Chapter 10 A Very Snape Adventure Part-2
As Snape left the dreary hallways of Potter Manor behind him, he walked toward the boundary wards, the faded remnants of magic still clinging to the air in a thin, whispering veil. The late afternoon sun was already sinking behind the dense treeline, casting long, tangled shadows over the path ahead of him, draping the landscape in the muted, rust-colored hues of a dying day.
Despite himself, Snape's mind drifted back to memories of the Potters. He could almost see James, a young man with a proud set to his shoulders and an unwavering conviction in the weight of his family name. Back then, James Potter would have leapt to defend even the slightest word against his family's honor, his chin raised and his wand never far from his hand. And now—now, the House of Potter lay in ruins. A hollow name, stripped of power, pride, and heritage.
The thoughts brought an uneasy mix of feelings. Would his younger self, burning with rivalry and resentment, have reveled in this outcome, in the toppling of the Potters' legacy? Or would he too have felt something akin to sadness at the ruin of another pureblood house, once a pillar of strength and tradition? The boy he once was would be unrecognizable in the man he'd become, yet there was a weight to the memory—a life now hollow, a family erased.
He shook his head, as if to rid himself of the unwanted thoughts, and finally arrived at the edge of the ward boundary. He raised his wand to apparate, but just before casting the spell, a bothersome thought rooted him in place. Gomas Barbadensis. He'd almost forgotten his fabricated reason for this visit. Seraphina, with her all-too-bright eyes and her persistence, would be sure to bring it up if he returned empty-handed, and she'd likely badger him endlessly in her gentle, cheerful way—which, he tried to convince himself, he absolutely did not enjoy.
With a final exasperated sigh, he lowered his wand, glancing over his shoulder at the neglected garden near the back of the manor. Bracing himself, he started down the overgrown path, feeling the silence around him deepen with each step as the forest closed in, shadows shifting with an unsettling life of their own.
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The garden was unrecognizable, claimed almost entirely by the wilderness that crept inward with the years of neglect. The underbrush had thickened, clawing up the stone walls of what had once been flowerbeds, and the paths were overrun with thorny brambles and twisted roots. Tall grasses and weeds swayed in the faint evening breeze, creating soft, whispering sounds that mingled with the distant calls of hidden forest creatures. The canopy above him grew denser, casting the garden in a dim, almost spectral light that seemed to darken as dusk settled fully upon the world.
The air grew colder and damper, laden with the scent of moss and earth, mingling with a faint, ancient scent of decayed flowers. He carefully made his way through the tangled paths, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the plants he sought. The garden felt heavy, as though memories had soaked into the soil, their weight pressing down on him as he moved through the thickening shadows.
A sense of decay lingered in the air, like an echo of something once grand and cherished, now broken and forgotten. Snape's footsteps were muffled by the moss, and his robes brushed past the tangled vines as he moved deeper, his face impassive despite the sharp tinge of sorrow the place seemed to exude.
He finally spotted the tall, spiky leaves of Gomas Barbadensis, the rare plant shimmering slightly in the twilight, its silver veins glowing faintly as though imbued with some last, flickering magic. With a steady hand, he gathered the stalks he needed, taking a moment to brush off the wild vines that had begun to choke the plants. His task complete, he straightened, casting one last glance at the eerie garden around him.
With the faint sounds of the forest at his back, Snape made his way back to the gate. In the fading light, the shadowed manor behind him seemed like a ghost, looming quietly over the empty gardens as if watching him leave, its presence somber and resigned.
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The first noises he had dismissed as routine movements of a forest at dusk—the stirrings of nocturnal creatures venturing out of their burrows. But then, something odd registered against his Occlumency shields, pinging with just enough force to rattle the perimeter of his mind.
He stilled, breathing slow and shallow, his body instinctively taking on a tense readiness. His eyes flicked toward the shadows, his mind snapping into focus. Without conscious thought, he lifted his wand, moving his left hand into the air like a claw, his fingers splaying as he moved his wand in small, controlled circles. His lips muttered soft incantations, layered spells meant to detect, reveal, and protect.
A flicker of movement caught the edge of his vision. A black shadow, darting further into the darkening forest, there for a heartbeat before disappearing into the thick underbrush. The fading light had long surrendered to dusk, and the sky was nearly pitch. Snape paused, glancing up. No moon to help light his way, the trees forming an impenetrable barrier of shadows.
For a moment, he weighed his options. He'd collected the samples he needed, completed his official and unofficial objectives. He could turn back, could dismiss the shadow as some irrelevant anomaly. But a part of him—a part that both loathed and reveled in the depths of his curiosity—wondered at what had made its way so close to Potter Manor.
