“beyond wandpoint” 003 by gingerbred
Mar. 19th, 2019 01:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 07a Friday - Severus' Rescue”
Severus and assorted students
Originally Published: 2017-11-06 on AO3
Chapter: 003
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Warning:
Friday, 07 November has a little bit of dark. It doesn't get out of hand. If the tags didn't scare you off, then you should be okay reading it. That's a relatively cavalier statement, how reckless of me, but it's still probably a fair assessment. If you're okay reading what happens here, you're also probably fine with the rest of the story.
But please take my tags seriously, don't read if it is absolutely not your thing, and kindly don't flame me. I seriously don't need any more negativity in my life.
Hope you enjoy reading anyway.
A student has been attacked.
He's exhausted. He's pain wracked. He's been through the bloody fucking wars tonight and still it refuses to end. He's running as quickly as he can. The bloody Bloody Baron isn't easily disconcerted and possibly more taciturn than Severus himself, yet he's practically screaming for Severus to follow him now. To hurry. To come. There's no mistaking the urgency here. Severus hasn't the breath left in his lungs to interrogate the ghost. Digging as deep as he can for effectively everything he has left, he runs.
He skids inelegantly to a halt before the room in question, the brooding ghost hovering, pointing towards the closed door. He's trusting entirely to the Baron's assessment of the situation (whatever the fuck it may be), his own fearsome reputation, and what little he may still be able to call on of his own skills after tonight's trials. He's hoping it's enough. He's not at all sure that it is.
"The Headmaster?" he barely manages to ask, panting. The Baron just shakes his head 'No.'
Drawing as deep a breath as he can force into his burning lungs, he straightens himself up to his full height and blasts the door open with a Dunamis and a resounding 'BANG!'
He will never forget what he sees as he storms into that room. Hermione Granger, one of his best students, clearly terrified witless, tied, arms behind her, bound to McGonagall's chair (no hidden message there), her shirt in shreds hanging open, the girl half exposed, face tear-streaked, lip split and bloodied, surrounded by five of his boys. Only a single wand drawn amongst the lot of them, not a ward, Notice-Me-Not or Silencing Charm in place, thank the gods, all of them standing stupidly about, just watching her cry and Draco levitate a container of... blood? Five boys he's spent the last six years helping to raise, and this is where they fucking end.
Unbelievable.
He doesn't know whether to be insulted or simply relieved that they are so sublimely stupid. At least they are so ineptly evil that all hope is not lost. Certainly they can't be practised. Small favours.
A Langlock, silently cast, is his first wave of attack, a silent hex from these incompetents the least of his worries. A voiced Immobulus, easier that way than silent and he really hasn't the strength left for more, freezes the five of them in place and eliminates their usage of wands. He's still breathing heavily, but assumes they'll take that for rage. It would be, too, had he the breath for it.
The container of... yes, indeed, blood... that Draco had suspended with a Wingardium Leviosa comes crashing down, Severus hadn't compensated for that, a first year's charm that both he and the boy have now botched, and splashes all over the room, drenching the young witch and wizard. Fucking marvellous. Bloody Nora.
Quite.
Pushing his limits further, but appearances must, he manages a Cleansing Charm, his twelfth spell in moments, more than half of them silent, that at least sorts her, leaving Draco still dripping and most... unseemly. Fitting. Ruddy bastard. More 'ruddy' than 'bastard', of course, at the present. Still, it's a look on the boy that brings back unfortunate associations. He continues to have nightmares of Draco bleeding out on that damn floor. He never wishes to see anything like it again.
Thinking of things he never wishes to see again...
There's something about the sight of her there that he finds particularly poignant, and for a long time to come, it will give him no peace. It wouldn't matter who were in that chair, it would be unacceptable, and he's about to show the boys just how very much so. But the sight of her tied there, in her ill-fitting, over-sized school uniform and with her artless brassiere on display... She hasn't dressed to solicit attention, when has she ever? Beyond a doubt, she's always been the most physically modest of his students, no haggling over hem lengths with her. This is not the stuff of... questionable consenual fantasies. This is a young woman very obviously ripped from her daily routine, something like this the furthest thing from her mind.
