Ch 1

Languish

"Miss Granger," Came the familiar mocking drawl.

The words seemed to slide down her ears right out of dim, happy memories of school; of getting caught asleep after hours in the library, potions books stacked five high all around the night before her O.W.L.S; of long hours, back and neck aching, spent bent over steaming cauldrons in a room that smelt strongly of magic and spells gone right and wrong; the sharp, odorous, wonderful, powerful, pungent, pleasant scents of a draught correctly brewed, the delicious swirl of power even the smell of one gave off.

But, this was not school, this was not then, in response to the alien stimulus of her name, not mudblood, not filth, not bitch, her body jerked in its bonds. She could do little more, she could not remember the last time she had been fed, and water was a distant, fuzzy memory of two day's past.

Bound awkwardly, eagle spread, flat against the damp, moldering walls, iron rings which extended directly from the stone clasped around neck, wrists and ankles. No chain in between solid immovable iron, they had grown wise to her tricks and would not risk giving her even the ability to gesture with her arms.

Her seemingly catatonic state seemed to anger the dangerously familiar voice. She did not want to think about the implications of this voice, did not want to think what this sudden change in routine would mean for her.

"I fail tosee why you irk Bellatrix so… almost not worth bringing the dementor for a kiss," the voice drawled almost lazily.

A surge of adrenaline flew down her veins, giving her the energy to lift her head and stare at the tall familiar figure. He spoke true, there, gliding through the wall, was the creature of her doom. She was so used to their debilitating presence she had not noticed this one creeping close, so close.

She could not even sense a change in herself as it came on, she was always afraid, always cold, always these horrible, dark memories assaulted her mind. In the beginning, the weapon had been their deaths, of the two of them, her golden boys, and the faces of her parents, as they forgot they'd ever had a daughter, of the others, the many others, and the war. Now she had many, many new and far more torturous things in her mind for the dementors to toy with.

So she waited, staring into its eyeless sockets, she was not terrified, oh, there was the fear, the dull animal fear that lay along her bones like an old friend, but , there were no new horrors it could bring before her mind, no new fear. She was calm.

It's gray, icy mists plucked at the rag of a sack she wore as clothing like the fingers of a dead man, and she watched it come on. The black robe was just a hair from her skin, billowing in a cold wind she could feel in her bones. She watched it, watched the gaping mouth, watched it lower.

Then she very resolutely closed her eyes. Called forth those, happy memories, his voice had so unwittingly supplied her. They were not true joy, those things had been taken, or obscured from her mind long ago. But there was contentment there, and triumph, of a sort, triumph over academia.

With a practiced flick of her frail fingers, more like thin, dry twigs than hands after her long… long stay,

'Expecto Patronum,' not a sound, not a whisper, no, only a thought. They had been wise to that too, a specially designed gag, cold iron across her tongue. Scream? Oh yes, loudly, clearly, piercingly, there were so many blood curdling screams she could emit, but any spell would be mangled beyond recognition, beyond hope of efficacy.

There was a puff of silver.

The creature hesitated, its meals were not supposed to fight back. It had been told it could have this one. Then from the little, insubstantial puff came a clawed and toothed creature, it barreled right into the dementor's face. Small, and so unthreatening, but the most powerful predator of its region, no fear, all wiry strength. The dementor detached from her with an earsplitting yowl of pain and as it fled through the ceiling of her cell, her otter scampered after clawing happily at the ragged trailing robes until both vanished from sight through the ceiling.

She was sad to see the creature go. Without her otter, she felt desperately cold again. Resigned to her coming punishment for such defiance she shifted her eyes to the figure in the door.

She studied him carefully, he looked no different than the last time she had seen him, the end of sixth year… how many years ago now? At least two… she didn't think it had been more than five. She desperately hoped it had not been more than five… they said men were driven mad after one year in Azkaban, she was not there, but the number of dementors in whatever place she was kept in made it like enough… if it had been more than five years she could not possibly still be in her right mind.