"This curiosity of yours will be the death of you someday," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper in the oppressive silence. But his mind was already made up.
One by one, he layered protections over himself. A shimmer of magic cloaked him, blurring his scent and rendering his footsteps soundless. His body faded from view as he wrapped himself in an invisibility charm, completing his preparations. He stepped forward with deliberate caution, his breathing shallow, each step calculated as he moved toward the shadow's last known location.
The forest seemed darker with each step, and Snape's senses sharpened, his entire focus dedicated to this strange pursuit. The underbrush closed in as he ventured deeper, the heavy, looming silence swallowing even the faintest rustle of leaves.
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The chase through the shadows had been an unnerving blur, the forest shifting with his every step. He had barely gone ten paces forward when the surrounding canopy thickened, the forest closing in, tangling itself around him in dark, silent menace. A dim green glow from patches of bioluminescent fungus, paired with the erratic flicker of fireflies, was the only light guiding his path, but even these looked distorted as he moved, stretching out in eerie smudges that danced across the gnarled roots and fallen leaves. The forest felt alive, and for the first time in years, Snape felt the stirrings of an instinctual fear—one that he tamped down as he pressed forward, twirling his wand in defensive circles.
For long, tense minutes, he pursued the elusive shadow darting between trees, disappearing just as he reached the edge of vision. The figure was a wraith, slipping beyond his perception just as he thought he was closing in, moving with unnatural silence. He tried to speed up, but each step only brought more distance between them. His cloaking spells were useless, his muffled footsteps had no effect, and each evasion by the shadow felt like a taunt, as if the figure was fully aware of his every move.
Then, at the edge of his sight, he caught a flicker of yellow—a faint, strange glow from the darkness. Snape turned to face it, his body instinctively stilling.
And then he blinked, slowly opening his eyes to find himself no longer in the forest but back in his quarters at Hogwarts. He sat up, feeling groggy, his mind replaying fragments of the strange pursuit in the forest. Shadows had danced on the edges of his vision, elusive yet eerily persistent. Potter, Greengrass, that flicker of yellow—none of it made sense, and he chuckled darkly at the absurd notion of Potter willingly giving up his name. But there was something off, a lingering disquiet.
As he moved to the edge of his bed, his gaze dropped, and he realized, with some surprise, that he was still wearing his best black robes, not his usual nightwear. He muttered in irritation, "What in Merlin's name…? Why would I go to bed like this?"
He stood and made his way to the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror showing bloodshot eyes, skin paler than usual, and a sharp ache brewing behind his temples. He couldn't remember anything of the previous night, a thought that unsettled him deeply. He wondered if he'd indulged in too much of Minerva's aged whiskey—the stuff she kept under lock and key for "emergencies." But as he grumbled and tried to dismiss the thought, his mind wandered back to Seraphina Greengrass, and his breath hitched slightly at the memory of her warm hand on his.
Shaking his head, he tried to rationalize the strangely sentimental intrusion. He tolerated Seraphina—she was, in her own way, surprisingly pleasant—but this nagging urge to revisit her for nothing more than a cup of tea was absurd. He caught himself just in time, a warning bell echoing in his mind, and immediately braced his Occlumency shields, feeling something trying to stifle his suspicions.
Refocusing, he took a slow breath and mentally traced the strange train of thoughts, watching as shadows flickered at the edges of his vision again, faint but unmistakable. He forced himself to dig deeper, each step in his mind met by the resistance of unseen, shadowy figures. Something was wrong—something had not only bypassed his defenses but had lingered, influencing him without his awareness.
Then, like the shattering of dry, brittle wood, a presence within his mind snapped, and he was abruptly thrust back into the dense, overgrown forest, the moonless night pressing in around him. He found himself taking shallow breaths, his heart racing. It was late, nearing midnight now, and he stood on high alert, his wand ready, his mind taut with alarm at the thought of whatever had nearly compromised him.
Snape could feel it, a terrible presence creeping up behind him like a sickness. He turned slowly, dread settling into his bones, and came face-to-face with a grotesque, corrupted mockery of a house-elf.
