DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the Potterverse characters. They are owned by JK Rowling.
Regan Rusch and a handful of other characters you don't recognize, along with the story, though, are mine.
Timeline: During the Interim Years after the first Rise and Fall of the Dark Lord
I know! Holy crap I posted something! I bet most of you thought I died and fell of the earth. I have been doing a lot of writing and am trying desperately to get as close to finished products as I can before posting something so I can actually have a completed story on here. I have a few new characters to introduce and I hope y'all enjoy.
The smoke hung low to the ground, like a blanket of fog. The moonlight turned red as it reached the stone walkway of the garden and it stung the girl's eyes as she strained to see through her tears. Her feet were cold and she was uncomfortably aware that she was wearing little more than a bed sheet. She wrapped her arms across her chest in an attempt to warm herself or be modest, she didn't know which, and marched toward the burning embers of what was a fire an hour ago.
The four figures around the stone circle, stood still, representing the four directions and elements; fire, water, earth and air. The glow from the embers reflected off of their white masks and turned their black robes an eerie silver.
The tallest of the four, standing at due North, in the place of Fire was speaking just above a whisper. "As the planets align, we offer this meager sacrifice of virgin blood to you, the Goddess Freyja. As the powers commit," he lifted his hands to the sky and the embers took to flame once again. "Fire, hot and dry."
"Earth," the figure to his left spoke, a woman's voice. "Dry and cold."
"Water, cold and wet."
"Air, wet and hot." The figures continued around the circle, these two, men, hidden behind their masks.
The girl passed between two of the men and only hesitated a moment before she stepped into the fire. The flame sprung up again at her presence. It scorched the thin white robe she was wearing and left her completely bare. The flame felt cool and caressed her naked body, leaving her unharmed.
The tallest, who the girl was now standing in front of, began speaking in a North Germanic language she didn't speak, but she understood the meaning, knowing full well what her part in this was.
The girl lifted her arms to the man, holding her palms up. He pulled a long silver knife with a bone handle from a black box on the ground. He held the blade so it rested on both the girl's wrists. The girl closed her eyes and waited as the man went back to English.
His voice was shouting now, in attempts to rise above the sound of the flames roaring. "Freyja, we implore you! Take this gift, freely given, and grant us four the power of Seior. Protect the innocent, damn the guilty and make their punishment swift."
The knife dug into the girl's wrists, cutting the flesh. Her blood dripped from both arms and hit the flames. They reared up again, causing the man to take a few steps backward. Then the flames were sucked into the girl's wounds, leaving searing red marks where the blade broke the skin. Her eyes rolled in the back of her head and she dropped to the now dead embers.
The man knelt to her, picking her naked body up in his arms. He carried her to a stone alter that looked eerily like a coffin and lay her gently on the cool surface. The remaining three masked and hooded figures took their places around the alter. The man climbed up onto the alter, straddling the girl's thighs.
The girl's gaze went to the heavens, trying desperately to remove herself from the physical moment. As the weight on top of her shifted, she tried to find the constellations and name each of them. But it didn't stop the tears.
Her blood would never again be used in this manner. She was no longer a virgin.
"When will it end?" a sorrowful voice sighed. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore sounded as if he had exhausted all of his remaining energy. The newspaper dropped from his pale knuckled fingers, pages fell from each other over Dumbledore's desk. The man sitting across from the Headmaster could see part of a photograph of a young woman, who wore a distant expression across her would-be striking features. Even though this was a wizarding photo, on the front page of the Daily Profit, the girl was motionless.
"It's been four years since Voldemort has fallen, and this war is still claiming lives, Severus," he said addressing the other occupant of the office. Dubledore removed his half moon spectacles. The usually high-spirited demeanor that Severus Snape had come to appreciate was completely stripped from the older man. "I fear it's not yet over."
Snape took a moment before he spoke, allowing the Headmaster to delve a bit deeper in his own thoughts. Then finally, "What will happen to the girl?"
Dumbledore looked up at Severus, as if he hadn't even heard the question, but with a solemn tone, he answered nevertheless. "She is living with her godfather for the remainder of the summer. Come fall, she has requested that she finish out her final year here at Hogwarts."
Snape's eyes widened. The Headmaster chose to ignore it.
