Spinner’s End
Two years ago
August 1996
To the Order, Hermione went missing after the Cup transported her to the graveyard. Presumably dead. To Voldemort, she succumbed to Nagini’s venom in Snape’s lab. Hermione is, essentially, a ghost.
Snape vaguely summarizes Professor Dumbledore’s plan as “an infiltration of the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle.” He doesn’t elaborate how. Or who the members of Voldemort’s Inner Circle are. He keeps Hermione’s curriculum rigorous enough that she doesn’t have the time to wonder.
Because of her absence from Hogwarts, Snape has required her to catch up on all of the fifth year’s coursework. In addition, he has supplemented it with Occlumency, Legilimency, and Dark Magic sessions. Once she could sit up in bed, she devoured more than a hundred books and worked through thousands of practice problems for all the courses she would’ve taken in her fifth year. She took the O.W.L. exam of that year after exhorting Snape to procure one for her just to prove that her self-education was successful. To her chagrin, Snape told her Ron scored higher than she did. Since when has Ron, of all people, been a model student? She figures Harry’s death and her…disappearance have irrevocably changed him. She hopes she could talk to him. But would she find the same Ron? The old Ron is as dead as Harry is. Hermione has to accept that. Compartmentalize. Internalize.
Fortunately, books remain her steadfast companion. They are the one constant in her life. She finished Snape’s bookshelves, which mostly consist of books about Dark Magic and Potions. The ones about Dark Magic are thrillingly fascinating. Snape’s home at Spinner’s End is like the Restricted Section with no permission slips.
What makes a magic Dark, Hermione concludes, is its intent and cost. If she has good intentions, and if she doesn’t harm an ally, she can bear the personal cost. They’re at war. Both the magical and non-magical worlds are at stake. You cheat or be cheated. Kill or be killed. All is fair. When a Death Eater has you by the throat, the Severing Charm at the neck guarantees a greater chance of survival than Stupefy. It’s logic and math. The difference between a nonlethal curse and the Killing Curse is the cost to the caster.
As she thinks about her magical condition and Snape’s magi-medicinal treatment for her, she immerses herself in the intersection of Dark Magic and medicine. Specifically, how to utilize Dark Magic in magical healing. It sounds antithetical, but she’s realized that little magical literature has been written about it. There’s infinite potential. For example, certain Dark spells in potion making can create drugs that reduce Dark Magic’s taint on its user; through the arithmetic of potion equations, she’s deduced that after applying Cruciatus on an animal, their harvested organs are much more medicinally effective, and exhibit desirable properties that are otherwise dormant. The only thing holding her back is ethics. It’s frustrating she can’t contact Viktor. Durmstrang definitely has a course on morality and the Dark Arts.
Hermione has repeatedly demanded a mirror from Snape. He outright refuses her. Nagini’s venom has darkened and sleeked her bushy hair. She feels cold all the time. Not like snow frosting over her skin. But a coldness that cruelly chips her core. It has gradually subsided to episodes of burns in one part of her body. Snape gives her a Fire Draught for warmth. “You’ll need it for the rest of your life,” he’d said. She’s also immune to low temperatures now. It seems she’s acquired a couple of a snake’s traits.
One day, Hermione managed to wobble off the bed. A hand on the wall, she trundled to the bathroom, each step heftier with trepidation. When she finally lifted her eyes to the mirror, she mistook it for a magical, distorting mirror.
A stranger stared back at her.
Only the contour of her face and her brown eyes were recognizable. She has lost weight. Her cheekbones protruded. Her eye sockets were sunken. The most conspicuous were the scars.
Four on the right from the corner of the eye to her chin. Crisscrossed.
Three on the left from the temple to her upper lip. Nearly parallel. One of them across her eye.
Each varies in length and width.
Hermione stared and stared until tears slid down.
She couldn’t stop the tears.
She didn’t know why Harry’s death, or Obliviating her parents, or her diagnosis didn’t trigger a breakdown as seeing the scars did.
Hermione cried for Harry. For her parents. For herself.
She curled into a ball on the bathroom tiles that weren’t cold to her anymore.
She tried to not hyperventilate between sobs.
She was suddenly so, so exhausted. The loss and grief compounded with the yearlong loneliness threatened to submerge her. She wanted it to end. Badly.
Minutes, hours passed. She had retreated into a corner, hugging herself. Her sobs dwindled to hiccups.
Snape materialized by the doorframe and looked at her expressionlessly. Hermione had the suspicion that he was intentionally late. He’d been strict in his guardianship, so she had hardened as a result. His eyebrow quirked.
