For Care's sake
A/N: I do not claim any property on this: all characters have been invented by J.K Rowlings and should be restored to her. I nonetheless enjoyed playing with them.
A/N: This is the first fiction I post. Please, feel free to say what you think of it. I'm French so any comment on my English is welcome. If there's something that sounds strange, please, say it. I'd be most obliged to change my sentence.
She sat by the fire, trying to find some warmth. She had isolated herself, preferring to brood and mourn alone. The tension and grief was weighing her down, along with the fact she couldn't cope with the Headmaster's death. They have all moved into the new Headquarters since the fiasco of June because nobody really wanted to stay in Hogwarts. It was far too surreal.
The grief was unbearable and the feeling of loss permeated everything. The Order's members tried to comfort each other lest they broke apart. Gathered or cuddled together, they shared the poor warmth they had in an attempt to get on, to salvage what they could from the wreckage.
Her thoughts wandered by their own volition, passing on the grief coming along Dumbledore's death, the Weasley's pain over the recent events that had befallen their family. Not only Bill had suffered greatly but Percy was still mute, despite what had happened to his brother. Harry and Ginny were both clearly in pain over their split up but she wouldn't go against his wishes and he was far too difficult to reach since the Headmaster's death. Her musing went to her former teacher in a desperate but persistent attempt to understand, hoping she had overlooked something, anything. Anger battled with grief within herself, neither winning nor subsiding, since both had a firm ground to stand on.
The man had frightened the wits out of her more than once, yet she couldn't accept the reality. She had always been sure there was more to him than meets the eye. She trusted Dumbledore who in turn trusted Snape. There had to be a very strong bond between them. She had thought of an Unbreakable Vow but abandoned it quickly. It would have killed him too. And, why hadn't he killed Harry if he really was that evil? After all, nothing could be salvaged as a spy in the Order so, why not do his master's wishes and kill the boy? Harry was no match for their teacher and they all knew it. Why had he just disarmed and incapacitated Harry? But the look on the Order members' faces upon the news of Snape's curse on Dumbledore was unexpected and unwelcome. If all this had been part of a greater scheme, they have apparently not been in. And how could it work if nobody know it was a plan?
He had frightened her because of the darkness surrounding him. He was foreboding, menacing, even dangerous. But while her fellows distrusted him, she hadn't, keeping faith in her Headmaster's judgement.
When they had called him names, she had stuck to a proper address, Sir or Professor, because if she never liked the man, she nonetheless was far too aware of the damage such behaviour could make.
Instead of hating him, she had respected him for his knowledge, even admiring him for it. She would never have admitted it to anyone but she could to herself.
When people had questioned his loyalties, she had merely kept to herself her sympathy. She couldn't even begin to guess what the man had been through. Whomever his loyalty went to, his life must have been devoid of any feelings and emotions, devoid of any warmth and respite from fear. No friend, no love, no trust. She couldn't phantom the bleakness of such a life, the despair and hopelessness.
She felt tears stinging her eyes and wiped them angrily, confused by the cause of her distress.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her, trying to find some reassurance and comfort. She was having second thoughts, questioning and cursing her Gryffindor rashness as she stayed, undecided, in this cold street, alone and in the middle of the night.
She had left a letter, charmed to be read only by Mrs Weasley. She had thought Ron's mother would be the most likely to understand. After all those years, Molly was the most considerate and perceptive woman she had ever met.
Right now, however, she was alone, the Order thinking her asleep and perfectly safe in her bed. But she wasn't. She had silently cast an invisibility spell on her and sneaked out of the Headquarters, Apparating where nobody would hear the loud "pop".
Spinner's End. No wonder the man was gloomy. Once you've laid eyes on the place, you couldn't but shudder at the prospect of living there. She cast a spell, revealing the place to be empty but for one inhabitant. Taking the chance, she knocked. She was about to do it again when the door was jerked opened and she was roughly yanked inside.
"Who are you?" her former teacher hissed threateningly.
She stared wide-eyed at the man, unable to utter a single sound or voice a word, less to end the spell. She saw his pupils widen and a mix of emotions dance in the depths of his dark eyes. She noticed the dilatation of his nostrils, by anger, fear or surprise, she couldn't tell. She felt his ragged breath as he pinned her on the door, his body only inches from hers.