"With the last of the trials ending, there are a number of Slytherin students who will not be returning this year, most on their own accord, some at the request of the Ministry of Magic. I had to fight to allow Ms. Rusch the opportunity to complete her final year here."
"You want her to return?"
"She deserves to. You have known her longer than I have, and outside of these school walls. She has a good heart. We don't have the right to condemn her for the mistakes of her parents, as much as the Minister would like to."
"Sir," Severus went to begin, but the Headmaster cut him off.
"Severus, if you are worried about the consequences which effect yourself, then perhaps you should speak with the girl once the year has begun."
Severus sighed, it wasn't the answer he was looking for, but looking at the Headmaster's resolve, he didn't have another option.
The glass was cold on her cheek, but Regan Rusch was far too apathetic at the moment for it to bother her. The sky was turning a deep shade of blue, and objects were becoming increasingly difficult to define as they whipped past the window.
The train jostled on the track and her chin slipped from her hand. She finally sat up peeling the side of her face from the cool of the windowpane. Her spine gave a sharp protest from sitting in one position for so long, but she ignored it. She was listening to some kind of commotion just outside of her empty compartment.
She heard her name spoken in a low whisper as if it was some kind of curse, and then the compartment door flew open. There, standing as if he were the king of the world, was the second Weasley to grace Hogwarts with his presence, Charlie. Regan raised an eyebrow in mock annoyance to keep from allowing her lips to quark upwards in a small smile.
"Weasley," she drawled, making her voice sound as bored as possible. Charlie Weasley was the only Gryffindor who would even talk to her, let alone get along with her. She actually found herself glad the Quidditch captain had decided to stop in before they arrived at the school, but she wasn't about to let him know that.
He flashed her a grin full of perfect white teeth. Without waiting for an invitation, he shut the door behind him and took a seat across from her. "Miss Rusch." He was already teasing her. "So I hear Slytherin has finally pulled the sticks out of the arses and are letting you play Quidditch."
"More by default than actually changing their policies on female players. Over half of our team is no longer attending school here."
"Well that's great for you."
Finally she couldn't help it. Her lips turn upwards. "More than you know. I've been made captain."
Charlie sat back in the seat, looking honestly surprised. "This season could be interesting. I would hate for Slytherin to lose the cup to Gryffindor twice in a row."
"I don't think you'll have to worry about that."
"And she's a cocky captain as well."
"I have right to be. If I had been allowed to play last year we wouldn't have to worry about reclaiming the cup."
"Slytherin superiority all the way," but it was said without the usual harshness Gryffindors held when speaking of their rival house.
"Well, what about you? I hear you got passed up for Head Boy by a Ravenclaw."
"Ah, it's fine by me. Being a Prefect and a Quidditch captain is stressful enough. Which you will find out soon enough, now that you are both yourself. And besides, I wasn't even second in line. Slytherin would have the Head Boy and Girl this year if it weren't for …" Charlie suddenly dropped off and became very serious.
Regan's demeanor grew dark. "If it weren't for what, Weasley? That all the Slytherin's are evil? That we can't all be graced with parent's like yours?" It was far from a compliment.
"That's not what I meant," Charlie said in a rush. "I know what you're going through—"
"You don't have any idea as to what I'm going through," she growled under her breath.
"I know what you lost. You're whole family—" But he didn't have a chance to finish. Just then Bradley Seger, the Ravenclaw Head Boy, slid the compartment door open.
"We're almost there," he said to Charlie, not even bothering to give a glance in Regan's direction. "Let the first years know they need to change into their robes." When neither of the prefects moved, Seger tapped his foot impatiently. "Today would be nice."
Both seventh years grumbled as they left their seats and made their way out of the compartment. Neither Regan nor Charlie spoke to one another the rest of the way to Hogwarts. They were busy corralling the first years and dealing with numerous other problems the other students had. And by the time they had arrived, they were both whisked away with their housemates to the beginning feast.
The sorting was uneventful with the lowest recorded number of students being sorted into Slytherin, all of four boys.
During the feast, Regan happened to glance up at the head table where the staff was seated, and she caught her head of house, Professor Snape, staring down at her. She shivered under his gaze, and suddenly she was hit with an odd memory of the Potions Master and her father.