Hermione stood up and wiped her teary face dry. She wordlessly exited the bathroom with a straight back and steady strides.
Hermione did not look back in the mirror.
Before Nagini’s venom infected her, Hermione had never liked snakes. Especially not after the Basilisk had Petrified her. But now, she has an unwelcome propensity for snakes. A propensity that Snape attributes to the venom.
The baby snake Snape showed her has become her familiar. She named her Virginia and wears her on her wrist or around her neck. Virginia is a sable Himalayan viper. The scales at her ridge are a striking indigo. Her eyes the size of Hermione’s fingernail bespeak intelligence. After that casual ‘hello girl’ introduction, Virginia has been taciturn. She seems to be accessing Hermione’s worthiness like a dour mistress despite the fact that she’s a few months old. Virginia’s perpetual attention unsettles Hermione. She’s doing her best to just…coexist with Virginia, who holds Hermione to higher standards than Professor McGonagall’s. Besides this tension between them, they cope with each other well. Virginia accompanies her wherever she goes. Sometimes, Hermione laughs at herself — a Gryffindor with her pet snake; whenever she does, Virginia would fix her with an acerbic glare.
Tonight, Virginia is lethargic as Hermione organizes her timetable to accommodate N.E.W.T.-level materials in sixth year and waits for Snape to come back from his office at Hogwarts or an Order meeting at Grimmauld Place. Based on The Daily Prophet’s report of the spike in Death Eater activity, it’s probably the latter. Today is a Dark Magic day. They alternate Dark Magic and Occlumency/Legilimency.
A slam of the door rocks her wingback chair. Hermione looks up from her planner. Snape marches to the opposite chair and flops down. Although his expression gives nothing away, after living with him for over a year, Hermione can smell his anger.
Professor, she begins respectfully. She’s cast a transcription spell, which displays letters in her handwriting. Snape is still nailing down the formula for the potion to recover her voice. Hermione has the inkling that he’s procrastinating so he doesn’t have to put up with her questions.
“Dumbledore appointed me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he says.
A judicious decision, she says with sincerity. She wouldn’t trust the position with anyone else. Snape is the most knowledgeable professor in Dark Magic. His loyalty to the Light side and competence are unquestionable.
“Sirius Black disagrees,” he says, his mouth twitching. From Snape’s descriptions, Sirius is more erratic than Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione knew Sirius wasn’t the most levelheaded man, but Harry’s death supposedly shattered whatever emotional balance Sirius had maintained. So, Snape was at an Order meeting.
How’s the Order? She asks instead.
“The Grimmauld Place is a cesspool of putrid Gryffindor rashness and idiocy as usual,” he says. “Black confronted Death Eaters in broad daylight in Muggle London. Ron Weasley and Moody had to Obliviate the Muggles. If Shacklebolt hadn’t intervened with the Muggle Prime Minister, Black would be rotting in a Muggle prison. I warned them about Black. They didn’t listen.” Ron dropped out of Hogwarts to join the Order. Hermione doesn’t reprove him. Without Harry or her, Ron is alone at school. At least with the Order, he is surrounded by his family.
Sirius lost Harry, his godson, Hermione protests. He’s reeling from it.
“Everybody lost somebody in the first war,” he says plainly. “Everybody will lose somebody in this war. If he can’t brave it, he should be admitted to St Mungo’s.”
Hermione doesn’t dare pry into Snape’s past. She suspects the motivation behind his spying, his “becoming the darkness,” is that Voldemort murdered someone important to him.
How are the…Death Eaters? She attempts another diversion. How is Voldemort?
Snape seems infinitesimally amused by the inquiry. “The Dark Lord’s strength builds. The ranks of Death Eaters swell. More dark creatures rally around the Dark Lord by the day. The Ministry is swarmed with Death Eaters or his sympathizers. It is an Imperius away from falling under his rule. The Daily Prophet journalists on our side are dying in ‘accidents.’ Muggle-borns are vanishing or fleeing Britain in droves. Magical sightings in the Muggle world. Do you fancy a list, Miss Granger?”
No, she grimaces. Could we — what’s our topic today?
“Right, the Order’s failings must not divert us from our more worthwhile pursuit. Since you brought it up, from today, I am substituting our Dark Arts sessions for Dark Studies, which includes the history of the first war, a biography of the Dark Lord, the Dark side’s tactics, and Death Eater philosophy, psychology, and politics. In short, everything there’s to know about the Order’s adversaries.”
Know your enemy. Hermione nods.
