Chapter 7
Oh God.
She is hunched over the washbasin, peering into the mirror that reflects her narrowed eyes.
Fear and pain have contorted her features.
"Are you alright in there?" She hears Severus call out from the room.
She is in the bathroom—a cheap, dimly lit enclosure in a room at the inn on village outskirts—she grabs the side of her abdomen and breathes heavily.
'I want to experience grandeur...'
She tears open her top and scans her side. The long slash is black and ugly; it is bleeding a foul, dark substance and she has to grab the door for support... before she can get around to cleaning it.
She doesn't have the medicines and the pain is worsening every moment.
She presses the wound and screams involuntarily, whirling on her feet as she collapses on the ground.
"Are you going to tell me or not?"
His words echo off the walls of his mind and he watches her shudder.
It is cold in the room and there is no fire.
She sits in the lumpy bed, blanket drawn up to her chin—and stares motionlessly into space, a vein twitching in her jaw, and it looks like she hasn't heard him—he coughs again, trying to draw her attention to him.
"You should go, Severus. I've got some muggle money here; catch a bus to London and take the Knight bus," she whispers faintly, reaching towards her coat.
She can hardly hold up, he can tell, and she wishes him to leave?
What is she hiding?
"I'm not leaving, Hermione, until you tell me everything." He wipes his nose with a handkerchief and looks away. She has an ugly wound around the abdominal area—a sort of slash that runs deep and oozes a foul, gelatinous substance and he has tried to help her but she has pushed him away each time, insisting that she can manage—he isn't going to insist upon helping her if she doesn't want it.
"If you want to make it to Hogwarts in time, you should leave right now. It will be evening soon." She sighs and tried to scoot to the other side—it costs her a lot of effort and the lines of torment are all too visible in her face—she gives up and throws her head onto the pillow. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't ask me more questions. Please."
"No."
"What?"
"No." He cracks his knuckles and yawns. "I have gone along with your whims and silly quests without a single question; I almost died today. I have no intention of seeing you again, Hermione, and hence I demand to know everything. What are you doing? I know about your family but who are you and why are you doing all this. I think you owe me an explanation after that little incident in the cave which nearly cost me my life!"
She seems tired but he won't let her be.
The innkeeper said that last bus for London leaves at noon and he has enough time on his hands.
"I can't tell you."
He stares at her.
"I'm no leaving until you do, then."
She stares back at him, her face grim and shadowed, and he thinks that there is this strange, indefinable quality about her which he finds intriguing... almost attractive.
"You're being ridiculous." She leans back, her hand pressed tightly against her side. "You know what, stay here by all means. I don't care. Good luck explaining your absence to the Headmaster."
Does she think him so naive?
Does she really believe he would blackmail, even playfully, without having something substantial to trade?
She would have been sorted into Gryffindor, he thinks for some reason and then jerks his head.
"I have no intention of skipping out on school." He digs into his pocket and drags out a solid gold chain.
The locket hangs by it.
The very locket she has almost died to acquire, he considers and lifts a lazy brow at the look of incredulity on her face.
"You stole that from me? You—you—" she stutters, trying hard to get up from her bed and fails. He notices the manner in which her eyes crinkle and scrunch up in pain—he mustn't play this game for long. "Give that back to me, Severus. You have no idea of what you're dealing with here!"
"That is exactly what I am trying to find out," he retorts, determined to have the truth out of her soon. "Tell me now and the locket is yours. Or else, when I leave today, I will take it with me."
She sits silent for the longest time.
He feels pity for her, at times, and he knows that she is injured.
Maybe he should help her, he swallows. No. It isn't any of his business. She has brought all of it upon herself and he doesn't want to be involved with her further—she is trouble and he has decided to keep away from her, even if a small part of him remains intrigued and deeply fascinated by her strength and power—he has to leave soon.
"Are you going to tell me?" he persists, leaning forward to lend emphasis to his demand.
Her jaw clenches.
She grits her teeth in anger and when she looks at him, he realises that she is one person he would never like to cross seriously—simple, innocent spats are okay but the vicious glare in her eyes... if it were ever to reach crimson and fill her with enough rage, she would kill without second thought and he knows this for some unfathomable reason—he looks away, crossing arms over his chest and keeping his mouth shut.
"I am trying to save my friends from a horrible fate, Severus." She rests against the headboard and closes her eyes. "If I fail, they all die. I'm trying to prevent that from happening. There are forces about that would want to see me dead and I think you have witnessed firsthand what those forces can do to people. You remember what it's like to have friends, don't you?"
