Chapter Eight

"Severus Snape."

The chains around the chair's limbs shook in what could only be inanimate frustration. Severus was shocked, honestly, that they were spelled against wrapping around his arms. The weight of the chains, the restriction of movement, would have made this whole ordeal almost easier. He felt oddly light in comparison; exposed. It was unnerving.

The Chief Wizengamot stood at the front of the trial chamber. The room hushed when he rose, the echoing buzz of the room silenced in a single breath. "The Wizengamot has come to a conclusion," he called forth, his voice ringing out over the stands, which were surprisingly full for a private hearing. Anyone whose name held weight seemed to have found a reason to be invested in his case, and though there were plenty of familiar faces, Severus saw more strangers staring down at him than those he could consider friends. Amongst others loyal to him was one Harry Potter, main witness to Mister Snape's 'true intentions and loyalties,' accompanied as usual by Weasley and young Miss Granger, who he noticed sat straight-backed between her friends, wringing her hands in her lap as he had come to notice she did in times of stress. Ignoring the crowd, Severus met the Chief's eyes to hear his fate once and for all, showing no outward signs of distress. Inwardly, he was holding his breath.

"As of this moment, on the 3rd day of June 1998, we the Wizengamot proclaim that one Severus Tobias Snape, accused of traitorous war crimes, be exonerated of all charges with no probationary limits at this time."

And there it was- his freedom.

Though he expected it, the reality rushed through him like a wave. It wasn't until this moment that the fear he had been suppressing- the true uncertainty of his fate- allowed itself to be felt just as it washed away. A buzzing filled his ears, a tightness filled his chest, and when finally he remembered to breathe, his wand was being handed to him, the tracing spell removed.

He shook as he stood from the chair, his hand grasping his wand with a new sense of liberation.

All around him was a chaotic flood of activity and flashing lights as reporters attempted to capture this moment, the smoke from their cameras creating a dense haze throughout the chamber. His procession from the room was slow, the crowd thick around him with the ministry workers holding the worst of it at bay as he attempted to make his way towards the halls. As he was just beginning to shake the feelings of it all being a dream, a hand reached out and grasped his arm.

"You don't want to go that way," shouted Harry Potter over the cacophony of noise, and Severus had to shake his head to clear the last of the buzzing. "There are reporters and gawkers lining the halls from here until the fireplaces. The Minister has offered you use of his personal Floo Network, just follow me."

Free of the fog of disbelieve, Severus glared through the smoke and brushed past question after question that was thrown his way as he followed the Boy Who Lived Again down the hall towards the High Class Elevators. A badge on Potter's uniform proved clearance enough to board the lift, and as the doors closed behind them the sudden silence seemed to echo in the absence of the stridency of the public.

After taking a moment to enjoy the sudden quiet, Severus turned towards his companion and saw for the first time how the Auror uniform the young man donned seemed to change him. He looked so unlike the Harry Potter he knew, so different from the boy his mind held onto. It was an uncomfortable realization. He shied away from thinking on it further, instead falling back on questioning the boy's worth.

"Unless I'm mistaken, a simple Auror in Training should not be privy to a badge such as that," he commented, nodding towards the brass coin-shaped Ministry seal glimmering on Potter's chest.

"Just another perk to being the Chosen One, sir," he responded with a grin, eyes glinting behind his iconic round glasses. Severus, taken aback by the self-assured brashness, felt the familiar tug of hatred and sneered.

"Still so full of ourselves, aren't we?" he growled. "After everything you've gone through, you're still so much like your-"

"My father, yeah, I know." The young man's smile remained, but his eyes clouded with emotion. "But," he added after a moment, "I don't think that's such a bad thing."

Severus snorted, and Harry continued, "I know, I know. My father was terrible to you. From what I saw in your memories he was terrible from the moment you met him. But I also saw my mother. She wasn't awful like he was. She was kind. I don't… I don't think my mother would have fallen for my dad if he was only the person he was to you. You know?"

