A New Beginning

A New Beginning

"Professor Snape?" Though she's spoken his name as a question, the girl's tone is far from meek. She's just finished one of her unbearably sanctimonious diatribes, and her eyes are flashing, dark and furious. It's as if she's forgotten the numerals branded across her right arm, forgotten that she's wearing her old school robes, which by now are little more than rags and several sizes too small. Once she'd been the buck-toothed, bushy-haired know-it-all called Hermione Granger. But it's been many years since he's heard that name spoken, and now she looks like nothing more than an overgrown house-elf. (An angry, overgrown house-elf.)

Merlin's beard, he thinks. She cannot be allowed to behave in such a fashion around the Dark Lord. She will be the death of us both.

Aloud, he says coldly, "Can you not get it through that thick Mudblood skull of yours that you are my slave and will treat me with the appropriate respect?"

Her eyes glitter dangerously beneath her lank and unwashed hair. It reminds him of someone, but right then he can't think whom. Icily, she retorts, "Perhaps, Professor, if you merited such respect I would give it to you."

They glare at each other across a desk in his classroom at Hogwarts. She's been helping him with the brewing that the Dark Lord requires: potions to sustain his strength, potions to feed Nagini, potions to heal his Death Eaters when they return from their "excursions" to Europe. But he's just caught her trying to adulterate the elixirs - not for the first time either - and she's fuming at what she considers his continuing betrayal of the Order. He wants to shout at her: how can he betray what no longer exists? But he doesn't.

"Evidently Minerva's claims that you were the cleverest witch of your generation were much exaggerated," he sneers. "It appears you have forgotten that both Dumbledore and the Boy Who Lived are dead by the Dark Lord's hand. There is no hope for you, you foolish girl, so you may as well stop fighting."

She flinches and pales, as she always does; he knows she saw Harry die and can't bear to remember it. He feels smug for a brief moment - he has always known how to hit where it hurts the most - before exhaustion sets in once again. He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales loudly. It's at times like these that he feels he's lived too long. But if he were gone what would happen to her?

"Now look what you've done," he adds, pushing such inconvenient thoughts aside. "Your incessant babbling has given me a headache. Why I haven't gifted you to the Malfoys yet is beyond me."

She knows him too well to take the bait. Instead, she curls her lip disdainfully. "You know exactly why you haven't, Professor. Just as you know exactly why you aren't teaching the Dark Arts, and why Griselda Goyle is Headmistress of this school instead of you. Because Voldemort doesn't trust you."

Furious, he leans in and hisses, "And that is exactly why these potions must be perfect if we are to have any hope at all of destroying him in the future."

Her pallid skin flushes, and she steps back, suddenly contrite. "I'm sorry, Professor Snape," she mumbles. "You're right. It's just..."

Unable to find the words she wants, she bursts into tears. They are tears of mourning, tears of frustration. He sighs and pulls out his wand. The sight of it - twelve-and-a-half inches of rigid ebony and dragon heartstring - makes her cry harder.

"Silly girl, I'm just going to perform a Cheering Charm on you," he says irritably, though he knows full well why she's upset. Her own wand was snapped years ago, when the Dark Lord came to power. Seeing his reminds her of everything she's lost: her family, her friends, her magic. Now she's stuck in a crumbling dungeon with only a bitter old wizard for company.

He feels guilty about this, even though he hasn't been particularly cruel to her. He doesn't hex or curse her (other than the occasional Silencio). In fact he's gone out of his way to be kind: he borrows books for her from the Hogwarts library, lets her help research esoteric potions, and once, early on, even allowed her to use his wand. That experiment had been a near-disaster, though: sparks had shot out of the end when she'd tried to levitate some cauldrons, and had set a pile of seventh-year essays on fire. (He'd been tempted to let them all burn, but she'd quickly doused the flames by non-magical means.) Evidently, his wand is entirely unsuitable for her: their personalities are too different. It's a shame, since right now he could use a few Cheering Charms himself.