They were in her father's study drinking brandy and talking in low tones. It had to have been over four years ago during winter break. Regan had stepped in the room to relay a message from her mother, when Snape gave her the most peculiar look. She didn't know him that well, just that he was a Deatheater along with her father, but she felt as if he wanted to tell her something, and couldn't, or didn't want to.
It was the same look he was giving her now. A cool wave rose up her spine and she couldn't tell if she hated her Potions Professor for reminding her of her past, or thankful that he would never let her forget it.
"Miss Rusch?"
She shook her head realizing she was being addressed. "What?" she snapped. She turned around to see Madame Hooch quite taken aback by Regan's tone. Regan blushed at her own harshness towards a member of the staff. "Yes?" she asked, this time in a much more subdued tone.
Hooch frowned at the girl but answered. "I would like to speak with you about this year's Slytherin tryouts."
"Oh," Regan responded unintelligently. She swung her legs over the seat so she was facing the Quidditch professor.
"Because of the small number of Slytherin players, it has been approved for first years to tryout this year."
"Okay," she sighed. She stole one more glance at the Head Table, but Professor Snape was listening to something the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall were talking about. He was no longer watching her.
The sun had begun to set and all of the students had made their way back behind the walls of the castle, except for two. The Potions professor was watching the Qidditch pitch from the owlrey. The last of the fleeting rays of sun caught the fiery red hair of one of the figures on the pitch. It was Weasley, and he was flailing his arms in what looked like a very animated conversation with one of his own Slytherin students, Miss Rusch.
Snape cringed. How anyone could stand the energy level of any Weasley was beyond his comprehension. Not one of his other Slytherins would be caught alone with one of those red heads, unless they were trying to hex each other.
An owl dove into one of the small windows, sending feathers in the air. Snape pulled his attention away from the Quidditch pitch. He dusted off his robes and turned to the door. He would have to wait until she was alone.
"Severus?" Professor McGonagal was standing on the stairwell, with her thin lips pursed. "Walk with me."
"Minerva, I need to—" he started, but she cut him off with a raised finger.
"Humor me, young man." She turned and carefully walked down the stairs, knowing Snape would follow. "How is Mr. Malfoy?" she asked nonchalantly as they passed the Charms corridor.
"Reveling in his new found innocence. He was only following the Dark Lord under the Imperius," Severus said matter-of-factly, his annoyance dripping from the words.
"I see."
"He will bide his time. There's a power vacuum right now. And he will do whatever he can to fill it. Even if it means paying off the Minister until he's no longer an asset."
"Does he still consider you a friend?"
Severus stopped abruptly. "What are you getting at?"
She took one more step away from Snape and then turned to face him. "Lucius is campaigning to get himself a place on the Hogwarts Governing Board."
"That man never ceases to amaze me."
"Oh, please. I'm not afraid of her."
The elder of the two Slytherin boys stuffed the last of his books into his bag. "You're only a first year. I've been going to school with her for three years now."
"And I've been going over to her house since I was in diapers." The first year boasted. "Don't you know who her father was?"
"Of course I know who he was. Everyone knows. But that's not the point." The boy threw his bag over his shoulder and stood from his seat in the Great Hall. "You can stay if you like, but if I were you I would be in the common room when she said." The third year jogged to catch up with a second year Slytherin girl and disappeared out of the hall.
"She's not Snape," the boy mumbled to himself, and went back to the Ravenclaw essay he was copying.
It was after the clock had announced the tenth hour that the boy decided to pack up and make his way back to the dungeons. He was in good spirits as he entered the common room, just having bullied a fourth year Hufflepuff out of a box of Peppermint Toads. He shoved the box into his back pocket, and then stopped dead in his tracks as he spied the Slytherin prefect sitting next to the fireplace.
Regan's hands were crossed elegantly in front of her, index fingers steepled. "Let me explain a few things to you, Mr. …?"
"Flint," he spat. "Marcus Flint."
Her eyes squinted as she realized that this boy's father had been a Death Eater along with her own father.
"Mr. Flint. I don't know how things were ran in your home, but when it comes to living in the Slytherin House, I create the rules that you follow. And when my rules are broken, there are consequences."
"But your father—"
"Do I look like my father?" she interrupted, sure he was about to argue the relationships between their families, being long time friends, if you could call their relationship friendly.
"I-I was just—"
"I asked you a question Mr. Flint. Do I look like my father?"
