A Woman's Weapon
by Oni Jade

Chapter 1

Snape burned the bodies where they lay.

Time was a factor in his plans, and he had none to waste in more formal disposal of his enemies. All that mattered was that the bodies were gone. There must be no possibility of an investigation – either into their presence within the school, or the manner of their death. Snape would have liked to study the effects of the poison, but knew he could not afford the risk. No Hogwarts Professor, even one with his murky reputation, could afford to be discovered transporting corpses around the school in the dead of night.

Anyway, he had more immediate concerns than the loss of a footnote to an academic paper he would most likely never publish. By now, Voldemort would have realised that something had gone wrong; the Dark Marks which linked him with the Death Eaters also allowed him to sense their deaths. While Snape was sure that they had died before they could send any message, his presence during their disappearance was sure to cause suspicion, quite probably enough to get him killed. Voldemort rarely waited to be sure of treachery before punishing it.

So far, Snape had avoided anything more than cursory punishment for his perceived failures either before or after Voldemort’s defeat. His position at Hogwarts, combined with his other skills, made him too valuable to damage. No amount of potential utility, however, would help him, if Voldemort realised that his shortcomings were actually careful, considered sabotage. The current situation seemed depressingly likely to lead to just such a realisation, or, alternatively, to the conclusion that he was woefully incompetent – which might be just as bad. As he retraced his steps to the secret entrance, he tried to comfort himself with the thought that he’d had little choice. Allowing the murder of Hogwarts students in their beds, after all, would have been totally unacceptable.

This attempt at positive thinking had little effect. Snape’s concern for the students, while real, was certainly not based on personal affection or desire for their company.

His train of thought was interrupted by a hot pain in his arm where the Dark Mark marred his skin. His arm jerked involuntarily, and his fingernails gouged crescents into his palm. The pain made the last stumbling steps into the moonlight seem longer than he remembered …even before the long walk to the edge of school grounds.

************

For someone as cautious and controlled as Snape, Apparating blindly was a grave trial. He stood motionless for several seconds on his arrival, unaware of his surroundings, waiting to see if he would be murdered immediately. Instead, a Death Eater approached him from the shadows, eyes downcast.

"Welcome, honoured comrade." he said, bowing deeply to Snape. Snape inclined his head fractionally in return. "The Dark Lord orders you to attend him at once. I am to escort you." Snape moved his head a fraction further, which the Death Eater seemed to interpret as a nod.

As they walked, Snape became aware of his surroundings, although there was little to be aware of. He was in a forest, probably in Western Europe, judging by the fauna and the temperature. It was dark. Except for his guard, he seemed alone – although there were almost certainly others watching. It was very dark and he had no idea where he was.

Not that it mattered. In the two years since Voldemort’s return, Snape had never attended a meeting in the same spot twice.

Five minutes’ walk took the pair to a small cottage in a clearing. A single lighted window illuminated the cloaked figures who clustered outside.

"Snape?" one of them queried. His escort nodded. "You are to go in immediately. Lord Voldemort is waiting."

He smelt the bodies before he saw them and was prepared. It was a young woman gripping her child. It might have been a touching family scene – except for the stench and the blood thickening on the floor. Snape didn’t pause, but stepped over the bodies without looking at them again.

Voldemort sat – incongruously – at a kitchen table, his shining red eyes and black robes putting him into stark contrast with his surroundings. "Welcome, Severus. I am most glad to see you alive." Looking down, he rewarded the grovelling Snape with a thin smile. "By all means, rise. It would not do for you to return to Hogwarts with Muggle blood on your robes – what would the students think?" He chuckled dryly, appearing to enjoy his own joke and Snape’s discomfort in equal measure. Then, suddenly serious, he sat back in the chair. "Now…report."

Snape forced himself not to fidget. "My Lord," he said, "I must inform you that our mission has failed. The others are dead. I was forced to abandon the mission in order to conceal the evidence of our attempt."