A few flicks of his wand later, she is sitting up, grinning like that idiot Gilderoy Lockhart, and hiccupping. He's overdone it with the charms, which have never been his strong suit. Curses, hexes, and Dark spells are more his style. He scowls down at her.

"As you're obviously feeling better, you may go clean out the storeroom."

"Certainly - hic - Professor," she beams back, and disappears. Her uncharacteristic enthusiasm discomfits him a little. Ordinarily she'd have glared and sulked a bit first. He hopes that she won't do anything foolish back there, and settles down behind the cauldrons to reverse her - ah - modifications.

He has barely begun when someone knocks on the heavy wooden door.

"Come in," he calls, scarcely looking up from the bubbling concoctions.

The dungeon door swings open to admit Lucius Malfoy in all his pale-haired, steel-eyed glory. Snape blinks for a moment, unsure if he's hallucinating. When the vision fails to waver, he stops stirring, puts down his wand, and hurries over to greet the Dark Lord's most favored Death Eater.

"Severus," Lucius drawls, casting a critical eye around the dank stone chamber. "The years have not treated you well, I see."

The Potion Master scowls. He knows his hair is now shot through with grey, and his sallow skin has begun to sag, but there's no need for this preternaturally fresh-faced beast to taunt him. "Pleased to see you again as well. I'd like to know how you'd be, if you were forced to spend all your days with an insufferable Mudblood brat."

"Surely," Lucius says silkily, arching one elegant eyebrow, "I would be much the same as now. After all, I'd put her to better use than merely brewing potions."

Snape wrinkles his nose. "We don't all have your lowbrow tastes, Lucius."

Malfoy's eyes widen innocently. "What a depraved mind you have, Severus! I was referring to the practice of the Unforgivables."

An undignified snort escapes him. "I'm sure," he says dryly. "Now what brings you to my dungeons? You rarely condescend to visit your old stomping grounds these days, even when you have business at Hogwarts."

"Can't I just visit an old friend?"

They laugh - both know there's no such thing as a casual visit in their circles - but Snape is uneasy. What on earth is Malfoy up to? He has shown little interest in Snape since the last battle; under the Dark Lord's regime he has no need to befriend a double agent whose loyalties have always been suspect. The blond man wanders to one of the cauldrons and inspects the contents. The potion casts a reddish stain upon his aristocratic features. His nostrils flare. He frowns, picks up a ladleful, and tips the liquid back in, watching the thin stream disappear back into the crimson pool without even a splash.

By the door, Snape remains very still, as if his heart hadn't suddenly skipped a few beats, as if he doesn't know that Lucius is a fine Potions maker in his own right. With an uncomfortable twinge, he remembers that beneath Malfoy's dissipated, playboy façade lies the heart of a ruthless killer. He berates himself for his carelessness: for being too lenient with that girl, for not casting a simple Evanesco and starting over, for leaving his wand by the cauldrons. This is not the way he wants to go, ignominiously Avada Kedavra-ed like an old dog who's outlived his usefulness. Better to have revealed his true loyalties, he thinks, and died on the battlefield long ago.

When Malfoy finally speaks, the patrician tones of his usually plummy voice have been replaced by cold, hard suspicion. "Is that belladonna I smell in the Invigoration Draught, Snape?" he says tightly. "I don't recall it being one of the ingredients."

He has not failed to notice that Malfoy is now calling him by his surname, but he affects nonchalance. "A ruined batch," he answers, shrugging. "I let the Mudblood help me, and she made a mistake. But perhaps there are other uses for it. She will serve admirably as a test subject."

Lucius's eyes narrow. "How disappointing, Snape. Your explanations used to be far more creative. Do you think I've forgotten the walking library who robbed Draco of his academic glory? If it had been anyone else, I might have believed you, but not the Mudblood. Not that Mudblood. Either you're responsible for this yourself, or you're protecting her."

Snape suddenly finds himself staring at the business end of a wand. He protests, "Don't be foolish, Lucius. What possible motivation would I have for poisoning the Dark Lord? A tincture of deadly nightshade is hardly sufficient to harm him."