"Who are your friends? Where are they? Are they captive?" he asks curiously. "If they are free then why are you alone? And how have you survived so long without being captured yourself? And who is behind all this—"
"This is as far as I am willing to go, Severus." She purses her lips and fixes him with a pointed stare.
He pauses.
No.
He still doesn't know anything much but one look at her face tells him that she would not succumb to his blackmail further; he decides to leave and not get tangled in whatever fucked up mess this woman has got herself into.
He tosses the locket onto her bed and gets up.
It lands with a soft thump.
Right when he is about to leave, a hard thud surprises him.
His lips part open when he locates the source of noise; a sharp knife is lodged deep into the door frame, barely inches away from his head.
"Don't mess with me again, Severus." He hears her murmur softly behind him. The cold threat runs shivers down his spine. She could have hit him anytime and he would not have seen it coming. "I have means of defending myself without a wand and you would not appreciate the surprise."
He gulps, averting his eyes from the sharp blade and tugs at the doorknob.
Without another word, he crosses the threshold and slams the door shut behind him.
It is only when the cold gust of wind hits him that he realises he hasn't been paid for his services yet. But he doesn't want to go back up there and haggle with the crazy woman.
No. He would owl her for payment. That's the best option.
"Lily, duck!" Mary grabs her shoulder and pulls them both downwards. Lily, taken by surprise, collides with the hard surface face forward and the curse barely manages to slash open her bag.
"What the hell!" she shouts and whips backwards, trying to locate the culprits but they seem to have scuttled away quickly.
Her books lie scattered on the ground, open and torn in places.
She offers Mary her hand and pulls her up.
"Who was it?" she asks her, massaging her bruised elbow.
"It was the same old twits," Mary answers, scowling at her torn skirt. "I couldn't get a good look at them but there were three boys."
"Slytherins," Lily curses under her breath and bends down to grab her books. "I am tired of their stupid, vindictive pranks. The nerve of them! Sometimes, it really makes me want to side with the Marauders and beat the crap out of those snakes."
Mary snorts and picks up her own books. "Amen to that. Come on, or you'll be late for your Defence class."
Mary bids her good day and leaves for her Muggle Studies class. By the time she reaches her class, Lily is late. The Professor waves her in without docking off points, however, and she hurries off to sit in the only vacant place available beside Severus.
Great.
She stows her bag under her desk and sits down grumpily. Severus doesn't pay much attention, however, and she is glad for the same.
She doesn't want to have o deal with him as well, on top of the bad start she has got on her day.
They are learning theory today.
Very well, she thinks and drags out a thick book from her bag.
Time literally lingers on.
She still sits moodily, turning over the pages absently and not paying attention.
For once, she would like to not be targeted for her blood.
For once, she wants to just... be a part of this fascinating world, without anyone looking down on her because of her heritage.
Is that too much to ask for?
She glances at Snape briefly. He, too, is idly turning over the pages in his book. He is one of them; one of those people who revile her accomplishments and have fit her into narrow, bigoted boxes in their minds and there isn't much she can do to change them.
Prejudice.
His eyes are unfocussed and she wonders what he is thinking about.
He hasn't looked her way once and for some reason, it bothers her.
"What's with you?" she asks him without meaning to and slaps her head mentally.
Too late.
He has heard her.
"What's with you?"
He's surprised when she asks him the question.
They haven't exchanged many decent words in the recent past and her concern startles him.
"Nothing," he replies, feeling a little elated and saddened at the same time. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"
He has just noticed the bruised elbow and white patches of dust on her skirt.
"You should know, shouldn't you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, are you trying to plead ignorance?" she mutters, slamming her book shut. "Are you telling me that you had no idea some of your cronies attacked Mary and me today? They scurried away like cowards but I wouldn't be surprised if you were involved as well. Nicely done, Sev."
He's confused.
But from what he can understand through her angry rant, she blames him and fellow Slytherins for some sort of scuffle she got into.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lily." He scowls at her, feeling angry and helpless at the accusation and he knows that nothing he says will change her perspective of him. He is to blame for a lot of things but right now, all he feels is resentment and the overpowering sense of being genuinely wronged. "I haven't tried to hurt you or your bloody friend. Be that as it may, I don't want to take this crap anymore; I have enough shit on my plate to deal with, so if you don't mind, I would like to get back to my reading. In peace."
His words leave her speechless.