That hard face gave none of his thoughts away, though black eyes pierced her with such clarity, she wondered she could not read them there. Neither spoke, she for the impossibility of it, he for well concealed shock.

Suddenly, the door at his back was thrown open and a familiar and violently hated personage burst in. In his wake glided three dementors. Her heart sank. She was so terribly tired. She would not manage that feat again.

"I felt some strange working," her tormentor exclaimed his yellowed bloodshot eyes scrutinizing the room.

Cold, black eyes flicked from her to the thin, sallow, cruel face of her keeper.

"You half-witted bloodfilth," black eyes were pure rage, "Never interrupt me with a prisoner," the words were more deadly for their cool, slow cadence.

"Excusing myself, sir, this one's very dangerous—" the words were bare out of his mouth before at a flick of the other's hand he was hurled back out the door.

It slammed behind him and then her keeper's screams began. He touched his wand and…from the sound of it a Crucio curse, she knew that particular scream very well. She marveled at his power to project a silent unforgivable at a victim not in his direct line of sight.

Then those black eyes returned to her and she braced herself, prepared for the coming onslaught.

…

…

…

It never came. The wand vanished back into its pocket. Expectantly she watched him, arching one brow in silent askance.

"You are very lucky, Miss Granger, your usual tormentor has displeased the Dark Lord," he looked away from her then surveying the cell… no the torture chamber, "It seems she killed someone Voldemort still had use for."

He saw the slight smirk on her face despite the crude device crammed, like a horse's bit, into her mouth, it pleased her to know Bellatrix was no doubt suffering several Crucio curses at the moment.

"I confess, I had wondered what project had kept her so busy down here these last years, now I see."

His circuitous tour of the cells various fixtures and devices intended only for suffering had brought him very close to her.

Dark eyes studied her face, thin by nature, she now bordered on skeletal, eyes sunken, bruised, but still alive with cautious reason and not the wild madness he had been sure was the only thing left.

"How did you do it? They feed all of those kept on this level enough Befuddlement Potion to keep even the most powerful from accessing enough magic to levitate a feather."

She blinked at him, as if to say, 'you speak to me as if I could speak back, or would care to if I could. Are you blind?'

He did not respond to this non-verbal insult and continued to scrutinize her. Yes, as he expected, she had nothing more up her sleeve, no last reserve of power she might hex him with. She looked so near death it was no wonder she had waited until the very last moment to summon her charm. She had probably feared her ability to conjure more than a mist of patronus, nothing that would last to ward off a dementor, only enough to do harm in the last instant when it drew close and opened its wide maw, vulnerable.

When he reached for her face fear lit her brown eyes like droplets of amber, but she had been here too long to flinch back, rather her muscles relaxed, she well knew the pain of a blow was multiplied ten-fold if one resisted.

Grasping the buckle that held the bar gag in place, he hissed in irritation jerking his hand back when the hexed device zapped him viciously. From the way she spasmed in her bonds it had done her worse.

"Be still," he ordered going for the buckle once more.

A muttered generic counter-spell quieted the device, and though he was not its master it allowed him to remove it, with no more than minor shocking after that.

Dropping the irritating thing, no doubt of Bellatix's own making, to the ground where it sparked angrily red brown, like dried blood. He allowed her to lift her head.

Satisfied she could, and if he had his way, would speak he repeated himself, "How?"

Her throat worked silently in several aborted attempts at speech, before she managed a croak that might have been a human language. This inability seemed to distress her more than her near soul removal by a dementor's kiss.

Reaching into his voluminous robes he removed a small vial, the liquid clear, though tinted slightly blue. Uncorking the vial he tipped its contents into her mouth before she could protest.

She didn't swallow.

"If you spit that out I will call the dementors back," he informed her calmly.

She complied. The liquid burned slightly all the way down, but it was not particularly painful, more similar to menthol drops.

He was looking at her demand in every line of his frame.

Reluctant she answered, while she would no doubt be punished for her response, cool black eyes promised swifter retribution if she resisted, "The suppressing potions are in the water and the food, I've had neither for…" her voice cracked, it was a powerful tonic, but she was so dehydrated, "water was two… three days ago, I think."

