Postal

Eight

Sitting in the dark on the cold stone floor, he had nearly lost feeling in his legs. His side was cramping and the door jamb cut into this shoulder. But he didn't care. Severus had lost track of how long he had been sitting just inside the door, only vaguely aware that he must have missed about seven of his Potions classes already. What he had been hoping for was a loss of feeling altogether, anything to stop the hurricane of emotions swirling through him.

Once, a house-elf wearing an absurd cow-patterned oven mitt had timidly entered with a tray of food, but he had nearly blasted it out the door with the force of his fury. It squealed loudly, widening its eyes as it dropped the tray and clattered back to the kitchens as fast as its webbed feet could carry it. Severus couldn't bring himself to eat. The nausea swept over him repeatedly with each gruesome image of her in the hands of Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy.

His head sank pathetically until his chin rested on his chest. Severus closed his eyes. He heard a small sob and realised it had been his own. It was all his fault. She had come back to him. By some gift of the gods or by some devil's trick, after all these years she had been returned to him. She hadn't even seemed to know him at first, and yet she trusted him. With her life. With herself. And he had put her at risk by allowing her to remain with him even for those few hours. He had been selfish in his joy, and now she would be the one to pay. He dreaded the thought, but fully expected the Dark Lord, in his sense of sadistic irony, would call him in to... extract payment, demonstrate his loyalty to Him and to the Circle. The burning on his arm intensified and he knew instinctively by the darkening skull that he would soon be summoned into their presence. And he had no plan, no strategy, no hope.

He froze. A reluctant rapping disrupted his thoughts. Then an exchange of worried voices whispering on the other side of his door.

"He's not answering." Potter.

"Well, try again, he might not have heard you."

A wave of irritation coaxed his aching body into standing. Not even a moment's peace...

A second rapping, followed by a low, impatient whineÛalmost canineÛand another voice, in earnest reply. Severus recognised Hermione Granger. "I know. But he's been like this ever since... they took her. He hasn't been to any of his classes and hasn't taken any meals."

"He's not responding."

There followed the sound of parchment being hastily unfurled. "Well, he's in there," confirmed a voice. (Weasley, thought Severus grimly.) "Just... not moving."

Granger gasped. "Oh, Ron, you don't think that he... that he's...?"

Severus swung open the door. "Dead? Miss Granger?" A flicker of his old self smiled with weak satisfaction at the sharp intake of breath from the little group of stunned faces assembled at his door, Potter, Weasley, Granger and...something moved behind Weasley's legs...a dog. He rested his eyes on the girl. "Unfortunately, I have not had the good fortune. Now, please, leave me alone."

Snape's pale face looked longer and more gaunt as he peered at them through the rough red rims of his black eyes. Hermione noticed his shoulders hunched more heavily than usual and his voice sounded weak, hollow, defeated. It was a sound they had never heard. In all respects, the man before them appeared to be no more than a vague, inky watercolour of himself.

***

Snape pushed the door forward, but Harry stopped it with his hand, bracing himself for an argument. But none came. The Potions Master turned abruptly, moving away from them with heavy steps until he dropped into a creaky wooden chair by the empty hearth.

Hermione felt the impenetrable grip of sadness seize her heart and she bit her lip. She prodded the others forward.

All of them were in the room now, Sirius entering last and shutting the door behind with his leg before assuming his human form. Harry, Ron and Hermione stood awkwardly for some moments, their eyes traveling over the parchment-strewn table, the empty hearth and ...the door to the next room, hanging ajar to reveal torn bedcurtains and a mess of sheets on the floor. The signs of a struggle. They looked at one another uncertainly, then at the empty, distant expression on Snape's face. They had seen many sides of the Potions Master: threatening, haughty, angry, irritated, vaguely triumphant and even occasionally bemused, but never anything like this.

Harry moved forward tentatively. At the best of times, his relationship with Snape consisted of low-key hostility. He didn't know how to handle these feelings of sympathy for this man who had gone out of his way time and again to taunt and insult him.

"Erm... Professor Snape," he began timidly, "We've come to see if we could help." Snape made no change of posture or expression. Harry glanced at Ron who shrugged. Harry figured, all told, no news is good news, and continued. "We think Lucius Malfoy might be after either Esmerelda Plofufnik's research, or... other knowledge that she might have."

Snape's face barely moved, but his voice, choked and faint, reached their ears. "There is nothing you can do. We have no hope of finding her and once the Dark Lord has extracted what he wants, she'll... die." Snape pressed his fingers to his eyes, looking pained.

Harry, Ron and Hermione glanced at one another in alarm.

The only person who looked mildly annoyed with Snape was Sirius, who had begun to pace impatiently around the back of the room, deep in his own thoughts. Seeing a shadow cross his godfather's face, Harry sensed his mood, as a sailor might perceive the coming of a storm.