She caresses her wand softly, mutely watching the group.
They are celebrating.
The loud clinks, the jaded laughter—it all infects her wound, she feels trapped and free and she needs to breathe, get out of here but there is work to do—she has murder written on her hands tonight.
She's hidden behind a thick curtain, close to the ladies' room, and she's waiting for her target to leave the table
Her brown eyes are crystallised.
She must do it tonight or the anguish might depart and she might be forced to feel—remorse.
The bar is loud and stuffy; Bellatrix and her troupe are careless—her dark eyes are beautifully etched in the sallow skin of her face, her hair falls over her shoulders in cascading curls and her lips are full of laughter and life—Hermione closes her eyes.
She's a Death Eater.
She's been a Death Eater for years now.
Hermione looks like herself; she has not bothered to change her features for one simple reason—she wants Bellatrix to look into her eyes and see who she is, she wants her face to be the last thing engraved in her mind before she departs.
A few minutes pass and she sees her chance—Bellatrix leaves her perch in a hurry, for some reason, and Hermione sidles through the barely open door leading to the ladies' room.
The bathroom is darker than she expected but it works on her side.
She quickly enters the nearest stall and pulls up her legs, using her toes to balance her on the pot and she rests her elbows on her knees—she has to make sure that Bellatrix sees the stall as unoccupied.
And then she waits.
She waits.
A low creak—the door opens and she sees black heels step across the tiled floor—the door to her stall opens noiselessly and Bella finds herself confronted by an unfamiliar woman with wild brown hair, holding a steady wand to her face.
This should be fun.
"What the—"
Those are the last words that leave her tongue before Hermione's stunner catches her squarely in the chest.
Having taken the spell at point-blank range, her feet are torn from the floor and she flies backwards, slamming into the wall with a distinct thud—her black curls spread all over her face in an ugly fashion and her body grotesquely twisted into a dark heap on the ground—Hermione watches the spectacle with a stony expression on her face.
She has to hurry.
She has to do this.
'The insane cackle was unexpected; she exchanged a look of fear with him—his eyes were narrowed and his upper lip was curled in disgust—they hide behind the bushes, trying to keep out of sight.
"Bellatrix."
He nodded.
"Stay here." He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her down further. "I will take care of it."
She felt fear.
Deep. Raw. Stinging fear.
"But professor—" she protested futilely.
The soft rustle of fabric told her that he had already left.'
She holds the wand lazily, between her two fingers—her brown eyes slightly narrowed and her blood pumping fast in anticipation—she will have murder on her hands tonight.
Someone knocks on the door, she has charmed it shut, and she curses under her breath.
Shit.
"Um, just a second," she calls out loudly, her voice breaking. "I'll be right out."
Okay, quickly.
She grabs a fistful of hair from the witch's head and pushes a few strands into the small hip-flask she's been carrying around all evening, stowing away the rest for later use.
Next, she proceeds to strip the hateful witch of her clothing and puts them on herself. It's a good thing that they are of the same size and the clothes fit her perfectly. Meanwhile, the Polyjuice Potion froths and bubbles whilst she drags Bellatrix's body to another stall and shuts the door behind her, sealing it with the most powerful concealing spell she knows.
She gulps down the vile liquid in one go and holds onto the wooden door while her body mutilates and transforms.
Two minutes.
Two minutes is all takes for her to don her enemy's appearance.
"All yours." She opens the bathroom door and gestures a perplexed looking woman inside. "I'm so sorry, I was trying to change and I needed some privacy."
"—And then, I said to the bloody bastard that he was braving a very thin line before he tried to make a grab for my wand—can you believe it, the fucking mudblood tried to snatch my wand! They really shouldn't be letting that sort of filth in, you know!" Her husband slammed his beer mug on the table and she couldn't help making a face. "Is everything alright, Bella?"
"Of course," she lies and touches his arm intimately, flashing him a fake smile. "I want to retire for the night though. I'll just—freshen up and maybe we can leave afterwards."
"Anything for you, my cherry." He slobbers and plants a wet kiss on her cheek. "Don't be long."
She smiles faintly and leaves the table.
The bathroom is still empty.
And Bellatrix still lies unconscious, stowed away in the corner stall.
Hermione frowns deeply.
I don't have to do this.
She retrieves her own wand from the holster clasped around her arm and pushes open the stall door, training it on the motionless body—she swallows, her hand trembling slowly as she tries to push down all thought and emotion—it has to be done.
