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The Man Who Sold the World by Meggory [Reviews - 17]

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Four



The Man Who Sold the World

by Meggory

Like a skittish raven, the man in front of her took several quick steps backward and peered sidelong at Hermione, who still sat on the cold floor. His lips moved silently as he stared at her through a curtain of long black hair. Maybe this isn’t Snape. The thought came unbidden, but she quickly squashed it. No one could possibly imitate him. Finally, he eased himself onto his haunches and directed a hard glare at her. She fought the schoolgirl urge to lower her unraised hand.

“I haven’t heard that name--” he began, whispering, then his voice grew sharp. “How do you know that name?” he demanded. With yellow teeth bared, Snape missed only the raised hackles of a cornered dog.

“Professor Snape, it’s me,” she told him. A note of puzzlement tinted her words; how could he not remember a girl he taught daily for seven years? “It’s me, Hermione Granger.”

Strangely, Snape snorted contemptuously but shook his head almost sadly. “I killed Hermione Granger. A long time ago, I killed her.”

Hermione pushed herself up onto her knees, and Snape flinched at her sudden movement. She plucked the fallen bread from the floor and brushed off the dirtied side. “You did not kill me, Professor. It really is me, in the flesh.” She held out the bread like a peace offering to a rabid dog about to pounce or a coiled cobra ready to strike. “Please, don’t you know who I am?”

Slowly, Snape inched towards her. His hand came up to take the bread; his fingers brushed the chunky crust, hesitated, then moved up to gingerly feel the soft, straight bristles of her hair. “Bushy hair,” he murmured.

The fingers disturbing her hair tickled, and Hermione stifled a giggle. Snape wrenched his arm away as if burned. “Here, Professor Snape, please eat this.” She waved the slice of bread in his direction. Hesitantly, he snatched the food from her and held it away from his body with two fingers. He glared at her, as if looking for deception, and she faced him without qualm.

His eyes were dark and tight. “Legilimens.”

All she could see were the depths of his black eyes, but her mind’s eye watched as he entered and began rifling through her memories. Despite the intrusion, she could sense a certain reluctance, a bit of cautiousness, in the way he wandered the paths of her mind. His presence was strong, though, and skilled, as he tramped up and down the corridors within her; he rapped on doors and checked windows and wound down stairwells. She did not fight him; instead, to prove her honesty and good will, she offered certain memories to him. She let the doors open for him, pulled back the curtains to let him see inside.

He stood over her, cruelly making a remark about the size of her magically enlarged teeth in front of her schoolmates.

He took points from Gryffindor because she helped Neville Longbottom in Potions class.

The first year Hermione Granger set his robes on fire in the Quidditch stands.

At the final grading of her seventh year Potions project, he said, “Were you anyone else, I could make you the finest Potions Mistress in Europe.”

They passed on the battlefield, locking eyes and nodding to each other before vanishing into the carnage at Diagon Alley.


Suddenly, he fled from her mind, leaving an eerie sort of vacuum that left her reeling. He caught her arm in a strong, wiry grasp before she toppled back to the floor. “I am sorry, but I had to know for certain. I truly thought you were dead, Miss Granger.”

“What did you mean by that, Professor?” she blurted.

He blinked several times, processing the question, then answered, “Surely you of all people know what I meant.”

“I’m a Mudblood,” she said bitterly. The years of prejudice and months of segregation finally seemed to culminate for her; it did not matter if megalomaniacs thought she was a second class citizen, but this was a man who had shared his knowledge with her, taught her some secrets of his own learning. He thought she was beneath him. His name was branded on her skin, and he hated her for her dentist parents and unintentional ignorance and her years at school where she drew pictures on construction paper and learned maths. Tears welled in her eyes.

A knuckle brought her chin up forcefully. She thought she heard a vertebrae pop. “I will have none of your nonsense, Miss Granger. Cease your caterwauling.” The lines around his mouth softened. “I do not hate Muggleborns, nor do I despise Muggles. But I associated with those who did. Voldemort would not have allowed me to take anyone but Draco Malfoy as an apprentice, and that boy was too stupid to stand his cauldron up properly.”

Is too stupid,” Hermione corrected as she fished her only handkerchief from her coat pocket. “Draco survived Diagon Alley, but even Riddle had to admit he fucked up. Banished him to go rule Lithuania or somewhere around there.”

“Language, Miss Granger.” Snape’s voice had regained some of its former glory with all the talking, but she was not going to allow him to dominate her.

“I am not your student any longer,” Hermione told him firmly, glaring at him defiantly over her handkerchief. “You will call me Hermione. Besides, my last name is Browning now. Hermione Granger is dead.”

For a moment he considered her carefully, then ripped a piece of the crust from the bread and popped it into his mouth. “Browning? How--disappointing.”

