through that I found out he'd left tonight. I knew from another source that he'd been rooted out --"

"And naturally, he decided to go and rescue him," Ron interrupted. "And since Snape was at Malfoy Manor, he called a big group of us together. . ."

"Snape was at Malfoy Manor," Harry agreed, his green eyes flashing with irritation, "-- but when we got there he was already being tortured. So we went inside --"

"Very easily," said Ron.

"So we went inside," said Harry loudly, "and began dueling with the Death Eaters, and then Voldemort cursed him, and everything stopped. It turned out -- to our luck, I suppose -- that he wasn't interested in me at all. He told me to take good care of Snape until we met again, and then Disapparated."

"And then," said Ron, with an excited sheen glittering in his eyes, "the Death Eaters, who had disappeared, came back, and we all had to fight them. Fortunately, we'd already taken down the Anti-Apparation barrier, and got away. . ."

Harry's lips were set in a thin line.

"Except that we were too late," he said. He reached over to the bedcurtains and yanked them aside. The metal hooks attaching the curtains to the top of the bed screeched as they grated over the rod.

Ceres Sprout made a whimpering noise in her throat. Minerva McGonagall wrinkled her nose, her gray eyes unexpectedly moist.

"Harry," Albus chided softly.

Hermione couldn't make out anything in the darkness -- just a shadowy lump huddled under the gray hospital coverlet. Her heart began to race. What was under there? Had Snape been horribly disfigured? Had Voldemort burned something onto his face? Were his hands, so important to his potions making, missing?

Her own hands began to shake a little at that thought, and she pulled out her wand.

"You won't need it," Albus's voice said. "He is entirely harmless."

She could tell he was serious, but she wasn't ready to let down her guard. She nodded, and with her wand out, wormed past Ron to the bedside. Harry was still in his armchair, staring at the lump on the bed. Snape was sleeping on his side with his face turned in the other direction, and was swaddled up to his chin with bedcovers.

Is he blind? Did he become a Squib?

Very hesitantly, so slowly that she could see the palsied tremors in her hands, she put her fingers on Snape's side, and -- even more slowly -- began to turn him over. She could feel a choking reflex at work in her throat, tightening it so that her windpipe barely worked.

She didn't know if she wanted to look. She had always respected Snape to some degree, and . . .

Hermione bit her lip and closed her eyes, sucking in a deep breath.

Consider this academic.

That was a good way to look at it. Besides, if she had to be up at this goddamned infernal time anyway, she might as well get the worst over with . . .

She braced herself -- he's alive, it can't be that bad -- then reached out and prodded his side with her wand, rolling him neatly onto his back.

She couldn't help it. She recoiled, backing into Harry's armchair and sparing herself again from having to see his face. Oblivious to her enormous mental struggle, Snape stirred slightly, then tugged the covers closer to his chin.

That was normal, wasn't it?

Hermione let out a breath. She realized for the first time that everyone else was watching her -- in Albus's case with something akin to amusement. She flushed. So she was more squeamish than he'd thought. What the hell did it bloody matter? After everything they'd told her, she was truly expecting something horrific.

She turned back to Snape, this time with resolve, and took a measured step closer to his head. His hair was almost as tousled as Harry's (Harry had perpetually messy hair, despite whatever charms he put on it), and was long enough for loose strands of it to rest in his eyes.

The bits of cheek she could see looked normal. She took another cautious step forward --

"Oh no, dear, don't touch him right away." Poppy Pomfrey had come around Hermione and grabbed her arm in her maniacally strong grip (built up from years of wrestling students into beds). Hermione blinked at her in surprise and some outrage. After everything she had already gone through, now she was told not to touch him? What kind of --

"Not while he's sleeping, at least," she continued hurriedly, relaxing her grip on Hermione's arm. Hermione yanked it back, now truly outraged. "I can show you his face . . ."

"Please," Hermione said sourly.

Harry broke in then. "Oh please. This isn't that big of a deal --"

"If I may, Mister Potter," Pomfrey said icily, "I am far more accustomed to dealing with children than you."

Something clicked that moment in Hermione's brain, though it took her another second to realize it.

"Children?" she said.

Pomfrey's mouth thinned. "Yes, children. Professor Snape was --"

This simply isn't possible.

Hermione's eyes bulged, and without thinking, she pushed past Pomfrey to the side of the bed -- ripped away the covers -- this is absolutely ludicrious -- and saw, to her deep revulsion --

(only a nightmare. pinch yourself and wake up!)

She stared, thunderstruck.

Snape had always been a thin man, but now his robes hung off him like some sort of wet puddle. His hands didn't reach the ends of his sleeves -- and the pointy edge that had to be his elbow was inches above the middle of the arm -- this is a joke --and when she shakily reached her hands up and pulled the curtain of soft black hair out of his face -- this -- it -- wasn't the face she was used to.

Oh.

The child -- that isn't Snape, it just isn't! -- had a pale, unlined face, and Snape's same hooked nose, though it seemed less prominent on the boy. He made soft noises in his sleep; she watched with horror and fascination as he flopped his arms in the enormous sleeves in an unconscious search for the bedcovers. She didn't think of replacing them. She watched. There was nothing but air to pull to his chin. He scowled uncertainly, his fingers at work inside the sleeves, then rolled decisively to his side.

Hermione sat back heavily on the bed.

"We've tried all the antidotes," said Pomfrey, dusting her matronly white sleeves (Hermione had knocked her into Harry's dusty armchair) with a sniff. "Everything for every type of Youthfulness Charm or potion."

"I can't fix this," said Hermione hoarsely. "I simply . . . can't."