I'm still breathing and hence, you cannot.
A silent streak of violent green light leaves her trembling wand—the stunned body shudders and convulses, a shock of strange electricity running through it and Hermione has that horrible urge to puke as she watches—she feels her stomach clench and rushes to the nearby basin, retching violently.
Still breathing.
She slashes her wand through air, pilfering the contaminated surroundings for energy, and transfigures Bellatrix's body into a stone.
A small, inconspicuous stone.
Compose yourself, Hermione.
She picks up the round stone gingerly, staring at it with parted lips.
You need to leave.
She tosses it into the pot, flushing immediately afterwards, and pauses.
I need to wash my hands.
I need to wash my hands.
He ties the small piece of folded parchment to the owl's foot and releases him out of the window.
The sky is cold and grey
He has written to her twice and she hasn't replied.
This is his third time.
It's nagging him—the lack of communication from her, the absence of any way forward and the general air of uncertainty surrounding everything he knows and desires—it is physically painful.
Why hasn't she answered yet?
Why would she simply disappear?
And he still doesn't have his money. He has planned to use it for some crucial purchases, namely Basilisk venom and Tarantula poison, but now that has to be delayed.
And despite all this, her existence nags him.
Something itches in his brain and he feels like he should have stayed at the inn and dug deeper, no matter the consequences—he should have tried to find out everything possible, he should have learned about her and everything she's doing, for the lack of clarity is killing him at this point. He feels like he's balancing himself on the sharp edge of a knife—he's trying to keep his independence and he needs money for the same, her money, to be precise and if he cannot secure an agreement with her he will undoubtedly end up at the Dark Lord's feet—but something holds him back from venturing further in his dealings with Malfoy and his Master and he doesn't know what it is.
Maybe he should just give in—isn't that what he always wanted?
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
I still don't know for sure, he thinks as he climbs down the steps leading him away from the Owlery.
He's early to breakfast, he notices when he enters the Great Hall.
The Slytherin table is by far the most crowded one; it is an unusual occurrence.
Most of them are huddled over a single issue of the Daily Prophet, despite the fact that almost all of them have subscriptions for the same.
"Snape." Avery motions to him, his face drawn in a dark scowl. "Did you read the issue? Do you know what has happened?"
"No." Severus slides into a chair next to him, picking up somebody's discarded paper. "What happened?"
On the front page is printed a photograph of a very attractive woman, wearing black robes and a silver necklace—she is sneering pointedly at the cameraman—under the photograph, painted in bright black words is a single headline: Lady of the Lestrange clan missing: Aurors suspect local involvement.
"She is related to many people here, either on the Black side of her family or on the Lestrange side," Avery murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. "She's Regulus's cousin too, you know."
Sirius Black?
Severus blinks at the image.
Of course he knows about her. It is common knowledge in Slytherin circles that she is the Dark Lord's favourite; one of his staunchest followers—her allegiance is very much apparent even to those who choose to overlook the Dark Lord's rise and the control he has extended over Britain—she is as notorious as she is beautiful.
Disappeared?
What could have happened to her?
More importantly, who would be crazy enough to lay a hand on her?
He tiptoes through the alleyway in darkness.
Meet me in the lane behind the Three Broomsticks, she has written to him and against his better judgement, his feet have carried him to Hogsmeade.
No one knows that he is outside this time.
No one.
He walks quickly, his heavy dragon hide boots marking the snowy pathway with deep indentations.
Sirius fucking laughed at the lunch table today. News has travelled fast and he fucking laughed—the newspaper clutched in his hands, cheering it on—if Severus reads them right, he will be in trouble sooner than he wishes.
Good riddance.
He reaches his destination with time to spare but she is already there. Her back is turned to him—he notices that she is wearing a brown cloak, covered from head to toe in its sleek fabric,, and her hair is spread out over her shoulders in haywire fashion—she looks nice and he frowns at that thought.
"Severus." She glances behind her and he notices that something is wrong with her.
He doesn't know what it is—maybe it is the changed manner in which she walks to him slowly, or maybe it is her full lips, parted in thought and inaction—she looks bleak, like a caged animal that knows he's up for slaughter.
I'm in here.
Can you see me?
"I was surprised to receive your letter." Her voice is soft and dark, like a piece of very fine velvet made for kings.
He shudders at the empty notes in her voice.
"I need money, the money you owe me." He presses his lips. "I also needed to talk to you about—on Christmas... we spoke about you financing my projects."