“Precisely,” he says. “In fact, I would recommend Muggle literature on warfare and espionage. Not many wizards and witches are experts in these fields where Muggles excel. Our Dark Studies session will either be a monologue or Q & A. There are no readings. Nonetheless, I expect you to educate yourself on the Dark Arts. Biweekly papers about a theme of your choice. No sessions on the Dark Arts does not equal no progress.”
Understood. Hermione was going to delve deeper into Dark Magic anyway. She wasn’t aiming for anything less. Studying is good. It’s a routine she’s comfortable with. When she loses herself in books, time does not exist, and she fades into the background; there are only the words.
“There are two dozens of Death Eaters in the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle. Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Corban Yaxley, me, and so on.” Hermione scribbles down her notes with a Self-Writing Quill. “These individuals—we—are privy to most of the Dark Lord’s designs, such as operations, logistics, and personnel. However, there are three members who execute most of the Dark Lord’s orders. They are arguably the most influential Death Eaters, and only those in the Inner Circle know the identities of the trio. Within the Dark side, they are coined as the Hound, the Specter, and the ArchGeneral. The Hound, Dolohov, is the leader of Snatchers; the Specter, Yaxley, is the spymaster; the ArchGeneral, Rodolphus Lestrange, commands the Dark Lord’s army.”
Rodolphus Lestrange? He is a surprise to Hermione. Dolohov is a skillful duelist; Yaxley is a cunning manipulator; Rodolphus Lestrange is…Bellatrix Lestrange’s husband.
“I assume the Dark Lord promoted him solely due to Bellatrix. She is too volatile to be a general but too indispensable to not carry clout.”
What about Peter Pettigrew, the Malfoys, and you?
“I head the Dark Lord’s research division with Augustus Rookwood,” he says. “Wormtail is a pest. He’s not in the Inner Circle. The Malfoys have been…housekeepers since Lucius’s foiled coup of the Ministry in the summer. They’re not currently in action.” Hermione remembers it from the Prophet. The Order defeated the Death Eaters in a skirmish that forced the Ministry to acknowledge Voldemort’s return. Voldemort must have been apoplectic. “Though the Malfoy boy has an edge to him. Bellatrix cares about Draco.”
Hermione jots it down.
~ Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy out of power b/c Ministry coup
~ Draco Malfoy favored by Bellatrix
Is Draco Malfoy a Death Eater? Hermione can’t imagine the pale-skinned boy in his Yule Ball suit having a Dark Mark and donning a Death Eater uniform and mask.
“No. He is close. The Dark Mark is the highest honor among Death Eaters. The Dark Lord bestows it less often now as he gathers more disciples. A consequential murder is a minimum requirement for a Dark Mark.”
Who will be Malfoy’s victim? Hermione asks carefully.
“That far exceeds your need-to-know, Miss Granger.” Snape conjures two glasses of water, one of them floating to Hermione. “Back to the trio, the Hound, Specter, and ArchGeneral do not necessarily possess magical prowess. Rodolphus is a paragon of that. The more bloodthirsty and power-hungry Death Eaters duel every week to climb the ranks. Dolohov doesn’t lack challengers; Yaxley is prone to backstabbing. Rodolphus has Bellatrix, so he is untouchable. But no Death Eater respects him for it, not even his own wife. Within the trio, it is a whole dynamic. They mistrust each other and seldom cooperate unless the Dark Lord orders them to.”
Snape then goes on a sketch of Voldemort’s supporters, which are more diverse than Hermione presumed. From werewolves, trolls, and Dementors to your average Knight Bus driver and Knockturn Alley merchant.
“Lastly,” Snape says after a sip of water. “I would like you to experiment with the Unforgivable Curses.”
Hermione drops her quill. What? She blurts out.
“Not with humans, obviously. Theories first, then try the curses on transfigured animals. But you already know that.” His tone sharpens as he leans forward. Hermione blushes. She has been discreetly exploring the Unforgivable Curses. Just the concepts. Not so discreet, apparently. “Miss Granger, you should know better than any other student your age how dangerous Dark Magic is, even in theory. Dark Magic exacts a toll that is not always clear but always heavy.” A glimmer of genuine concern escapes his eyes. Hermione fidgets under the rare worry from Snape.
I won’t forget, Professor, she says.
“I am certain you will not. Dark Magic forever mars you in ways you will never forget.”
December 1996
Hermione’s Christmas present that year was Snape’s potion that would restore her voice.
“Thank you,” she said with a baritone that startled her, a trace of her old voice still discernable. “Why did the venom affect my voice?” Speaking after being voiceless for a year was…loud and liberating. She felt she was not on pitch.