One thin eyebrow rose skyward as Voldemort’s expression became dangerously sceptical. "And what … caused this unfortunate state of affairs, Severus? You and Goyle assured me that your plan was foolproof." His voice became softer and Snape had to strain to hear it. "And I had not … previously …considered you a fool. What was your mistake?"

Snape forced the words out of his dry throat and tried hard not to choke on them. "I made two mistakes, my Lord," he admitted. "There was a regenerative ward which I failed to disarm before the attack. And I allowed Goyle to enter first – he did not discover it before it triggered."

"Two mistakes, Severus? Tsk, tsk." Voldemort straightened his lean whip of a body, like a lazy snake who scented food. The fingers of one hand toyed absently with his wand. "You may," he said, sounding delighted at the prospect, "have made three mistakes. Why did you abandon the mission? Why are the only dead bodies on the school grounds my followers?" He unfolded to his full height, red eyes flashing, wand pointed at Snape’s heart. He was shouting – almost screaming now. "Why did you return to me to crawl in the blood and the dust, stinking of failure, rather than honour my name and your loyalty in blood?"

Snape crashed back to his knees, keeping his eyes on the floor, trying to make the whole movement look like a deliberate bow, rather than a nervous collapse. "My Lord," he gasped, "I believe that the activation of the ward alerted the school staff. I thought that my discovery would do more harm to your cause. I didn’t know what you wished me to do." He forced himself to look back up at Voldemort, to make eye contact with those staring red snake’s-eyes without flinching. "Please, I can go back, I can return and put all this right. Kill them all if you order it. Please, let me serve you."

His face buried in the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes, he had no chance to see what effect his pleading might be having. Time was measured in heartbeats as he begged for his life. Eventually, when no reaction of any kind was forthcoming, he could no longer resist looking up.

As soon as he did so, Voldemort laughed and sat back down, all tension disappearing from him in a moment. "Oh, get back up, Snape," he said, sounding amused. "You look quite ridiculous – and sound worse. Did you really think I would punish you for Goyle’s idiocy? Or order you to abandon a valuable position, merely for a little blood? You did the right thing." Voldemort smiled down at him – a real, wide, toothy smile, terrifying despite (or perhaps because of) its apparently genuine warmth – as Snape scrambled to his feet.

"Sit down, Professor, and have a drink – you look like you need it. This must have been a very trying night for you."

Snape sat clumsily, accepting the glass Voldemort pushed across. His hands shook uncontrollably, and most of the liquid splashed onto the table. What he did drink tore at his throat – and it was only when he took a third sip that he realised it was whiskey.

Voldemort watched him with an amused air and waited for Snape to finish the glass. "Now," he said, "you made a mistake. Two mistakes. We both know that. I chose to frighten you a little – just a little – so that it won’t happen again." Voldemort shook his head disgustedly. "You should never have let Goyle go first. The man was an idiot – worse even. Practically a Squib. Still, no real harm was done."

Here he made an expansive gesture with his glass. Whiskey slopped onto the table again as he dismissed the deaths. "We can’t worry about a few casualties in the ranks – they’re inevitable. Only the strong survive, as you well know. After all, you were strong enough to walk away, and better yet, to come here and face me. Frankly, I’m impressed."

Snape had gone limp; relief, on top of alcohol, on top of fear, added to exhaustion, was making his head spin wildly. He could barely follow the conversation, beyond the fact that it didn’t look like he was going to be killed. Voldemort was still talking, and he struggled back into reality enough to nod in the right places.

"This was only a small setback," Voldemort was saying now. Snape tried to summon the energy to pay attention. "There are other plans afoot. One in Hogwarts, even."

Snape’s eyes snapped back into focus. Voldemort laughed.

"I thought that might interest you," he continued. "You’re not central to the scheme, I’m afraid. When things begin to happen, you might push them in the right direction if you feel it’s safe. Consider it a small test of your initiative … if you like."

Voldemort smiled again as Snape fought back a flinch. "Don’t worry," he purred, "I have every confidence in my agent. It’s more than likely that you won’t have to do anything at all … just be alert to the possibilities. Now," Voldemort stood in order to clamp a hand onto Snape’s shoulder and push him out of the cottage. "much as I enjoy our cosy chats, you should be getting back to Hogwarts. You have Mr Potter for Potions tomorrow I believe: do please give him my regards.