"Miss Granger?" he asked, knitting his eyebrows in confusion.
Now was her answer: either he had betrayed and she was dead. Or he hadn't.
She whined an acknowledgement, still unable to speak and even less with his arm pushing painfully against her windpipe. He suddenly let go of her and she managed a breath. She also ended the spell so that when she faced him again, he would be able to see her.
Past the shock, she looked around her, taking in her surroundings. The house was a mess but the man was beyond that. His home would have been qualified as perfectly neat and trim compared to its owner.
He had slumped back in an armchair and was obviously absent. He made no acknowledgement of her presence as she peered at him. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and circled by dark rings. His hair was hanging limply at the sides of his face, enhancing the whiteness of his skin. His cheeks were even hollower than usual. His always pristine clothing was torn and bloodied, his robes discarded carelessly on the floor. He was a wreck, a shadow of the man she had known.
She cleaned the mess with a flick of her wand, willing the objects to move back to their intended location and ordering the room to arrange itself into a decent living.
She went into the kitchen and put a kettle on the boil, the hissing sound somehow calming her. She come back with two mugs of black strong tea and knelt before him. He was still oblivious to her presence. She then noticed his wand: instead of the expected place near him, he had thrown it far away from him, as if refusing to come in any contact with it. She frowned. A wizard never discards his wand, all the more so when all the wizarding world wants your death. Not saying a wand is an extension of the inner magic of its owner, a kind of faithful companion.
She looked at him more carefully. He was covered in blood but she saw no outward wounds. He might be hurt but she couldn't tell with all his clothes and she wasn't a Mediwitch either, even if she had learnt some healing spells, just in case. What was obvious on the contrary, was his emotional shock and anguish. Sympathy welled up in her heart but she dared not moved lest she startled him. She suspected him to have spent the last week or so in this armchair, oblivious of the rest of the world, casting aside any care for his own safety.
No wonder he was so apathetic. She had been mourning too but at least, she could share her grief. However sad people were, it was still some comfort not to be alone. Being able to speak about it or just to share the knowledge was helping.
He has been alone, truly alone, one side celebrating, the other cursing him as the cause of their sorrow. Nobody has imagined a second he might not have been willing to kill Dumbledore. Not only did he mourn alone, but he had to live with the fact he killed him.
Emboldened by his lack of reaction and prompted by both care and an eagerness to help, she conjured up a wet but tepid cloth. She Evanescoed his upper robes, with a clear intention of tending to and nursing him. He suddenly became fully aware of her as she ran the cloth on his skin.
"What are you doing?" he snarled menacingly, grabbing her wrist in a painfully strong grasp.
"I needed to know if you were hurt but you're covered in blood," she murmured quickly, appalled by the lethality oozing from him.
"Sir? Sir, you're hurting me," she managed, more and more afraid.
She had known he was quick-tempered but, that, that was bordering madness. He was wavering from an abysmal lack of emotions to deadly intent.
"Does it mater?" he whispered, letting go and sagging into his armchair again.
She stared at him, dumbfounded. She had expected him to fight, to shout, to hiss. Merlin helps her, she was even prepared to die at his hand. But, that, that wasn't in her list of expectations and it distressed her even more, as well as her blatant inability to help.
She realised she had been running the cloth on him again, unconsciously. She healed some small cuts and turned her attention to his back, having managed to make him move by a gentle prodding. That he had complied only added to her worry. She winced and frowned: it was going to be much more work. She doubted he had taken care of his wounds. Yet, she mused, he would be dead if he hadn't: a Hippogriff makes far more damage than that.
"How did you recognise me?" she asked, both to satiate her curiosity and to help him out of his stasis. Seconds trickled into minutes and she was wondering if he had even heard her when he spoke.
"Your smell. I recognised your smell."
She blinked. Her smell? He knew her smell?
Not knowing what to do to ease his pain and comfort him, she raked her mind in search of a helping memory. She thought of the Order, how they were reacting, the Weasley, Ron, Harry. She did the only thing she could think of. She hugged him. She felt him tense, sensed all his muscles play under her as they prepared for a sudden move. He shoved her roughly away, so abruptly and with such force she fell back, hitting the armchair behind her and landing ungracefully in it.
"Why are you here? Who sent you?" he growled, his fists closed into balls.