Harry's armchair was directly across from her. He looked over at Dumbledore with blazing green eyes.

"Why did Voldemort do it?" he said, and it sounded like he'd asked this question a thousand times. "Everything he's done before has always made some sick kind of sense. But this" -- he waved at Snape -- "this is just perverse and purposeless."

Albus looked thoughtful. "I wouldn't say so," he said. "I believe Voldemort was hoping to keep a servant by returning Severus to his younger self -- to the age when he first became a Death Eater, and was fully loyal. However, he was a tad overenthusiastic. . ."

"But why would he give him to us?" interrupted Ron, looking at Snape's skinny form with puzzlement. "I mean, if Snape was to be his servant again or something, why didn't he take him?"

"Ah," said Albus. "There are some things I think we will never understand."

"I reckon it was some sort of gesture," said Harry gloomily. "Maybe he thinks I'll alienate Snape, or something -- make Snape more eager to side with him."

Minerva let out a disgruntled snort, as if to say she thought this would happen no matter what.

"Well," said Ron slowly, "that plan backfired. A little kid Snape is sure of no use to the Dark Lord."

"Not true," injected Ceres Sprout. Everyone looked to her in amazement -- she hadn't said a word since Hermione had arrived, and spent the time since then moaning and blowing into a hankerchief. Now, she seemed to radiate Calm Strength. "Severus was already a powerful wizard when he started Hogwarts. His parents . . ." she trailed off, "Well, he knew quite a bit about the Dark Arts from the start. You-Know-Who won't have forgotten that."

Ron and Harry exchanged a meaningful look.

"Does he remember anything at all?" Hermione asked, eager to change the topic. It was too early in the morning to talk about Voldemort. She also had the creeping suspicion that the. . . boy . . . on the other side of the bed was listening closely to their every word.

Sneak. That little spy -- and oh, she was convinced he still had his memory; it would be just like him -- was still just as sinister and insufferable and conniving and slimy and horrible as he'd always been, and just because he looked like a child didn't change a thing. They'd completely worked her up for this, made her think he was about to die, just to see him as a boy. All the wasted stress of this evening -- morning -- had been unnecessarily provoked. And Hermione needed a coffee. Badly. She was shaking with stress.

I really could have waited for this.

She could have waited until the end of time, as far as she was concerned (for that bastard).

"Why, we haven't checked yet," Albus said. "We'll have to do that in the morning."

Hermione stiffened. "Headmaster, we're all here. There's no reason we shouldn't do this now."

Ron looked at her with some amazement. "You know, Hermione, you sounded exactly like Snape when you said that."

Hermione glared at him. Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron.

"I personally agree with Hermione, Albus," Minerva said in clipped tones. She primly adjusted her spectacles on her nose, pulling the edge of an earpiece out from under her severe hairnet. "I believe it is already past dawn, as it is."

"Ron and I don't have much more time," added Harry, glancing at his Muggle watch. "We have duty tomorrow morning." He looked at Albus. "I don't mean to talk to the Minister about this right away, but I'm going to have to tell him something."

"We'll deal with that in good time," said Dumbledore wearily, lifting a hand. "Let us check on Severus first --"

Pomfrey chose that moment to belatedly jump in. "You can't be serious, Albus. The poor boy has been under the Cruciatus all night. He needs his rest, and --"

"I'm fine."

Hermione turned around.

" -- peace and quiet, that's the best thing --"

"Considering how loud you are, Poppy, I doubt he's getting much of that," said Minerva dryly.

Hermione stared at the small bed.

Snape -- but it wasn't Snape, it was a frail child in floppy clothes -- was sitting up against his pillow. He had a delicate face, and was keeping it carefully composed -- there was, Hermione had to admit, an aristocracy in it she'd never seen before, despite his hooked nose. He looked uncertainly at Hermione, then up to Albus.

Those black eyes were still the same, at least. As was the hair, though it seemed softer now. It wasn't greasy.

He doesn't know us.

"Excuse me, but I'm fine."

There was a bite of impatience to this last word, and it was enough to catch even Pomfrey's attention.

"Bloody hell," swore Ron under his breath, backing away.

"Severus," said Albus cheerfully, though his eyes were most certainly not twinkling. "How are you feeling?"

The boy's brow knitted with confusion, then masterfully smoothed.

"I'm fine," he said coolly. Then he frowned, suddenly suspicious."Where are my parents?"

Poppy sucked in a breath.

"Not here," said Albus. "Severus, do you know where you are?"

The boy's eyes darted around the room. For the first time, he seemed to notice that his clothes were too big for him; his lips twitched as he saw the enormous sleeves, and he swallowed, averting his eyes from Albus's. To admit he had no idea would be to admit to weakness -- but to not admit it would hardly get him anywhere.

"No," he said.

"This is just brilliant," said Harry bitterly. "Snape, how old are you?"

The boy edged away from Harry a little, alarmed by the ferocity in his voice, and wrapped his voluminous sleeves around his chest.

"I - I don't know."

He sounded somewhat surprised by this, as well as fearful. Severus Snape was not the type to not know something as trivial as his age.

"Where am I?" he burst out. "What happened?"

Harry sank back into his armchair. Ceres Sprout let out a honk as she blew into her hankerchief. Hermione exchanged a look with Ron. Minerva pursed her lips. Poppy clucked her way to Snape's side and began checking him for a temperature.

Albus moved slowly to the end of the bed, and sat down.

"It's a long story," he said.

++++++++++++

The lyrics from Mozart's Requiem translate to read:

"That day is one of weeping

on which shall rise again from the ashes

the guilty man to be judged."

Lacrimosa and the unquoted Confutatis were instrumental inspirations for this story.