The creature was a nightmare born into twisted flesh: one ear dangled pitifully by a thin string of skin, limp and barely hanging from its head. Its eyes were a study in horror—one swollen and yellow, oozing putrid pus, while the other was a narrow, empty black slit that seemed to lead to some bottomless abyss. It stood hunched, its limbs stretched to distorted lengths; one leg was abnormally long, forcing it to crouch and lurch with an unnatural gait. Its gnarled, elongated claws twitched as if straining to dig into something, and its jaw hung wide open, displaying rows of teeth twisted in all directions, growing haphazardly like thorned briars. But the true horror lay in its abdomen, where its flesh had twisted into a gaping mouth lined with massive, razor-sharp teeth. From this maw, tendrils emerged, writhing like obscene, searching fingers, and its toga, the only article of clothing it wore, clung loosely around its waist, mercifully concealing the rest.
Snape swallowed down a mixture of shock and disgust, feeling a rare, frigid panic in his veins. What had he stumbled into here? There was no turning back now.
Snape braced himself as the corrupted house-elf lunged forward, its tentacle-laden mouth stretching grotesquely as it snapped at the air between them. He felt a surge of both revulsion and pity; it was clear the creature was suffering, its movements uncoordinated, like a marionette pulled by clumsy hands. But there was no time to dwell on sympathy.
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The elf's clawed hands slashed out in a flurry, forcing Snape back. He cast a quick Protego, deflecting the initial strike, then vanished into the shadows to reposition himself. He slipped silently through the dark forest, but within moments, he felt that unnatural ping against his Occlumency defenses—an indication that it was tracking him through his very thoughts. Snape took a deep breath, tightening his mental shields even further, and fired off a barrage of silent spells meant to disorient and blind. A fog of black smoke twisted around the creature, but the elf merely let out a low growl, its distorted yellow eye gleaming like a sickly beacon within the haze.
It retaliated, flinging a pulsing ball of green energy that expanded into a thick web of fungal spores, each droplet coated in a venomous slime that radiated danger. Snape quickly conjured a protective barrier, watching as the spores sizzled against it with acidic ferocity. With a flick of his wand, he set the shield ablaze, transforming it into a wall of black fire that consumed the spores, and then expanded it outward in a circular burst meant to scorch the ground around them. The corrupted elf shrieked, stumbling back to avoid the flames, but Snape had anticipated this, and he used the distraction to dart forward, casting shadowy tendrils to bind its arms and legs.
Just as the tendrils wrapped around its limbs, however, the elf screeched and twisted its body in a way no natural creature could, slipping free of the shadows with a disturbing, boneless writhing motion. Snape narrowed his eyes. He would need something more potent to contain this level of corruption.
The elf raised its clawed hands and slashed through the air, summoning an illusion that shimmered like a mirage, but as Snape blinked, it became horrifically real. From the ground, thorned vines slithered up around him, wrapping around his arms and legs and pressing thorns deep into his skin. Blood trickled from his wrists, and he felt the sharp pain spike into his nerve endings, but he forced himself to keep his mind clear, to focus on casting a counter-curse.
The vines disintegrated into ashes at his silent incantation, but the elf was already moving again. It emitted a high-pitched sound that warbled and cracked, like broken glass grinding together, and Snape could feel the sound reverberate through his skull, a dark, painful sensation meant to disorient. He pressed his hands to his head, pushing against the assault, and with a surge of effort, he cast a silencing charm that blanketed the area, muting the creature's horrific sound.
Taking advantage of the brief silence, Snape summoned thick columns of shadow that twisted upward, spiraling around the elf and constricting it like a vise. He poured energy into the spell, watching as the shadows solidified into dense chains. The creature snarled and thrashed, its long claws slicing through the dark restraints, forcing Snape to step back and cast another shield as it charged at him.
Just when he thought he might have the upper hand, the elf lunged and slashed at the air in a fluid, arcane gesture that conjured an eldritch kaleidoscope of shifting colors and twisted images. Snape's vision fractured, reality bending as strange landscapes and dreamlike horrors filled his gaze. It was an invasive, nightmarish magic that tore at his senses, and he felt his mind slipping as it pulled him further into the illusion. The only thing anchoring him was his unyielding concentration; he centered his mind with Occlumency, grasping onto his mental shields and grounding himself with practiced precision.
Snape cast a counter-charm, forcing the nightmare illusion to break apart like shattered glass, but as his vision cleared, he realized the creature had circled him, one arm outstretched. Its claws glowed a deep, unnatural red as it cast a curse that pulsed with corruption. Snape reacted quickly, casting a dark defensive ward, but the curse still struck the edges of his shield, causing cracks to spread through it.