“It had no effect on your voice,” Snape said as he waved his wand, and the potion ware rinsed itself.
Hermione blinked.
“When you infiltrate the Dark Lord’s ranks, your voice might blow your cover. You had to take a pair of special potions, the second eighteen months after the first. They reshape your vocal cords. It is temporary. You can reverse it with a third potion.”
She hadn’t considered that. Her appearance was barely the same as that of her old self. Her voice was one more disguise. How much of that old Hermione survived Nagini’s venom and the transformations thereafter? She wasn’t angry at Snape or Dumbledore for not consulting her. Compared to Harry and her parents, this was minor.
“Who would know me by my voice?” She muttered. These potions were a bit excessive.
“Your participation in class made sure Hogwarts students in your year will know you by your voice from miles, Miss Granger. Some of those students have Death Eater families or will be Death Eaters themselves.”
Hermione hadn’t taken that into account. Who she knew from Hogwarts would be budding Death Eaters? Draco Malfoy and his cronies. Malfoy, perhaps. She couldn’t perceive Malfoy’s haughty and inept friends as no-nonsense Death Eaters. But Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Zabini, Nott…they were all just teenagers. But if the uncharacteristic things about Ron had a grain of truth, teenage Death Eaters were not unthinkable.
After Hermione regained her voice, she's started to communicate with Virginia, who ignores her.
“Do you want to eat?” “When do you eat?” “What is your favorite food?” “Do you prefer my wrist or my neck?” “Do you need a bed?”
Virginia pretends not to hear her at all. Hermione almost thought that she wasn’t a Parselmouth. That Snape made a mistake. But Virginia occasionally pops her tongue or avoids her for hours after Hermione directs a question or comment at her. Hermione doubts Virginia doesn’t understand her. Cracking the enigma that is Virginia is harder than cracking a rock.
“Professor.” She turns to Snape after exhausting every avenue. There aren’t any books about how to be a Parselmouth. After all, Voldemort isn’t in the business of publishing his interactions with Nagini. “Does Virginia have any…abnormalities?”
His eyes bore into her, his brows raised as if she just asked him the dumbest thing. Hermione self-consciously scratches her neck but doesn’t back down. Snape is her last option.
“Miss Granger,” he says after impaling his critical gaze on her for a moment. “Do you think the Dark Lord coddles Nagini? Does he inquire about her habitat preference? ‘Nagini, do you like velvet? I shall fetch you a velvet mat.’” His sarcastic sneer is palpable.
“Well—no. Voldemort is not a pet lover —”
“Exactly,” he snaps. “Because Nagini is not a pet. Nor is Virginia. Do not treat them like the Muggles’ dogs and cats. Magical snakes are a realm away from Muggle pets and more sentient than other magical creatures. Snakes like Nagini and Virginia can be as intelligent as humans, and they exceed humans in multiple aspects. Regard them as such.”
Afterward, Hermione lets Virginia be. She feeds her and moves around the house with her. She doesn’t pay Virginia much heed. At times, Hermione senses Virginia observing her when she brews a complex potion or tackles a taxing Dark spell. She prays that Virginia will deem her worthy — she’s mutilated herself and stained her magic for Dumbledore’s plan.
Ever since Hermione can walk unassisted, she has demanded to go outside. Snape, unsurprisingly, declines. She draws the windows to feel sunshine and wind. She isn’t an outdoor person, but she misses the weekend trips to Hogsmeade and strolls with Harry, Ron, and Hagrid. When was her last Hogsmeade trip? What did she do? Who did she — No, she can’t think about it. That Hermione was severed. That Hermione had her parents and Harry. That Hermione was a bookish know-it-all, the top student. That Hermione dreamt of being the perfect, Head Girl, and the first-ever Muggle-born Minister for Magic. This Hermione is none of those things. Accept. Compartmentalize. Internalize.
One night, Snape summons her to his study. Hermione hasn’t been inside before. They don’t interact beyond their sessions or her medical checkups. She treads in with slight unease, Virginia around her neck. Has something happened to the Order? She hasn’t seen Ron or Ginny since the Triwizard Tournament. Even longer for Sirius, Molly, Arthur, and everyone else. She gets snippets from Snape and craves news of them that it drives her restless at night. No one in the Order has died. But Hermione knows it’s a matter of time.
She closes the door and stands in front of him. There’s no spare chair in his study. He doesn’t have visitors.
“So, the time has come for you to live in your house.”
“My h-house? I-I don’t have a house,” she stammers. “What? Why?”