"Make your excuses to the Dark Lord," Malfoy sneers. "I can hardly profess to understand how your twisted little mind works. But I'm sure our master - and the loyal Death Eaters - will be very interested to know of your treachery. Very interested indeed."

Wasting no more time on talk, he slashes his hand in the air almost gleefully. Thin ropes materialize out of nowhere to snake around Snape's arms and legs, and the Potions Master topples over with a yelp and a crash. As he lies breathless and uncomfortable on the flagstone floor, the storeroom door is flung open. He groans silently. He'd hoped the Mudblood would have the sense to stay back there and hide, but clearly even a modicum of survival instinct is too much to expect from her.

For once, however, Lucius is too slow to react. Somehow she has assessed the situation and seized Snape's wand from the desk before the blond man can even turn to face her. "Expelliarmus!" she shouts, and Malfoy's wand flies into her waiting hand. Her own wand - Snape's wand - remains remarkably steady, aimed directly at his heart.

Snape is astounded. How has this girl managed to disarm the former Hogwarts Dueling Champion? How, for that matter, is she using his wand? He's too relieved to care.

"Malfoy," she spits out, her dark eyes fixed on his face. They smolder, as if she's considering just how intensely she hates him. "How unpleasant to see you again."

Lucius regains his composure quickly. "Merlin, the Mudblood is quick to defend you," he snickers to Snape, evidently heartened by the fact that she has yet to Stupefy him. All the same he doesn't take his eyes off of her. "You realize this will not help your cause with the Dark Lord?"

Snape ignores him. He's anxiously watching the girl as well. What is she waiting for? Doesn't she realize that she should never underestimate a Malfoy? The man can move as quickly as a snake when he wishes; he almost always has a trick hidden up his sleeve, down his boot, or in any one of a number of other places. Hurry, he thinks, though he can't seem to make his vocal cords work. He's dangerous!

Her face hardens: she seems to have come to a decision at last. She says coldly, "That's irrelevant if you can't carry the tale to your master, Malfoy."

His disdainful grey eyes widen in sudden understanding, and he flings himself to the side, too late.

"Avada Kedavra." Her clear, expressionless voice echoes in the stone-walled chamber.

A flash of green illuminates the dungeon briefly, and Snape hears a heavy thud. Then he's free and struggling shakily to his feet. He leans over the desk, trying to slow his racing heart, and looks at his rescuer as if for the first time. Deep, fathomless eyes stare back at him from behind a curtain of stringy hair. With a start, he realizes that she's no longer a naïve schoolgirl. Over the years, she has picked up his mannerisms and his petty cruelties. Disappointment has transformed her into a younger version of himself.

"Thank you," he says hoarsely. After a moment, he adds deliberately, "Thank you, Miss Granger."

She blinks at him, her eyes now shining, and he realizes that she is about to cry again. He has not called her by her name since Hogwarts fell.

"You do realize," he continues harshly, "that you have killed Voldemort's closest ally? That we are both fugitives now? We must prepare to leave Hogwarts, and preferably Britain, immediately. You may never see your home again."

"But we'll keep fighting him, won't we?" she says. "We'll find some way to defeat him, even without Harry."

Slowly, Snape nods. "Even if it takes me the rest of my life," he promises.

Solemnly, Hermione holds his wand out to him. He reaches out to accept it, then lets his arm fall back to his side. "Keep it," he says. "I will use Lucius's. He has no need of it anymore."

A smile lights up her face. Pocketing her new wand, she says, "Thank you, Professor."

A few hours later, two figures stroll through the Hogwarts gates and Disapparate into the night.

The next morning finds the first-year Potions class in disarray. Instead of their irate teacher, they enter their classroom to find the body of Lucius Malfoy sprawled across the flagstones, a look of astonishment frozen on his face. Someone runs to fetch the Headmistress. By the time she arrives, another message has been discovered, scrawled on the dungeon wall in a neat but unfamiliar hand. No matter what spells and potions they try, the words refuse to fade.

Vive la Resistance!