He nodded studying her, "You have grown stronger, to accomplish such a feat…"

A dark chuckle bubbled to her cracked lips, to hear such words so near death. It was true, hardship had taught her strength even as it had bled her dry.

"Yes, all to accomplish my one task, to die more slowly."

She was truly a wretched sight. She did not stand, but hung, limply, from her bonds. Her once wild, goldenly brown locks, hung down below her hips in scraggly ropes, near black with grime. She was not the vivacious, young adolescent she had been, only her eyes gave sign of life and they held such grimness he wondered that she had summoned a patronus. That required joy. What could this creature possibly have left after what was at the least four years in this hellish place.

"I suggest you scream," he said then.

Dread ghosted over her skin in a ripple of gooseflesh and she grew very still, even her breath slowing.

A wand appeared in his hand and black brows drew down in a distinct glower, "I have no compunctions about giving you an adequate reason to scream."

For the space of three breaths she stared at him in silence, then as his fingers tightened on his wand she loosed such a gut wrenching scream he almost believed he had unwittingly Cruciated her.

Her deep mahogany brown eyes stared into his unwaveringly as her cry thinned to a sobbing keen. This cry modulated a few times pitch rising and falling before tapering off. She studied his blank face for a second in silence before at his unspoken prompt she let out another cry, pure anguish verbalized, so eloquent it sent chills down his back.

Approximately five minutes into this rendition her voice began to crack and with a sharp hand motion he allowed her silence. Her confusion was clear only in her eyes. Walking to the door he gave the woman a nod, "Miss Granger."

"Professor Snape," she returned in a voice that rasped slightly.

"It's Headmaster," he corrected as he exited her cell.

The disgusting little man who supervised this level watched him wide eyed, "Forgive my interruption, Sir. Had I known you had planned such an activity for our silent song bird I would never have disturbed you."

Severus gave a dark smile, "Not so silent for those who know how to coax music from reluctant throats. She is amusing to play with, I would like her to be fed and watered, I want to play with her again soon."

These words sent the lackey scurrying. Satisfied his will would be carried out Severus strode quickly out of the dungeons, there was work to be done.

When her jailor entered Hermione was shocked to see he had not only brought her water, but the lumpy, burnt gruel she had known as food for so long it no longer revolted her. She hated him and he her. He was a cruel, twisted bastard, and before she had become so skeletal had liked to play with her body at the behest of her primary tormentor and during any time she had left over from that. Now however she looked more like death than a woman and held no appeal to him.

For that she was grateful, unfortunately his attraction for her had, at one time, assured timely meals. Now that the tedious task of tipping water thinned gruel down her throat held no reward and he often 'forgot'. He had learned in the first month that freeing her hands even to be allowed a meal often left him in full body binds or worse.

True to her ruse she hung limply in her bonds trembling, it was not hard to do. She was so very cold and tired. She played nice and did not even mouth spells to frighten him. She was too hungry to risk her meal being taken from her. Besides, after the patronus she had nothing left to cast with.

To my readers who expected a straightforward sequal to A Break in Routine, I fear my only defense once again, is that I have no interest in what we DO know about Severus Snape, only what we Don't. Look at A Break in Routine as a study of what made Snape into the man we see in Cannon, and At the End as an exploration of what he might have become if circumstances had allowed. Readers of A Break in Routine will hopefully see the connections between the two stories, however those who have never read A Break in Routine will have no trouble understanding this fic, although alot more insight into sections upcoming of this fic would be given by a reading of A Break in Routine. I guess the best way to explain, is to say that At the End is the STORY that would not let me rest until it was written, and A Break in Routine was the random tangent I got thinking about late at night during several agonizing weeks of writer's block. A Break in Routine is a prequel to At the End. It's the Back Back back story to this.

This fic began as a oneshot gift for a friend. It's grown so far beyond that I really don't know what to say except that I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it. These characters have entirely ensnared my mind, and I can't look away from thier drama. I hope you can't either.