Snape sighs as though he unloaded a weight he’d been lugging. He looks worn out. There’re lines around his eyes, and is that — white hair? Dark Magic, which she can easily detect now after using it herself, wafts from his clothes. “I have an appointment with my…colleagues, who insisted it to be here. There was no alternative.”
“The Order?” She asks eagerly.
Snape shook his head.
Death Eaters, then.
“I can stay in my room.” She suggests uselessly, aware of the risk.
“No, you know the dangers. Our sessions continue. I will Apparate to your house,” he says. “You are now seventeen. A legal adult.”
Hermione is oddly lost. An emptiness bloats in her chest. Spinner’s End has been the home of this new version of Hermione. A sanctuary. She doesn’t want to leave a safe place. Again. Snape has been indifferent and reticent, but he’s the only human who takes care of her, touches her, chats with her, and supports her studies. Her family in the magical world had been Harry and the Weasleys. Snape has sneaked up on her and done more for her than the old Hermione’s magical family. She depends on him. Not as a father or brother. A guardian? Protector?
“I don’t have a house. My parents sold the house,” she says gruffly.
“Potter divided up his fortune between you and Ron Weasley in his will. I purchased a house for you with your inheritance.”
“I-Harry had a will?”
“Yes. All Triwizard Champions must have their wills in case of accidental death in a Task,” he says matter-of-factly.
Hermione nods dully. Harry…Not right now. Accept. Compartmentalize. Internalize. Her head droops as she fights back the moisture welling up in her eyes. “Don’t kick me out,” she begs him in a whisper.
Snape’s face softens a fraction. He seems to be conflicted about something. His mouth opens and shuts.
“I am sorry, Miss Granger,” he simply says.
Eighteen Months Ago, March 1997
Hermione raps on Snape’s door again. She didn’t bring Virginia. The viper doesn’t like Apparition.
The morning at Spinner’s End is dismal. The rain from yesterday coats the decrepit, fissured stones. Muddy clouds enshroud the sun, so a gray discolors the world.
The door swivels briskly, Snape wedged in the opening. “Miss Granger,” he says after a moment. “What is the emergency that has caused you to leave your house?”
“I need a curse-proof cauldron, sir,” she says. Her regular cauldrons will fracture after she uses Dark spells on them. Although she has half of Harry’s immense fortune, she doesn’t want to spend hundreds of galleons on a curse-proof cauldron. “It takes a minute of your time.”
“I have an appointment with my…colleagues at noon. Do you realize the consequences if they run into you?” He says, his voice calm and soft.
“Just the cauldron, Professor, and I’ll be gone. It takes a minute of your time,” she repeats, gritting her teeth. After she moved out of Spinner’s End, their relationship has been cordially professional. He still monitors her health and has nightly sessions with her. Now with the addition of ward magic. Otherwise, he seems to forget her existence.
He steps aside. “You have one minute, Miss Granger.” Hermione hurries by him and makes a beeline for his lab.
A brittle knock stops her. Snape instantly appears at her side and is towing her toward a cabinet.
“What—”
“Silence, Miss Granger,” he hisses. “It seems my colleagues have arrived early.”
Hermione momentarily freezes as if Petrified.
Snape swings a cabinet door and shoves her inside. “Silencio.” Hermione shoots daggers at him. She knows how to control herself, especially in this situation. She’s not a schoolgirl anymore. He secures the door and murmurs several spells. A lock mechanism clicks as a ward envelops the cabinet. A section of the living room is visible through the gap between the doors.
Snape reaches the front door when a second, more vicious pounding resounds. The door swooshes. A harsh wind mixed with dark magic belts her. Three sets of footsteps grow louder until they halt in the room. No settling in chairs.
“Bella,” Snape says tonelessly.
Hemione swallows.
“Snape,” Bellatrix Lestrange drawls. She saunters around the room, her heels clinking. As she passes the cabinet, Hermione glimpses Lestrange.
Voldemort’s right hand is different from the woman in Ministry of Magic poster, or the woman Snape has described to Hermione. She is more assured and bears a resemblance to Sirius that disconcerts Hermione. Her hooded eyes roam over the furnishings like they were grimy detritus. Her chunky hair is as black as her robe. Hermione presses her face to the gap for a broader view.
“Snape, Snape, Snape,” she croons. “A lovely roost you have. Is the Dark Lord aware that you occupy a Muggle dunghill?”
“You wanted to meet today.”
“Oh yes. But should you not give us a tour of your…home like a hospitable host?” She sneers.
“No, Bella,” Snape sneers back. “However, were you to be on the Dark Lord’s business…well, a tour would be suitable in that case.”