“I can hardly lay claim to the great names of the Wizarding world. Things would go terribly amiss were I to announce myself as Hermione Black, or Hermione Weasley, or--God forbid--Hermione Dumbledore,” she said with a little laugh. Snape said nothing, but she could have sworn she saw the edge of his lips move in a northerly direction. “The key to existing as an Impure I is anonymity.”

“If that is so, why was Lucius Malfoy chasing you?” He continued to nibble at the bread in the manner of a bored, overgrown raven.

“I answered a simple question truthfully.” Watching him methodically put tiny bits of bread between his lips in a display of self-control was fascinating and disturbing; she felt as if she were watching feeding time at a particularly cruel zoo. When he polished off the slice from the floor, she pulled another out of her pocket and gave it to him without comment. “Although maybe he didn’t like the way I made his tea yesterday. How did you get rid of Malfoy?”

“So Miss Granger is no longer the know-it-all,” Snape said with a smirk. Her hand shot out in a weak attempt to retake the bread, and he received the message with a roll of his eyes. “I am a highly skilled Occlumens, Miss Granger. For all his money and power, Malfoy is barely adequate to meet Voldemort’s requirements--it was fairly simple to cast a small Obliviate and create the urgent need to return to his office for a long nap.”

“I’ll bet he’s grateful for the rest; his job of sitting around ordering lackeys to bring him lunch is probably very stressful.” There--that had to be a Snape smile. The lips twitched. “And it’s Hermione. How long have you been living as a Wraith?”

“This regression to your childhood status as the incessant questioner is very irritating,” he told her bluntly.

“Well, I beg your pardon, but I thought you were dead too. After Diagon Alley--there wasn’t much opportunity to search for you, or anyone, for that matter.” A cramp was forming in her calf; she stood awkwardly, shaking the limb to regain circulation, and made her way to one of the windows. The frame no longer had glass, probably from bombs dropping nearby, but Hermione did not dare put her hands down lest she unwittingly slice them open. The windows opened up to the alley where Malfoy had cornered her. This late at night, the streets were eerily silent for such a large, formerly populous city. She could smell ash and concrete dust.

“Since Diagon Alley,” Snape said from behind her. She turned to find him still hunkered on the floor, watching her with sharp, troubled eyes. “Over a year. Never in one place for too long. The Death Eaters send out patrols to catch us. Though, it’s easier now the Russian Muggles have stopped dropping bombs.”

“The Prime Minister surrendered,” Hermione told him quietly. “He came over the wireless and announced that Parliament had dissolved and Britain was officially under the sole control of Lord Voldemort. He actually asked the Russians to stop the bombers. He sounded like a little boy, scared and wanting his mother to come say everything for him.”

Snape looked thoughtful and stormy at the same time. “So Dolohov got his wish.”

“He collaborated with dissidents in the Russian Muggle government, overthrew the legitimate ruling body, announced Russia was a land of Voldemort and proceeded to give Wizards superior citizenship over Muggles. As I hear it, he’s thinking of reclaiming the title of ‘czar,’” Hermione revealed wryly. “So yes, he got his wish. Was he always so megalomaniacal?”

“Never where Voldemort could hear him. The Dark Lord does not like competition.” He glanced down at the empty fingers where bread had been. A conflict seemed to war across his face, a showdown between pride and starvation. Hermione’s mouth almost dropped open from shock when starvation beat out Severus Snape’s prickly pride. “Do you have any more bread?” he asked politely. His eyes did not quite meet hers.

Shaking her head slightly, she replied, “No, but I can get more for you tomorrow.” From the window, she could not see the moon, but her brain registered a faint increase of light in the eastern sky. “Er, Professor Snape, do you have the time? I have to be at work at seven.”

Pulling out his wand from his sleeve, he murmured, “Horam Narrate.” A small, luminescent clock face swirled from the tip of his wand and clearly showed a pair of hands pointing to the six and the twelve. “You have an hour. I will--escort you as best I can. I would rather Lucius Malfoy not ambush you on your way to cook him breakfast.”

A sigh escaped his lips as if dragged by plodding horses. “And I am no longer your professor. You may address me as Severus, Mi--Hermione.” Hair swung around his jaw as he shook his head with resignation and unfolded himself from the floor. “Browning.”

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Author’s Notes:
1. This isn’t mine, blah blah blah fishcakes. Borrowing, torturing, promise to put them back.
2. Horam Narrate is an exact Latin translation of “Tell (me) the hour.” I refuse to alter my Latin phrases into Rowling-ish because a year of Uni-level Latin has made me snobbish.
3. Thanks to all my wonderful and encouraging reviewers. Cookies for all. Responses will be posted to all reviews as quickly as possible--unfortunately I don’t have the time to reply via email (though it would be nice).
4. I have nothing against the Russians. Really. It’s just fiction. More countries’ governments and policies to be mentioned later...







The Man Who Sold the World by Meggory [Reviews - 17]

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