Severus did not speak. Whenever Lily was mentioned around him, his chest tightened, and to have her own son speak of her to him made his discomfort far more than physical. Harry continued, "The more I think of it, the more I wonder… how much of his bullying was just childish hatred? Like Draco Malfoy and the fights we got into at Hogwarts. Now that we've grown, I can understand that he was fighting his own battle just as I was fighting mine. But at the time, all I could see was this… anyway." He coughed, and Severus briefly wondered how long this elevator ride was going to take. "My point is, Sir, that if my mum fell in love with my dad, then he must have had more good in him than bad." His green eyes briefly met Severus's black. "So yeah, I may be like my father. But I don't think that's a bad thing."

With a chime that promised freedom, the elevator doors opened. The men stepped out, and Harry outstretched a hand towards Severus. "I never got to thank you," he said, "for keeping me alive."

"I didn't do it for you," he snarled, dismissing the boy's hand with a glare. But Harry didn't seem to take offense.

"You still did it. You could have forgotten her."

Forgotten Lily? The thought deeply unsettled Severus. If there was one thing he was certain in, it was that he could never forget that woman, that girl from his childhood. His heart raced at the thought. He turned towards Harry in anger, but the Boy Who Lived stretched his hand out again.

"All I want is to thank you, Sir," he said. "I'm not asking to be your friend."

With resignation and a realization that this one action separated him from his own rooms, Severus grasped the boy's hand and shook once, briskly. "I'm glad to hear that," he muttered. With a swirl of robes he turned and stormed into the Minister's office, slamming the door behind him.

Blast that Potter! It was much easier to hate him when he was full of pride.

The castle echoed under her steps as Hermione crossed the entrance. Her eyes met Snape's across the way, dark and piercing, with his robes billowed around him once more, and wondered at how different he looked to her now. Her perception of her former teacher had changed so much of late that it was a shock to see him so natural in what to her seemed to be a scene from a previous life. It put her nerves on end.

He waited quietly by the entrance to the dungeons, and when she approached with a timid "Good morning, Sir," he nodded in acknowledgement and proceeded down the stairs. She followed, the silence between the two broken only by the clack of their footsteps, of the crackle of the torches.

Minutes passed with naught but a sigh shared between the two, but after numerous turns through dark corridors Hermione finally dared to ask, "Where are we headed, sir?"

His head turned fractionally back towards her as he replied, "I have arranged for a private work space. We aren't far now."

In truth they weren't. Within moments Snape turned once more and halted.

They were standing in front of a set of large double doors. The torchlight flanking the entrance danced across delicate engravings in the wood, intricate and winding. While most were abstract and of the swirling variety, two defined figures wound themselves around one another at the door's seal. Snake-like but feathered, two large wings protruding from each creature's back and a fierce, pointed beak, the creatures made for a stunning sight.

"Occamys?" Hermione asked quietly, stepping forward to stroke the etching, and jumped when the creature shivered under her touch. She heard Snape huff and turned to look just in time to catch a small upturn of his lips.

"They are charmed to guard the entrance," he explained, stepping beside her and reaching to run a long finger down the back of the nearest Occamy's spine. "Libero sigillum," he muttered, and stepped back as the twin Occamy shook themselves awake. Seemingly pulling themselves from the wood, they twirled from each other upwards with spread wings and stretched against the door's edge until they were no longer covering the seal, and continued around the frame until they halted, bodies curled in an 'S' formation against the split and flanking it from either side. Hermione noticed a glimmer in their eyes as they settled in their new poses, feathers becoming naught but wood once more.

The doors opened.

The room they walked into was lit in a sudden warm glow as sconces burst into light at their entrance. Roughly the size of a tennis court, the rectangular space was mostly empty, but the far walls on either side were lined with cabinets, wardrobes, and… were those training dummies?

"Where are we?" she asked, eyeing a chalkboard near the door, the faint lines of wand movements still visible beneath a layer of dust.

"We're in the old Dueling Club room," he answered, and as she turned she saw him summon two elegant wooden chairs in the center of the floor, one on each side of an engraved midline.

"Hogwarts has an official Dueling Club?"

"Had," he clarified. "It was disbanded around the time of Grindelwald's uprising. Some felt it unwise to have an extra-curricular that promoted violence." Waving his hand towards the chairs he added, "I have procured this room for our studies. Sit, and we may begin."

"Why this room?" she asked, sitting in the offered chair.

He sat across from her, his robes pooling at his feet, and replied, "There will come a time where I will need to test your skills in friendly combat. This room has everything we need- privacy, tools, and magically enhanced safety."