Lestrange flash her eyes in outrage. “Is that a threat, Snape?”
“No,” he says smoothly, summoning a bottle of elf-made wine and filling three glasses. “Wine?” Lestrange takes a glass and sniffs it. “Afraid of poison, Bella?”
“I do not trust you,” she says in a gravelly voice.
“You trust me enough to come to me.” Snape’s lips curl in faint amusement. “To discuss the plan, perhaps?”
“The Dark Lord is…mistaken about you—”
“Are you skeptical about the Dark Lord’s judgment, Bella?”
“I believe he is,” she seethes. “He divulged the plan to you, so I will not…pursue—for now.” Lestrange, who is considerably shorter than Snape, looks at him as if he was filth on her boots.
Snape’s expression darkens. “Your accusations both insult my loyalty and your brains, and most of all, the Dark Lord’s wisdom! I have explained myself privately to Dark Lord and to you, Lucius, and Narcissa. Honestly, Bella, one would say your attitude does not stem from concern for the Dark Lord but jealousy.”
“Me? Jealous of you?” Her nostrils flare. “How dare you! I am his more devoted, capable—”
“Indeed. The proof of your devotion is your years in Azkaban where you were less useful to the Dark Lord than Wormtail. As for your competence—” he slightly scrunches up his nose. “The coup at the Ministry was not exactly a favorable demonstration.”
Lestrange snarls, her wand in a fist.
“Aunt Bella.”
The voice makes Hermione start.
She hasn’t heard that voice for nearly two years. She would recognize it anywhere. The word “Mudblood” as it was spit at her has been etched on her memory.
Draco Malfoy.
She angles her body so she can see behind Lestrange.
Malfoy is unrecognizable. Hermione feels her mouth hang open.
He still has the same stony, gray eyes and prominent bone structure. But the innocuous boy who was transformed into a ferret in fourth year is gone. In his place is someone Hermione couldn’t conceive of even though she extensively profiled him.
She notices the hair first. His hair which gleams like the moon is pulled back into a bun, a few strands escaping. Two tresses flow down at either side of his face. His broad frame towers over Lestrange and rivals Snape’s. His height brings out his leanness. He’s wearing a plush overcoat that drapes over his thighs and a clinging suit underneath the coat. All black. Hermione rolls her eyes. Apparently, Malfoy is too posh for a conventional robe and cloak.
“We should leave, Aunt Bella,” Malfoy says.
Lestrange turns to him. “This is my decision, Draco,” she glowers. “I want you to succeed! Your deadline is June. I was younger than you when I got my Mark.”
Malfoy’s victim, Hermione recalls. A June deadline?
“I don’t need his help—” Malfoy eyes Snape.
“You need every possible assistance available. I will make sure of it!” She wheels around and smirks at Snape. “Snape is a loyal servant, aren’t you, Snape? Your post at Hogwarts allows you to aid Draco. Prove your loyalty! I demand it.”
Someone at Hogwarts…Malfoy’s victim is at Hogwarts. Snape is a professor. He cannot agree to this, can he?
Snape stares at Lestrange with blank eyes. He is silent.
Lestrange juts her chin, victorious. A lopsided grin distorts her face. “Ha! I knew it! If you were as loyal as you claim, you would do anything to ensure Draco’s success! You say you are a double spy, yet you will not harm your false master. You are just a sycophant, a coward—”
“I will make an Unbreakable Vow,” he says quietly.
Lestrange flinches. Her jaw drops. “What?”
“I will make an Unbreakable Vow,” he enunciates and appears bored.
Lestrange blinks. She then clears her throat and recovers her composure. “Well…I suppose a Vow is sufficient.” Snape’s mouth curves with contempt.
Malfoy’s eyes anxiously dart between them. “Aunt Bella, is a Vow too much—”
“No!” She cuts him off. “Your task warrants a Vow. Snape has offered, and I shall be your Bonder.” Malfoy doesn’t argue.
Hermione’s mind races. June. Hogwarts. “Yet you will not harm your false master…” She gasps and clamps her hand over her mouth, glad Snape has silenced her. Horror douses her like a cloudburst. Dumbledore. Snape is Vowing to help Malfoy kill Dumbledore. She has to stop Snape. She has to stop the Vow before either Dumbledore or Snape is dead. Why did Snape propose a Vow? There were other ways he could satisfy Lestrange. Has he deceived Dumbledore, all this time? No. Snape is on their side. Hermione knows it. In a sense, she’s thrown herself on his mercy since he saved her. All these months, training her and taking care of her. He’s never hurt her. Why a Vow? What is he doing? She rattles the cabinet doors. Snape’s ward seems to block the noise.