And he finds it particularly disturbing to note that she's definitely that: a young woman. She's matured into a curvaceous and attractive young woman, and his outrage at the boys for revealing this fact grows. Her brassiere, very visible beneath the repeatedly rent school blouse, is probably what strikes him the most in that moment, beyond the fact that he feels certain none present should ever have seen it. It's a cotton affair, with a bit of lace on the front, but otherwise purely utilitarian in design. The lace is slightly worn, with small holes visible along one cup. It's been improperly laundered at least once at some point, its beige softly discoloured from washing with a darker colour that bled. These aren't the clothes of seduction; they're laundry day knickers, just another source of humiliation, heaped on the rest. It speaks of a frugal, pragmatic nature and a desire for comfort she probably won't find again easily after this any time soon. It makes him even angrier than he already was.
He's about to let them feel that, too.
With a glare at the boys as deadly as any Avada, were looks imbued with such power, he crosses the room to Miss Granger and with a quick flick of his long fingers releases the clasp of his cloak, and swings it out to gently cover her.
When a "Finite Incantatem" fails to release her from the ropes, he has a brief flash of panic that he has exhausted his magical reserves for the day. The alternative is that the boys have used real ropes. Bluffing it for the moment, partly because he just can't afford to believe he could actually be so vulnerable, he decides that has to be the reason for it. He gives Draco an even dirtier look, pretending to deplore his resorting to Muggle methods, while secretly applauding them, and feigns indifference that she's left bound there.
"Was any of that blood yours, Miss Granger?"
She just shakes her head in reply.
"Very well. I shall be with you in a moment."
It would take at least five Sectumsempras to slice through the ropes and release her, and he doesn't trust himself enough to do that with sufficient precision that close to her flesh, her wrists, her waist, her ankles. Not tonight. Any other night it would be a non-issue. With the after-shocks of the Cruciatus, he simply can't. She looks like she'd collapse if he released her, and he isn't even sure he could catch her right now. This is going just swimmingly.
Still, he's grateful that he was here to get this back under control. He doesn't like to think what would have happened had it been left up to the Headmaster.
He places himself between her and the Immobulused boys, drawing himself up to full height for effect. He finally takes a moment to assess the situation, and quickly takes a few decisions.
First and foremost, he knows other than himself, Draco, and Miss Granger, he will permit no one to leave here with any memory of this evening's events. He will burn the image of her, exposed and tied to that chair, out of their brains if it is the last thing he does. They will never set foot in this classroom and think of it again. Echoes of an incident with the Marauders after his O.W.L.s fifth year come to mind. He will sort this now as he secretly would have wished someone had handled it for him then. And she won't have to ask for help, and she won't owe him for it. It's freely given. It's fitting and proper.
The Obliviations will be mostly for her sake, there's no question. But they will also keep this from spreading. Although that's also in her interest. If the world were just, this should see Draco and the other boys expelled. But of course it isn't, and it won't. Given the Unbreakable Vow he had made to help Draco, and the task the Dark Lord had set for the lad, it certainly wouldn't be prudent for Severus to demand that the boy be removed from the school. He has no idea how he'd convincingly justify it to the Death Eaters anyway. And Dumbledore will insist Draco stays. If the others are unable to speak of what occurred here, it can only help in keeping this quiet, and additionally suits Severus' sense of propriety. This shouldn't be happening at school; it shouldn't be happening at all! But certainly not at school, and students shouldn't get away with this.
He begins thinking about ways to make their lives a living hell. Fortunately, he can be very creative.
Exuding fury, not an act, he strides to the door, robes swirling behind him. He's finally breathing fairly normally now. He turns once he reaches the hall, silently releases the Freezing Charm (there are witnesses to impress) on the closest boy and with a "Mr. Nott," commands him to come to him. The Langlock, he figures, will wear off eventually, and he frankly doesn't care when. Once the boy joins him in the hallway, he closes the door, giving them a measure of privacy, then he performs a spoken Notice-Me-Not and silent Muffliato, for the walls have eyes and ears and he can't take any risks.
This is closely followed by a particularly brutal Legilimens, plumbing the depths to find not just how much Nott has contributed to this evening's debacle, his intent and relative guilt, but to thoroughly test his loyalties to the pureblood propaganda and the Death Eaters. Severus wouldn't ordinarily dare to perform a scan of this nature; it leaves too many traces. But he knows what he has planned next will cover his tracks, and so he takes full advantage of the opportunity. And if it is painful, all the better.
The Legilimency in turn is immediately followed by an Obliviate, that is followed by a Confunding to further confuse the issues, and then he summons his house elf Sunny and has him take the boy, unobtrusively, to his Slytherin dorm room. In a blink, they have Apparated away. No one will ever be the wiser, the boy least of all.