"It's a wonder I haven't heard of this room before," she mumbled, looking around. The walls, she noticed, held a faint shimmer- a protection against damage, perhaps? And what was in the cabinets and wardrobes? She gripped the armrests tighter in her urge to explore.

"It isn't, really," Snape answered, bringing her attention back to her teacher. "The only students that explore the dungeons this far down are the Slytherins, and none of them have had luck getting through the doors. I would know," he added, "as both the Slytherin Head of House and the Headmaster would have been alerted to such a breach."

"Were you aware of this room when you were a student?"

"I was, yes. However," he cleared his throat, "we are here to train, not to chit-chat." He pulled out his wand and met her eyes. "I assume you did the reading I recommended?"

"Yes, Sir," she replied, sitting straighter.

"Good. Then let's begin."

There was no warning. One moment, her thoughts were her own, and the next, they weren't.

Memories flashed rapidly before her eyes, chaotically, against her will. She saw glimpses of the Burrow, her childhood home, the Transfiguration classroom- but only glimpses, as memory after memory sped on by, lingering only a fraction of a second longer on one particular scene- the medical tent, where she sat vigil over his still form. Even so, without a chance to breathe or fight or think, that memory was soon placed by another, and another until, feeling suffocated, Hermione finally attempted to pull back.

Just as soon as he had entered her mind he was gone, and she threw herself up from the chair, which clattered to the ground as it was knocked out from under her.

Her breath was coming in gasps and she was shaking as she clutched her head, her nails digging into her scalp. Her eyes closed as tightly as they could and her heart raced, its heartbeat the only thing she could hear, a constant woosh woosh woosh that left her disoriented. She stepped back, stumbling over the leg of the chair and reaching out behind her to grab at something- anything-

A hand grasped her by the arm and she jolted, eyes thrown wide as she looked up into Snape's dark features. "What-" she gasped.

"Are you alright?"

His hand still held her arm, and she pulled it roughly from his grasp, her sense of balance returning to her. "Am I alright?" she huffed as the wooshing subsided and she could hear again. "What the hell was that?"

The hand that had held her tightened into a fist and fell to his side. "That," he replied roughly, "was the introduction to your training." He turned quickly back towards the chairs, picking hers up and placing it in front of his once more. "Now kindly sit, so we can continue."

"That was not training." Her hands were still shaking and her heart remained frantic. Her head felt slightly woozy, and a fatigue washed over her. She felt exposed, violated… angry. She did not approach her chair, but balled her hands into fists at her side and continued, "That… that was violence."

"Have you already forgotten what I told you when you asked this of me?" he snapped. "I warned you it would be invasive. I told you not to question my methods."

"What kind of method-"

"Sit, Miss Granger, or are you releasing me of this burden?" His knuckles were white on the back of her chair and his voice held a barely concealed edge. "It is not I that wanted this, after all, but you."

She could not yet meet his eyes; she did not wish to see what reflected in those dark orbs. But his harsh reminder that this was by her request forced her to rescind her arguments. Harry had warned her against this, Snape himself had warned her against this, but she refused them their concerns. She needed her magic back. And this was the way to get it.

Without saying a word, she walked stiffly to her seat and sat down.

Snape returned to his chair, all but falling into it. His elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and explained, "The first step towards using Occlumency is to understand what you're using it against. And the best, fastest, and easiest way to truly understand that is to experience a legilimency attack firsthand." She still would not meet his eyes and he paused. "Do you understand, now?"

Did she understand? Her eyebrows furrowed as she considered his words. She had read the books he had owled her and had still been quite foggy on the mechanics of how to work the mind. Now the words made more sense. She had talked to Harry, listened to his complaints about the invasive practical lessons, and only now could she really and truly empathize with him. Honestly, she told herself, she should have expected this, would have if this were any other class- if she had nothing more stressful to worry about than essays and exams. Logically, it was the fastest way to introduce oneself to this study, to truly understand how it felt to have someone else in ones' head.

Yes, she understood. But it didn't make it any easier to stomach. She took a moment to concentrate on breathing, to relax her fisted hands and to finally look up and meet his gaze. With a sigh she asked, "Was there no other way?"