Snape and Malfoy kneel and clasp their hands. Hermione points her wand at the ward around the cabinet and begins to unravel the ward nonverbally.
“Will you, Severus Snape, watch over my nephew, Draco Malfoy, as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord’s wishes?” A flame from Lestrange’s wand illuminates her concentrated features.
“I will.”
Hermione attacks the weak spots in the ward as Snape has taught her. There’re two main types of wards. Spontaneous wards and designed wards. This ward is a knotty spontaneous ward. Because spontaneous wards are not specific to the caster, arithmancy can normally solve them. Like a geometry problem.
“And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?”
“I will.”
Hermione works faster.
“And, should it prove necessary, if it seems Draco will fail, will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?”
Snape doesn’t hesitate. “I will.”
Hermione keeps tearing down the ward. The Vow is done. She just wants to shake Snape.
Lestrange cackles with delight and snaps her fingers. “Draco! We shall not outstay Snape’s welcome,” she says, winking at Snape. “We are leaving!”
Malfoy shifts on his feet. “Aunt Bella, I have questions for him. May I return after you?”
Lestrange considers, idly tapping her wand on her shoulder. “Fine. But no later than noon. Your attendance is required at lunch.” With that, she disappears soundlessly.
Snape ensconces himself in his usual wingback chair. Malfoy doesn’t sit. They stare at each other. Finally, Malfoy breaks the silence. “How are you, Professor?” He sounds casual but guarded.
“Skip the pleasantries, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape says with the voice of the Potions Master.
Malfoy fidgets with the rim of a cuff, his neck tense. “I—you—I have difficulty with the—Killing Curse,” he mumbles quickly, wincing at the last two words.
“Is that a question?”
“Could you teach me?” Malfoy forces it out.
“Surely your aunt is a better teacher than me in the Unforgivables.”
“Yes—I mean, I suppose, but…” Malfoy draws a quick breath. “It’s her.”
“You fear her.” A statement.
Malfoy just nods.
“I see,” Snape says. “I will teach you. I don’t have any other choice, do I?”
“It’s not—the Vow—I didn’t know it’d go that far.” Malfoy lowers his head. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Snape tuts. “Mr. Malfoy, a Death Eater doesn’t feel sorry. You may be ashamed but never sorry. Has your aunt taught you nothing?”
“No. Her discipline is stern.”
“It wouldn’t be less.”
Hermione is almost there. Snape covertly glances at the cabinet. “Is that all, Mr. Malfoy?”
“Yes,” Malfoy sighs. “Thank you.” He Apparates with a crack.
Snape flicks his wand, and the ward disintegrates. Hermione bursts out.
“You should have solved the ward when Bellatrix left,” Snape says evenly. “You disappointed me, Miss Granger.”
“I was close!” She says snappishly. “That’s not the point. What was that? The Unbreakable Vow? Are you going to kill Dumbledore?”
“Please have a seat, Miss Granger.” Snape gulps down his elf-made wine though it’s morning. His sallow skin is especially pale. “You are ready to know the whole truth of Potter’s death. And Dumbledore’s plan.”
Snape told Hermione everything.
About the deadly curse on Dumbledore. About the Horcruxes. About Harry being a Horcrux.
“Harry was destined to die?” Hermione whispers. She can’t wrap her mind around it.
“The Horcrux in him must be destroyed. Maybe he didn’t die right away. I wasn’t at the graveyard when it happened. The Death Eaters who were there don’t retain any details. In all likelihood, they were Obliviated.” Snape has switched to black tea. He proffers a cup to Hermione. She clasps it for warmth. She doesn’t think she can ingest it and not puke.
“Who else knows about the Horcruxes?”
“Ron Weasley. Dumbledore is secretive about it. Too many in the know will eventually trickle to the Dark Lord. After Dumbledore dies, Weasley will inform Moody of the Horcruxes, per Dumbledore’s will, so a handful of Order members alive always possess the key to the Dark Lord’s demise.”
“Practical,” she says numbly. “I didn’t know Dumbledore is so…”
“Heartless?”
“What? No,” she says defensively. “He cared about Harry! And me. And Ron. He took you in when you defected.”
Snape’s entire posture changes. He leans forward, his eyes glinting mercilessly, his face vibrating with rage. “Care? Dumbledore cares? He raised Potter like a pig for slaughter! Did he grieve for Potter? Or did he simply strike out a name on his list of Horcruxes?” His voice builds on the verge of breaking. “Did he do his best so that Potter had a mother? He did not!”