"I thought you might need some help if you were on our side."
"What if I'm not?" he sneered nastily.
"I'd be dead," she answered tartly, more bold than she actually felt.
Silence fell and it began to play on her nerves after some times. He had returned to his state of catatonia and she felt him retreat farther and farther in a dark mental corner. She could almost picture the move and it was particularly unnerving.
"Sir?" she tried unsuccessfully.
She had no response to any vocal attempt so she took his hand. It was as unnoticed as the rest. Settling in front of him and bracing herself, she slapped him with all her might. Once, twice, thrice, before he grasped her wrist.
"Say something!" she yelled, exasperated and on edges. It was maddening.
"He's dead," he managed. "Dead, dead, dead."
He chanted it, over and over again, as if it could change anything. She stared at him, witnessing as he completely lost control. That last act might have cost him his sanity. So much for a traitor, she thought bitterly. Nobody in the Order was that affected. True enough, they hadn't performed the killing spell. But still. Seeing him like that was frightening. It had to stop.
She looked at him as he continued his mantra, rose shakily and went slowly to him. He must stop. Cupping one of his cheek, she bent down and kissed him gently. What prompted it, she never knew. Maybe the fact he was lying, helpless, his soul reaped open to her as his anguish threatened to overwhelmed this usually composed man.
She steeled herself in anticipation of a violent outburst but it never came. Kissing him again, she rubbed his back in small circles, trying to soothe him as best she could. She felt him broke down completely in her embrace. He will kill me when he recovers, she thought suddenly.
He was clutching at her, hanging on her as he would on dear life. She realised, shocked, he was weeping. The Headmaster must have meant far more to his heart than she had imagined for him to cry in her lap. It was so unseemly from the dreaded Potion Master, always in control of everything. But after all, Dumbledore was the closest thing to a friend and a father he had had all those years. He had been the only one who fully trusted him. And he had to kill him to be able to spy on Voldemort and protect Draco.
For that, he had sacrificed everything: his already tainted reputation, his colleagues, his home.
For that, he had to endure the others' spite and disgust, along with his own guilt and pain.
All on his own. He's just a man, she pleaded mentally, realising everything could not be expected from one man, however strong-willed an determined.
He sobbed uncontrollably against her for some time, as the strain on his emotions was let loose. His guilt and anguish poured forth, unleashed at long last, as well as all the loneliness and despair. All that has been carefully hidden and buried found a way out as, for once, they were unrestrained.
Her warm body and quiet comfort slowly led him out of the dark well he's fallen in, somewhat hiding from the horrifying reality. Her presence soothed him more than anything else. He was reluctant to let go of her but felt compelled to when he realised where his head so comfortably rested. Taking his hands off her waist, he put them down in his own lap, staring stubbornly at them, his hair hiding his face. He refused to meet her eyes and the pity he was sure to find there.
She took his chin in her hand, forcing him to look at her. Feeling him so helpless and desperate had moved her to an extent she didn't want to reflect upon right now. He needed her, and that was all that mattered.
"You're not alone," she sussurated with a wan smile.
"Why have you come?" he asked, his voice hoarse but gentle, surprised as he was by the care written on her face. Of all the reactions he had expected, care wasn't one of them. Hate, loathing, disgust, even pity, he could deal with. But care?
"Look for yourself" she offered genuinely, opening her mind to him in all innocence, as if it was natural.
He entered her mind kindly, almost with reverence. He has never done it with someone willing and wasn't quite sure of what to expect. He moved slowly into her mind, trying to find the relevant memories only.
He found trust but he needn't any memory to know she did. She had come here and allowed him a free and unlimited access to her mind and memories.
Instead of spite and pity, he discovered respect and sympathy for his pain.
She cared, she honestly cared for what would befall him, and she was eager to help and understand him. He was shocked by the force of her heart as she freely gave him her raw emotions.
He witnessed her dilemma while she was still in the headquarters, the hours she spent arguing and debating with herself. He felt her resolve tighten as she wrote the note for Mrs Weasley and the respect she held for the woman, completely trusting and valuing her opinion.
Alone. She had come alone, not even warning her friends. She had risked her own life for, what, consoling him? He pulled away from her mind, even more confused.
"Come," she said softly, taking him by the hand. "You need some sleep."
A/N: nice day to all.
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