He shook his head once sharply and replied softly, "None that would have been nearly as effective."

He paused a moment before adding, "If it's any consolation, I wasn't looking for anything. I was just making a presence. I caught only glimpses of your memories, and will continue to do so until further into our training." She nodded, assured.

"That's nice to know," she mumbled. The last vestiges of anger still tumbled in her gut, but she shrugged her shoulders and ignored it. "So… what now?"

"Now," he instructed, his voice taking a teaching tone once more, "we talk about your shields. Do you meditate?"

"I've done it once or twice," she admitted, skeptical. This wasn't in any of the reading material she had been given.

"I've found that meditation is a prime way to clear one's thoughts," he explained, standing up and moving to one of the cabinets.

"Did you teach Harry meditation?" Hermione asked, trying to remember if her friend had ever mentioned anything of the sort.

She noticed Snape pause for a fraction of a second before opening the cabinet doors. "In a way," he answered slowly. "Mister Potter was a different sort of student, and the situation was… different." When he turned around, he held two large purple cushions in his hands. He continued as he walked towards her again, "Your mental capacity for all things is comparatively much more advanced. I have decided on a certain regimen that should fit your needs well."

Hermione watched curiously as her former- well, technically current- professor arranged the cushions on the ground very similarly to the chairs. Removing his long outer robes, he gestured to the cushion nearest her and said, "Make yourself comfortable. We will be working on meditation as it pertains to Occlumency for the remainder of the lesson."

As she sat cross-legged across from the last man she ever thought she would see in a meditative positon, the changes in their relationship came to her mind once more. There was so much more to this man than she had originally realized. The more they chipped away at the student-teacher relationship they had in the past, the more she felt she truly knew who Severus Snape really was. She liked what she saw.

She wanted to know more.

That thought made it a bit difficult to listen to the instructions he was giving her, but she gave it her best.

Off the coast of Wales, South of Cardiff, foamy waves crashed violently on the jagged rocks that lined the shore. Darkness had fallen when the three men appeared on the beach, black cloaks flapping in the wind, the mist from the waves clinging to their clothes in tiny beads. Silently they made their way down the coast, and as one motioned towards an outcropping of rocks in the distance, another man raised his wand and gestured, a sweeping line across the water. Slowly, shakily, large flat stones rose from the waves and created a small, slippery path towards the rocks in question.

Single file the men crossed the water, and single file they slipped through the gap between two large, pointed boulders.

The stone stairs that led the men downward were lined with torches, flickering across the dark, damp surfaces. The rush of the waves died down the lower they went, their footsteps echoing endlessly. One of the men coughed.

"He loves to be dramatic, doesn't he?" muttered the man in the rear. In front of him, his companion snorted.

"The man faked his death and built an underground support system on the off-chance the Dark Lord wasn't dead. Of course he's dramatic."

"How do you think he knew?" the man in back asked again as the stairs ended and they were led into a wider corridor. "No one else suspected he'd come back. Do you think he knows something this time?"

"I doubt he'd call us otherwise."

The trio walked in silence once more as the corridor led them to a flat expanse of stone. The man in the lead, who hadn't spoken yet, reached out a hand and snapped at one of the other men, who quickly patted his robes. The first man sighed.

"I swear, Julien, you are the most useless piece of-"

"Got it!" Julien's arm flew up as he pulled a scrap bit of parchment from his pockets. His smile faded as the paper was torn from his hands. "I didn't lose it, Antonin. I'm rather new to all this, but I'm not an idiot."

"Hmm…" with a rather aggressive flourish, Antonin flicked open the parchment and tapped it with his wand. The paper glowed, and an inky scrawl appeared on its surface.

"Here," he grunted, shoving the paper back towards the other two. Once they all had studied it, he took it back and flung it to the wall, where it stuck. "Incendio," he cast without flourish.

As the ash fell to the ground, the stone melted away, and the three men continued on.

Carden Vayne was a patient man. He had a respect for time, and all it could bring together. With enough pause between his words, a stranger would reveal to him their deepest secrets. Days of waiting could reveal the perfect opportunity where rashness would bring ruin. Study a man and he could come to know them better than they knew themselves. Timing was an art, and he was Master.

Which is why he found himself pacing his study, his highball of whiskey sloshing as he turned again and again, waiting.