A guttural hiss escaped from the elf as it raised its clawed hands and summoned another blight—a wave of shadows mixed with green, decayed energy that spilled forward in a spiraling funnel. Snape raised his wand and cast Aguamenti, not with water but with a powerful surge of silver flames, slicing through the corrupted magic with fierce intensity. The flames expanded outward, searing through the ground, and illuminating the creature as it staggered back. Its misshapen body seemed to sag, though its one large, grotesque eye remained locked on Snape, unwilling to relent.
Finally, Snape saw his opportunity. The elf was weakening, its ferocious movements slowing, the corruption leaking from its form in thick, blackened streaks. He took a steadying breath and cast a powerful binding spell, his wand carving intricate patterns through the air, weaving shadows into hardened, unbreakable bonds. The chains of darkness wrapped around the creature, holding it fast, and this time, it fell to its knees, thrashing, but unable to break free.
Panting, Snape watched as the creature strained and screamed, its form wavering as if caught between worlds. His best robes, once immaculate, were now torn, stained with ichor, and burned in patches from the corrupted attacks. He took a long, steadying breath and couldn't help but mutter, with dark irony, "And I didn't even like these robes."
The elf's form sagged in defeat, though its yellow, bloated eye continued to watch him with a strange, disturbing awareness.
Snape looked down at the bound, corrupted house-elf, whose spasms and ragged breathing suggested it was still far from subdued. His eyes narrowed as he noticed something peculiar; as the dim light shifted over the elf's ruined toga, a faint emblem became visible—a familiar crest partially obscured by grime and rips. Muttering a quiet Lumos, Snape held his wand closer, and the light caught on a half-torn but unmistakable image of the Potter family emblem.
He let out a low sigh and reached into his robe pocket, retrieving a small phial containing a clear, almost crystalline liquid: Veritaserum. Holding the elf's head steady, he carefully tilted its chin up, easing three drops of the potion onto its parched lips. "What is your name, elf?" Snape's voice was steady and precise, his eyes fixed on the creature, waiting. But the house-elf only snarled, eyes bulging as it muttered incomprehensible gibberish, twisting against the bindings with renewed strength.
Snape frowned, clearly irritated, and muttered, "Typical." Without hesitation, he tipped the entire vial down the elf's throat. The creature froze, its wild spasms slowing to a dull thrash as the overpowering dose of Veritaserum took hold, quieting it into a subdued stupor.
Snape cleared his throat, a chill settling over his voice as he repeated, "What is your name, elf? And to which house do you belong?"
The house-elf's head lolled to the side, its milky eyes rolling back, and from its cracked lips came nothing but garbled nonsense, syllables strung together in deranged tones that rose and fell erratically. There was no recognition, no coherence.
Snape exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples with a look of pained resignation. He began pacing, his mind calculating, then abruptly stopped, turning back to the bound elf with another sigh. "Damn my curiosity… and my obsession when it comes to Potters." The words were more of a frustrated mutter, as he moved his wand into position, already dreading what he might find.
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The instant Snape uttered, "Legilimens," a sickening vertigo overtook him, twisting the world until he was plunged into an eldritch, corrupted landscape—a labyrinthine tangle of shadow and blood-streaked mist that seemed to breathe, pulse, and shift around him. He looked down at himself and felt a pang of cold dread; he was his younger self, a lanky teenager, nervous and vulnerable. The familiar scowl he had cultivated as an adult was replaced by wide, uncertain eyes, and he instinctively gripped his wand tighter.
The air was thick with decay, a musty rot that clung to his lungs with each breath. Dark, twisting corridors stretched in every direction, their walls slick with something that felt disturbingly alive. An oppressive shadow seemed to bleed from every corner, stretching into long tendrils that pulsed like exposed veins, eager to ensnare him at the slightest misstep. In the distant reaches of his mind, he could feel the real house-elf, Lucy, though her identity was buried beneath a crushing weight of madness. Whatever corruption had tainted her mind had transformed it into this hostile maze, as if her very essence was trying to repel any intruder.
He took a cautious step forward, his teenage form shaky, fighting the disorientation of a mind under siege. Strange voices echoed from somewhere within, their tones lilting, distorted, like they were calling out in torment. Shadows flickered and morphed, creating half-formed figures that lunged at him, only to dissipate into clouds of dark mist when he brought his wand up in defense. Still, their effect lingered, a gnawing reminder of the tainted chaos that had taken root in this mindscape.
Suddenly, one of the looming walls to his left began to shift, slithering with sickly green tendrils. The wall twisted and contorted, forming a gaping maw lined with rows of teeth that dripped with black bile. Snape took a sharp, instinctive step back, aiming his wand with a trembling hand and casting Incendio. Flames erupted, consuming the maw, but it only shrieked in a pitch that felt like daggers piercing his ears. Young Snape could feel his resolve waver, but he steeled himself, forcing his wand arm steady.
