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Author:
patriciatepesArtist:
twisted_slinkyFandom: Harry Potter
Chapter: Prev | Next
Rating/Contents: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters. Making no money here, as they all still belong to their prospective owners.
Summary: Partially DH compliant, most AU. Voldemort arrived at Malfoy Manor quicker than expected, and like that, the war was over. Now, Hermione is Snape's "assigned companion," and as determined as ever to stop Voldemort and save her friends. But that's hard to do in Voldemort's new world…
Chapter Twelve: Most Foul
"What the hell are you doing here?" Hermione snarled.
She felt like an animal backed into a corner. She was weaponless, defenseless. And she hated to even think it, but without Snape, she had no one to save her. Hermione Granger had never needed anyone to save her—well, except for in the Triwizard Tournament, but that was a whole different situation. So the fact that she was cornered and wishing that Snape was there to dispatch with Crabbe… It possibly bothered her more than this ambush.
His wide body was just barely in the lounge now, making her feel even more blocked in. He had his hands in the pockets of his robes, as if to insult her with how safe he felt in juxtaposition with her situation. He was smiling at her, and she wanted nothing more than to cross the room and punch that smug grin off his fat face. But she stayed where she was, knowing that any sudden movements would cause a reaction she didn't have a plan for… at the moment. That was something she was working on.
"You know, I honestly thought it was weird," he said, glancing lazily about the room. "I've seen how the other slaves are treated. Hell, I've seen how my family's treated our slaves. They're marked, so to speak. Scratches, lashes, bruises. But you? I see you, and there's never a mark on you. You don't look wounded at all, in any way. You don't move like you're hiding wounds either. In fact, you look like Snape's damn girlfriend… his willing slave."
He chuckled proudly at that, and Hermione grimaced. Why was everyone assuming that Snape was trying to be sexually inappropriate with her? (She hated to even think the word "rape.") What was he like when he was with the rest of the Death Eaters that they would assume this?
Hermione knew that the only way to form a plan was to keep this blowhard talking. (Crabbe talking, in length. Something she had never thought she'd see.)
"So, what? You thought you'd catch us in the act or something? That still doesn't explain exactly why you're here."
Her eyes darted, briefly, to the space between him and the other side of the threshold. He was broad, sure, but she was small enough that if she could surprise him, she could get around him. And if she could get to the front door, then she could get away and apparate. Snape would be pissed, sure, since he would have no idea where to find her. But if he was the good guy he claimed to be, he would understand that it had been literally fight or flight.
"Well, you see, all that noticin' led me to thinkin'… maybe the Dark Lord has put his faith in the wrong person. Maybe Snape really was working for Dumbledore, even though he killed him."
She was inching her way toward that empty space between Crabbe and the rest of the threshold.
"Well, I'm not quite sure what you're talking about, but Snape's not here. So, if you'd like, I could just pass the message along…"
"Well, you can lie for him all you want, mudblood. But I know the truth. Not only is Snape a traitor to the Dark Lord… he's a half-blood."
That gave Hermione just a second's pause. She put her best confused face, shaking her head.
"That's not true. And how would you prove it anyway?"
"Maybe I can't. Not in a way that the Dark Lord would believe about his most loyal servant," Crabbe mused.
Hermione was almost past him, almost to the point where she could easily dart to the front door, when his meaty hands reached out and grabbed her by both arms. He was as strong as she'd assumed him to be. He held her steady, forcing her to look him in the eye.
"But I have a different sort of plan." He yanked free his wand, letting go of her for just a moment, not really enough time for her to do anything. "You see, the way I figure it is, if Snape mourns your death, that'll be suspicious enough. Don't you think?"
She may be without a wand, but there was no way she was going down without a fight. She aimed her knee at his crotch and let it loose as hard as she could. He crumpled, still gripping his wand as he reached down squealing. She all but hopped over his bent form, reaching the front door in no time. She turned the door knob, pulling.
It wouldn't budge. What the bloody hell? She checked the locks, which were all undone, obviously. She tried again, putting all of her weight behind her as she pulled. Still, nothing. It had to be charmed. But… it wasn't the night before when she left and returned from the resistance meeting. What the actual hell was going on? What a wonderful time for Snape to be thinking about her bloody security!
Behind her, Crabbe had recovered enough to take aim with his wand. He lobbed a curse at her, which she ducked and let hit the door, leaving a scorch mark. She knew better from her father's obsession with horror films not to run up the stairs, but since she couldn't get outside, she had to do something. She took a charge at Crabbe, who was just now getting to his feet, aiming for his shoulder. She hoped the shock of the impact would knock him back out of balance, at least enough so she could get to the kitchen. It worked as he teetered back on his right foot without being able to grab at her. He aimed another curse at her, and she zigzagged out of its way. She ran into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her with barely a thought.
Wandless and trapped in a tiny kitchen, Hermione started to let the curse words fly—none that would actually do her any good. She had to find a weapon. Something, anything that she could use to defend herself. Her eye caught the knife block and she threw up a couple of prayers as she grabbed the large butcher's knife from the top slot. She turned as the door began to open, hiding the weapon behind her back.
Crabbe was smiling again, tsking as he entered. He let his eyes survey the room, laughing just a bit.
"Trapped like a rat. Nothing more suitable for a filthy mudblood like yourself. Any last words?"
She gripped the handle of the knife she still hid behind her back as tightly as she could. She narrowed her eyes at her attacker.
"Go to Hell," she spat.
He chuckled, raising his wand. "Avada—"
But he never got to finish. At that moment, Hermione lunged forward, jamming the knife as hard as possibly could into Crabbe's chest. It was surprising what adrenaline did for someone's strength. Hermione wasn't sure what she hit—it hadn't felt like bone—but the shock of it caused Crabbe's wand to slip from his hand, rolling just inches away from them on the floor. He sank to his knees, Hermione sinking with him as she still held onto the knife. He was gasping, like he was trying to form words his brain just couldn't think of. Horror crept into Hermione's mind as the full weight of what she had done finally sank into her. She let go of the knife, reaching instead for the discarded wand.
She knew that others' wands didn't work for just any witch or wizard, but they still did work. It took her a couple of tries, but she got it into her hand, and tried her best, muttering all the healing incantations she knew. But Crabbe's heart pumped too fast, and there was no incantation to heal the dead. The light was gone from his eyes. He was gone.
Hermione dropped the wand with a gasp. She rose, shakily, from the floor. Barely thinking, she stepped over Crabbe—the body—and back out into the lounge. She sat down on the sofa, curling her knees into her, hugging them to herself. Hot tears pooled in her eyes and spilled over. She stifled a sob—for no one's benefit but her own—but the tears continued to roll freely down her cheeks. She stared down at nothing on the floor, just letting it all weigh down upon her.
She didn't know how long she sat there—seconds, minutes, hours—but by the time Snape returned home, she was letting the sobs come and she had buried her face in her knees.
"Granger, what's wrong?" he demanded.
She couldn't articulate words. She tried, opened her mouth and ended up looking—she was sure—like a suffocating fish. Finally, she simply lifted her arm and pointed toward the kitchen. Snape practically floated through the lounge and into the kitchen. It took only a moment, but he returned to stand before Hermione. There was no malice or anger in his voice when he spoke next. In fact, it was as plain and unassuming she had ever heard her former professor sound.
"What exactly happened here?"