Hermione frowns. Since when has Snape been obsessive about Harry’s welfare? “But—”
“Let me finish, Miss Granger. Once I tell you Dumbledore’s plan for you, you will not be so uninformed about who Dumbledore is.” Hermione relents. “As you might have guessed, your Parseltongue ability uniquely connects you to the one other living Parselmouth, the Dark Lord. He is the only known heir of Salazar Slytherin. However, as the wizarding genealogies are not complete and abound with errors, it is possible that Slytherin has other descendants.”
Realization dawns on Hermione. “I’ll play the role of a…Slytherin?” Slytherin, the wizard. “A Slytherin heiress?” she asks, disbelieving.
“Yes.”
The plan doesn’t sound like madness. In fact, it is brilliant. How else would she infiltrate the Death Eaters? If an heiress of Slytherin can’t get inside Voldemort’s Inner Circle, nobody can. Dumbledore is a genius. Now she has an idea of the plan. There’s so much to do. She needs to revise her Dark Studies notes, go deeper into Dark Magic, and—
“I know what you’re thinking,” Snape interrupts her. “It’s not as effortless as that. You are gifted and capable, but you’re seventeen. Your magic hasn’t matured. Although your Occlumency is remarkable, it won’t fool the Specter—Yaxley—or the Dark Lord himself. If you’re captured, your knowledge of me and the Horcruxes will tip the scales of the war against the Order. You wish to survive in the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle? You’ll have to vie with the trio—the ArchGeneral, Hound, and Specter. Their nature is beyond the boundary of your theoretical imagination. Even Bellatrix doesn’t mess with them. She is a monster, but the Dark Lord’s trio are controlled monsters. When you’re among Death Eaters, you’re on your own. No one will be on your side. Being a Slytherin heiress would only attract more competition. Can you, Miss Granger, handle the schemes, the pressure, and the mortal danger? You froze when there were Death Eaters outside my door!”
“I can learn!” She says promptly. “I’m making—”
“Let me finish!” He continues, “Even if you somehow accomplish all of it, have you thought about what the Dark Lord will do to you? He might enlist you into his army, but you’re of the age when pure-blood wizards marry.”
Hermione jerks as though he slapped her. Her stomach churns, bilious. The cup clatters on the saucer as her hands tremble. She feels cold, and cold hasn’t assailed her for a long time. Her mouth starts to form words, but she’s speechless. She hastily sets the tea on the table and huddles up in the chair. Snape isn’t surprised by her reaction.
Accept, compartmentalize, internalize…Accept—except she cannot accept it. She cannot fathom it.
“Yes, now you see, Miss Granger. If you had the blood the Slytherin in your veins, the Dark Lord would pair you off with a pure-blood Death Eaters from an old family or one of his trio. Yaxley’s widowed, and Dolohov is unmarried. Which one do you prefer to be your husband?” His question is dripping with sarcasm.
“Dumbledore…Dumbledore…knew?” It’s like she’s lost her voice again.
“Of course he did. He knew the dangers and the…compromises, he called it. He asked me to pave the path for you, and I did. I have. But on one condition. I said to him if you don’t consent to his plan, you can choose not to go through with it. So, Miss Granger, choose wisely. Choose like a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor, for it isn’t just your body and magic in the balance, but your future, your soul.”
Hermione is dazed. Why did Dumbledore devise something so cruel? He’s been so affectionate and benevolent and…But he’s also Albus Dumbledore. He prioritizes the magical world over individuals. She’s no different from Harry. Another tool. Another pig for slaughter. How can he remain humane while constantly calculating, sewing plans? Hermione doesn’t think she’ll ever figure him out. Why did Snape bother? Why the condition?
“Why—why did you ask for the condition?”
“Because I know what it’s like to spy on the Dark side. It is the most onerous method of fighting this war. I signed up for it. What I did—I deserve it.” The corner of his mouth twitches. It does whenever he’s about to convey kindness. Hermione is versed in his body language. “But you are young. You deserve more. I’ve taught you about the first war. So many died in that war…” A rare sorrow slips into his eyes. “Risking your life is not worth it if you aren’t able to protect those who you live for.”
Hermione doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move.
Accept...Accept…Accept…
She squats there until the tea cools. When she drags herself up, she notices Snape is off somewhere. Today is Sunday, so he likely went back to Hogwarts. She stumbles on the doorsteps. The sun has dipped, the red horizon like a phoenix in flight. She Apparates to her house and cries for the weight of this war, for the unfairness, Virginia soothingly sliding in her lap.