************

Dawn was beginning to break over Hogwarts when Snape reappeared at the gates. By the time he reached the school itself there were a few bleary-eyed students in the halls. Snape swept past most of them without looking, and they, in turn, tried to look inconspicuous.

Not all were successful.

"Miss Brown. Miss Patil."

Two giggles were cut off abruptly, and they looked wildly around, as if for an escape route. Snape had occasionally wondered what he’d do when someone finally did run. They appeared to have decided against it this time, although Patil did try to tuck the book they’d been conferring over behind her back. Snape held out one hand and waited expectantly.

"The Love-Child of Beauxbatons," he read out, examining the lurid, mildly pornographic cover at arm’s-length and with exaggerated attention. "Strangely, I don’t recall this being on any of the reading lists this year." He glared down at them and allowed himself a brief sneer. "Has Dumbledore instituted a course on post-modernist literature and Freudian analysis, perchance, for which this tome is a vital part of the canon?"

"No, Professor. It’s not a school book." Patil’s pretty face seemed torn between acute embarrassment and the effort of safely navigating the dangers of the conversation. Brown, for her part, appeared to be reconsidering the benefits of flight. Snape was beginning to relax.

"You do surprise me. Five points from Gryffindor—each," he added as they sighed in relief. "for possession of unsuitable reading material. Five points each for a disturbing lack of literary taste, as well. And an extra five from you, Miss Patil, for attempting to conceal such a heinous crime against literature."

Snape tossed the book back, pausing to enjoy the moment when their surprised gasps at having it returned transformed into outraged shrieks, as it burst into flames. He waited a moment more, to ensure that they hadn’t been stupid enough to get themselves burnt, and then stalked off in the direction of the Headmaster’s office.

***********

As he approached Dumbledore’s office, Snape realised that the Headmaster was not alone; he could hear murmuring from behind the door. If this much sound was escaping Dumbledore’s heavily soundproofed office, there must be a shouting match or a small-scale war on the other side of the door. Snape sighed deeply and allowed himself a second of self pity. Then he placed one hand on his wand, the other on the door, and stepped inside.

The noise rolled over him like a wave, then abruptly cut off as his presence was noticed. Harry Potter was frozen in mid-tirade, one arm outstretched, and didn’t seem to know how to bring it back. Ronald Weasley appeared to have stalled over a similarly emphatically worded argument and continued to repeat, "But it’s just not fair" several times before winding down.

Dumbledore was seated behind his desk wearing an expression of profound concern. And Hermione Granger was opposite him, quiet and still – so quiet, in fact, that it took a moment for Snape to register her presence. It was then that he realised that something was seriously wrong – no teenaged girl, even Miss Granger, ever sat that still. And no healthy person possessed skin so translucently pale.

"Ah, Professor Snape." Dumbledore’s words were accompanied by one of his penetrating looks. Having apparently divined that Snape was as well as could be expected, and that he had no vital news to impart, he went on. "We have suffered a most grievous tragedy. It seems that Professor Trelawney is dead."

Snape was shocked, but refused to let it show in front of students – particularly these students. "I must presume from the tone of the discussion that there are further complications," he said. "To name one – why are Potter and his friends here?" Potter might be an arrogant fool with little respect for the rules, or his betters, but it didn’t seem likely that he’d begun assassinating people.

"Professor Trelawney was found deceased in her rooms this morning," Dumbledore said. "The door had been locked from the inside. I’m afraid Miss Granger here was found in the room when it was opened. She has no memory of how she came to be there."

It no longer seemed so important to conceal his shock. Snape’s head whipped round to where Miss Granger was still sitting, silent and motionless. He was vaguely aware of his mouth dropping open. As Potter and Weasley began shouting again, she stared him straight in the eye and gave him an apologetic shrug.

Notes

I owe a debt of gratitude to Anna for fighting a valiant battle against my authorial blunders. Her victory over the wrongly used semicolon was the very least of it.