Once the boy is gone, Severus opens the door to the classroom, somewhat relieved that his spells are still holding despite his exhaustion, and repeats the process on the next lad. Six spells apiece, and four more boys to go. He has no idea how he's going to get through this. One at a time, he supposes. "Mr. Zabini."
And so it goes. Finite Incantatem, silent. Come. Notice-Me-Not. Muffliato, silent. Legilimens. Obliviate. Confundo. Sunny. Next.
He hopes the Obliviates don't go completely tits up, but it's no coincidence that he calls the boys out in the order of what he presumes to be their ascending degree of guilt. The later Obliviates will probably be worse. Sloppier. He'd so hate to maul the mind of a somewhat... innocent charge of his. Truth be told, tonight he'd happily fry the lot of them, but he's trying. He's truly trying.
He's rather proud of the information he can glean with the Legilimency, despite his ragged state. This should indeed prove useful for the Order. Neither the Legilimens nor the Obliviates are particularly gentle. In fact, he's downright brutal and revels in it. Some of that is down to exhaustion. Some of that is due to his thoroughly appalled sense of justice and decorum. Make no mistake, he knows every single one of these boys will receive no punishment beyond what he himself metes out behind the scenes, and he has every intention of seeing to it that the punishment fits the crime. They'll pay. For starters, their headaches tomorrow will be monumental; he'll have to be sure to give Sunny instructions to confiscate all Headache Potions within the dormitories, and make sure Poppy knows the score.
Death by a thousand cuts? He's patient.
Mr. Zabini is followed by Mr. Goyle. Mr. Goyle is followed by Mr. Crabbe. Throughout the situation Severus has remained collected and assertive, the very vision of irate control. The impression given, he thinks, was both opportune and convincing. Draco is the only one left. This will probably require more theatre but less magic. But the scene has been set, and he's up to the task.
He thinks he knows now, more or less, what had transpired, at least as far as the other boys were involved. Draco came rushing into their room a little over an hour ago now, told them he had encountered Granger alone outside the library and had her Stupefied in McGonagall's classroom. Severus had been quite certain that bit of spite was all down to his godson; it appears his judgment is still spot on. The message was too on point for anyone else. Draco had then grabbed some ropes from his trunk (why for fuck's sake he had those is another matter entirely), and asked the other boys to come along.
A quick stop by the kitchens, of all places, had yielded the blood, pig's it so transpires (that McGonagall should be forced to go without her black pudding was simply a bonus), and Draco had set out to recreate the imagery of Potter's Sectumsempra attack on him in the lavatory last year, and more recently the idiot Weasley's poorly conceived Halloween costume. Shirt torn, covered in blood, left in the Gryffindors' Head of House's classroom to find. Unquestionably in poor taste, but it needn't have gotten too out of hand.
Mr. Crabbe, however, had seen fit to bring along an arousal potion, that he had it at all was an issue for great concern, and they had in fact administered it to the young woman. Fucking hell. Bleeding wankers. By Draco's hand. The utterly wretched little toerag. There was virtually no chance anymore this would have ended as a relatively harmless prank. Not with a mob mentality in play. The situation had reached a tipping point.
Crabbe, his intentions were exceedingly clear, had held her mouth open for Draco and backhanded her roughly when she tried to squirm away as the potion was administered. Hence the split lip. Fucking arsewipe. His life is about to become especially hellish.
Nott and, unexpectedly, Goyle had had no interest in an escalation. Nott had even actively tried to discourage the use of the potion, and had apparently been arguing with the others to just dump the blood and leave, right up until Severus had... interrupted. He would have to subtly reward the boy for that display of character later.
Goyle was nothing but a follower. Draco was quite simply... unbalanced, a decided danger to those around him, on both sides of the war. Not explicitly malevolent per se, but a definite problem and in serious need of... solving. Zabini was both less obviously dangerous and less malignant than most of the others, but it seems he had inherited some of his mother's natural inclination towards... predation. He would need to be watched far more closely. And Crabbe was frankly beyond saving.
Thirty-seven spells and counting. The Cruciatus after-tremors haven't ceased. On the contrary, they've become much worse, apparently exacerbated by his efforts.
When he re-enters the room, there's only Draco and the young woman left.
(no subject)
Date: 2022-02-07 02:31 pm (UTC)