As he moved deeper into the maze, grotesque echoes of Lucy's memories flickered into existence along the walls: images of the Potter family, Lily's warm smile as she patted Lucy's head, the gleam in James Potter's eyes as he laughed, all interspersed with flashes of the house-elf as she once was—bright-eyed and wearing the Potter family's emblem. Each glimpse was like a lure, an invitation for him to feel empathy, but each was laced with something wrong—distorted faces, stretched smiles, and mocking laughter that grew louder the further he walked. Snape tried to ignore the pangs of vulnerability they inspired. The more he pressed forward, the more he could feel Lucy's mind thrashing against his presence, like a wounded animal fighting against a cage.
From the shadows, a twisted figure emerged—another version of Lucy, though this one was emaciated, her once-cheerful face now gaunt and lifeless. Her eyes were hollow, and her mouth opened wide to release a sickening wail that echoed with a dozen twisted voices, each one screeching for Snape to leave. As she advanced on him, the floor beneath him seemed to melt, dragging him downward as if trying to trap him in a mire of eldritch sludge.
"Protego!" he cried, throwing up a shield that halted her advance, if only for a moment. But the shield didn't last; it splintered under her relentless shriek, cracks spreading like a spider's web before the barrier shattered, knocking Snape backward. He stumbled, struggling to keep his footing, but quickly recovered and fired a shadowy tendril from his wand to wrap around the twisted apparition. With a flick, he dissipated it, leaving only a faint stain on the ground.
Yet there was no time for respite. The walls shifted, and the corrupted mindscape grew darker, the mist thickening around him. Snape could feel the oppressive weight of Lucy's pain, her sorrow, and her corruption bearing down on him. In a narrow corridor to his right, faint flickers of light appeared, showing him a series of memories like scenes in a shadow play. He could see Lucy serving Lily, the glimmer of kindness in her expression, her eagerness to serve, and the strange affection that connected the two. But these glimpses were interspersed with terrible gaps, fractured moments that hinted at something much darker.
With another step, Snape found himself face-to-face with a yawning chasm within Lucy's mind, filled with a writhing mass of tendrils that reached out toward him with insidious intent. His teenage form trembled, but he pressed forward, narrowing his eyes and searching for a weak spot in the twisted thoughts that formed Lucy's mind. He sidestepped the flailing tendrils and steadied his wand, casting a spell to sharpen his senses and cut through the haze.
It was only then that he caught a glimpse of the uncorrupted memories beneath the layers of darkness, buried beneath years of neglect and manipulation. He could see Lucy's past, her service to the Potters, her cheerful demeanor, and most chillingly, the fractured memory of the terrorist attack that had ultimately corrupted her. Yet the attack itself was missing, leaving only an empty void, a gaping wound in her memory that pulsed with malevolent energy. He shuddered, realizing that whatever had filled that void was responsible for this nightmarish landscape.
Snape felt a pang of pity—despite himself, despite his dislike of James Potter and all the memories that came flooding back. Here was Lucy, once a simple, cheerful creature, twisted into something horrific and malevolent. He forced himself to focus, blocking out the voices, and took one final step forward, reaching toward the shattered remnants of Lucy's past. It was risky, but he leaned in, his fingers brushing the memory strands that flickered faintly at his touch. With a twist of his wand, he released a cleansing spell, attempting to ease some of the corruption's grip.
The walls around him convulsed, the entire landscape shrieking in response, but gradually, the tendrils loosened, receding. He could feel the oppressive darkness lifting slightly, the weight of Lucy's tormented thoughts lightening as his spell took effect. It wasn't a complete release, but it would be enough to keep her contained, to spare her from some of the horrific corruption.
With a final wave of his wand, he exited the elf's mind, pulling back into his own consciousness with a gasping breath.
His senses returned to the forest, and he watched as the twisted creature collapsed. Its body shuddered and, with an eerie crackling sound, began to disintegrate, dissolving into a pile of rotting wood and crumbling earth. The clearing fell silent, but only for a moment. Suddenly, a sound like shattering glass echoed through the air, and Snape's gaze shifted. A small cottage, long hidden and obscured, shimmered into view in the distance, as if it had been there all along, simply masked from sight.
Snape sighed, muttering with a touch of sarcasm, "Is this day ever going to end?" He straightened his robes, took a steadying breath, and began walking toward the cottage.