It was a strange question, because in all actuality, she did have most of her father's prominent features, his dark eyes, small nose and thin mouth, but Flint had enough sense to give her the answer she was looking for.
"N-n-no," he stammered.
"Then my father is of no concern of you. And for that matter, neither is yours. It goes from the gods, to Dumbledore, to Snape, to me. Do you understand? You cannot get to any of them except through me. Which also means that my rules are to be followed first." She leaned forward in the chair, and its old legs didn't even dare to protest under the shift in weight. "So, Mr. Flint, at what hour did I say to be back in the common room?"
"T-t-ten."
Regan nodded curtly. "And what time is it now?"
Marcus shuffled his feet nervously. "Fifteen after?" it was more of a question than a statement.
"Twenty three after, Mr. Flint. For the rest of the week you are to be in the common room by half past nine, unless you have written consent from a professor. You will use the time to study, beginning with your potions, because as I have heard, you had a dangerous mishap in that class this morning."
"But school curfew isn't until eleven. Professor Snape will—"
"Appreciate not having another cauldron destroyed." The silkily sinister voice came from out of the shadows directly behind him. Marcus Flint's face turned sheet white. An instant later the Slytherin Head of House appeared behind the boy.
"Half past nine for the rest of the week, Mr. Flint," Regan said bringing the attention back to herself. "That will be all."
Marcus threw a quick glance over his shoulder at Snape before scurrying off to his dormitory.
"You handled that significantly better than the other prefects would have."
Regan leaned back in the chair, suddenly losing a great deal of her intimidating demeanor. "I might be harder on the students than other prefects, but I get better results. They respect me."
"Or fear you."
"I suppose I learned from you, Sir, that fear and respect can come hand in hand." He nodded in silent agreement. "Better to assert my power right from the beginning. And besides, given the Rusch and Flint family history, I have a reputation to keep," a small smile crept across her lips, but faded just as quickly, "whether or not my parents are still around."
Sighing, Snape took a seat in the chair opposite Regan's. That was the perfect lead in to what he was actually there to discuss. He cast a quick silencing charm around the room.
"I've been meaning to speak to you," he began, looking at the dying embers of the fire instead of his student. "About … your family's reputations."
"Professor, the sins of the fathers are not always the sins of the sons; or in this case, the daughters."
Snape caught himself from questioning her, but she knew by the look on his face that he wasn't exactly sure what she was speaking about.
"My hands are clean, so to speak. I am not a Death Eater."
"That wasn't … I didn't …" he stopped, then started again. "I am. You know I was a Death Eater."
Tilting her head she finally realized what her Professor was worried about. "You are now worried that because I no longer have my father to answer to, that I would make what you were before you came here common knowledge?"
That was exactly what he was worried about. "With just one word from you, I could lose my job as a Hogwarts Professor … or worse."
Regan's lips quirked to one side, and she looked to the ground tying to decided what to say. She took a deep breath and started in a way Snape had not expected. "Professor Dumbledore is the smartest man I have ever met. He's a good man, and I trust him with my life." She took a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I've know you for quite some time, and more than just a professor. If I had only our history to go by, I would not trust you. I would probably go straight to the Minister himself with everything I know about you. But as it is, Dubledore has allowed you in this school and kept your past a secret. So, I will trust his judgment and do the same. Unless," she met his eyes and didn't flinch away, "you give me reason not to. You have no need to worry."
Snape had to truly work at not smiling. This little chit of a girl was very calmly, very sweetly threatening him.
The fire suddenly burned green and the Headmaster's face appeared in the flames. With an almost unnoticeable wave of his hand, Professor Snape took down the silencing charm.
"Professor Snape," Dumbledore's voice had the air of a child who couldn't wait to tell his best friend a secret. "If I am not interrupting anything—"
"No sir," Snape answered quickly.
"If I could have a word with you in my office."
Snape nodded and stood.
"Very well." Dumbledore's eyes were sparkling. "Miss Rusch, have a lovely evening."
Regan nodded. "Headmaster." And the yellow flame ate the green, leaving only the sound of crackling logs.
Turning back to his student, he nodded, excusing himself, but not before he gave her that same strange look he had at the opening feast. For a moment he looked as if he might say something more, but changed his mind at the last moment. He turned on his heal and disappeared in a flurry of billowing robes.
"No need to worry at all," she whispered.