The fall of Voldemort was not something he hadn't accounted for. In truth, from the day the Dark Lord paid him a visit following his resurrection, Carden had begun to plan more and more for that eventuality. The fallen man's instability had grown painfully obvious. He was no longer able to put aside his own personal hatred to value the ideals he had spoken so strongly of in the beginning. In truth, it was the first clue Carden picked up on that perhaps The Boy had become an accidental horcrux- perhaps he had stolen the last of Lord Voldemort's sanity.

He knew, of course. Over a decade had passed since he had figured it out. Horcruxes were a dark, secret evil that many knew nothing of, but Carden knew. And he pieced together the changes that had overcome the Dark Lord. The longest bout of waiting in his life was waiting for the perfect opportunity to confront his Lord about his suspicions. As planned, the waiting paid off.

The Dark Lord was impressed that his tactical follower had figured out his deepest secret. Frustratingly, he knew better than to divulge the whereabouts and identity of the items he had chosen to be his vessels, but Carden was convinced that with enough time he would be able to figure it out himself. His silence was paid for, of course. Voldemort respected honesty, but trusted assurances less. Carden was given a promotion. His death was feigned during a celebratory raid and he found himself on his way to Wales, off the grid and free to pursue a support system for the Dark Lord outside of England.

The first fall of Voldemort happened shortly after. Carden had just started to ease his way into the workings of Wales' dark side when a whisper of the news reached his ears. Despite his knowledge that the Dark Lord would in fact return, it did change things. He forced himself to pull back, to reassess his plans.

He spent many nights over a pint at the local dive bar, listening to the restless crowd. Few of the honest persuasion chose to frequent the Lazy Weevil; the wood-rotted furniture and stained, chipped glassware was obscured by dim lights and smoke and despite a constantly lit fireplace the dampness of the air never completely went away. It was a perfect place to sit, unnoticed, as countless patrons blathered endlessly of their difficulties. It was a perfect place to gain allies.

He began trading favors. He would approach a troubled drinker, order a round, and offer up his assistance. Some needed money- he offered a loan. Others needed someone out of their way- he handled this easily. He arranged meetings, sabotaged plans, retrieved information; he stole and murdered his way into countless good favors. And once he had respect, he began to talk.

Convincing murderers and thieves that a deceased mass murdering ideologist would once again rise to power was no easy feat, but Carden had- as some would say- 'a way with words.' It took time, but he convinced many allies to prepare themselves for the Dark Lord's second coming. Shortly after he solidified his followers, the Dark Lord rose again. And he had expected, the ones he spoke to that refused his words soon came flocking to him in awe.

The months progressed into years, and Carden Vayne's master plan began to shift. No longer did he find himself a true believer in the Dark Lord. What did it matter, truly, if the boy lived or died? Time would find them all dead men, in the end- rushing to meet it head-on was foolishness.

No, Carden did not believe in his Master anymore. Carden believed in himself.

The ideals that had brought him to the Dark Lord's side in the first place became his true focus. Slowly, so as to escape notice, he started to spread doubt among his followers; questions about the wisdom of the Dark Lord's new focus, uncertainty at every decision he made. He watched as those loyal to him became agitated with each new play, grumbling to themselves over grubby pints in shadows. He watched, and he waited, and then Voldemort died.

The news was jarring to those around him, but he acted quickly. He sent missives to those escaping the Ministry; he visited the most influential of his followers. He told them all to spread the word: Voldemort's true mission would continue on. He may have begun the fight, but they would finish it!

Carden had waited. He spent years waiting.

He was ready for action.

A/N: Hey did you know bad guys aren't my strong suit? It took me AGES (oh wait, you know that) to figure out how to make my villain who I wanted him to be. Luckily, my husband is brilliant when it comes to villainy. He essentially saved this story from the depths of the incomplete. He is your hero. Worship him.

I am not totally pleased with this chapter, but I figured you all have waited long enough. I may come back and edit it later, but for now, take comfort in the fact that I've started the next chapter already. Oh, and look for random one-shots. I've already written and posted a SS/HG one-shot and will soon post my newest. I have been entering contests while I waited for this story to make sense.

I love you all and I'm so terribly sorry for the wait!