Her eyes are unfocused.
Is she under influence...?
The Fall.
The Fall.
"Of course." She leans against the wall and glares at him—he notices the prominent red veins stand out against the white of her eyes; this is a bad idea—he doubts that she can comprehend much in such darkness and inebriation of mind.
"I should go." He shivers against the wind. "I will speak to you when you're sober."
He turns to leave.
"Don't go." Her hand rests on his arm, her fingers curling inwards in a slight tug at the fabric.
A vein twitches in his temple.
"Here." She pushes a large bag into his right hand and he realises that her fingers are cold—"Take this. It is more than what I promised and should keep your project going for a while, as well. Just... Don't go."
He's torn.
He must go.
Must he?
She's not in the right state of mind—he shudders when she touches his face, her thin fingers briefly caressing his sallow skin and for a moment he feels his heartbeat stop—he must go.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, trumpets blare.
What?
He turns again but she grabs his hand this time, holding it so tight that it almost breaks his fingers—she clutches at his collar and pulls him forward, her soft lips meeting his dry ones in one beautiful twist of agony and hope and he finds himself giving in—she pulls at his hair and deepens the kiss when he responds; she nibbles at his lower lip and he retaliates by softly grazing his teeth over her upper lip.
She's cold... so cold and her weight is light.
Her hair is twisted in his fingers and she tugs at his buttons—he has too many of those and it isn't the right time or place but gods he wants her to continue her ministrations because it doesn't matter if she is crazy and he's poor, nothing matters except for the palpitating darkness and her scarred limbs enticing him into a reckless embrace of glory with Fall —he has no will left to repulse her advances today.
"Not—here," he breathes out at the first pause.
She looks confused and flushed—there's alcohol in her bloodstream and he has no doubt that she has injected cocaine—she sniffs at his robes.
"Come with me." She grabs his hand and drags him towards the pub.
He doesn't stop her.
"Don't look," she whispers quietly, keeping her eyes closed whilst she undresses. "Tell me that I'm right Severus."
She drops her robe to the floor, her flimsy cotton dress following the lead and he watches silently, perched on the edge of a hired bed.
"Right about what?"
She kisses him on the cheek, her soft lips still lingering on his skin and he feels—different.
"Just—right," she repeats, nibbling on his ear. Her teeth feel sharper than he would have guessed. "Tell me that I am doing the right thing, that I haven't—that I'm right..."
He doesn't know what she's talking about but he agrees nevertheless, whispering a quiet 'yes' into her bushy hair.
"What would you know..." She chuckles darkly, her laughter an erratic melody. "You wouldn't know anything at all..."
She tries to reach for his collar but he's faster this time and he grabs her hands in one fist, effectively putting a stop to her fumbling fingers as he rakes his eyes all over the naked flesh she has offered him.
"Who did this to you?"
He points at the black wound in her side, drawing her closer so that she lands in his lap with a soft plop.
She pauses, laying her head on his shoulder for comfort and something else that he cannot quite discern her intent...
"It's a long story," she answers, her voice raw with emotion and a choked-back sob. "I've sinned gravely, Severus. However will I find absolution—how can I ever forgive myself and others...?"
He nuzzles her neck, breathing in the faint aroma clinging to her skin.
This isn't right.
"Do you think I'm crazy?"
Her flesh is fair, marred in places by a few deep scars and the long, black gash on her abdomen—it looks dead and he has the strangest urge to touch it—he reaches out a pale finger to feel the black scar.
"No." She slaps away his hand, looking petulant. "Don't touch me there."
He respects her wish.
Her eyes are drooping to a close and he doesn't know what she wants anymore because she cannot keep conscious for long and would probably faint in his arms—he doesn't know what he wants either.
Their fingers intertwine in harmony and she is pushed into the lumpy mattress, gazing up at the ceiling in listless gloom.
He kisses her on the neck, her face and the sensitive spot on her back—she shivers and it drives her mad; the longing, the pain, the eternal wait: she will reclaim her paradise tonight and may it be her last conquest before she ventures out to her destruction—Severus is relentless in the painstaking pursuit of pleasure.
"What do you dream of at night?" she asks, using her athletic legs to trap him close to her withering body. She's crumbling, a hollow shell of regrets and wishes but she won't let it put her out—she twists her arm and reaches for the hook on her back, undoing the clasp with practised ease and closes her eyes.
"Um, Hermione... Do you want me to—this wound looks deep—"
"Ignore it."
"But—"
"Please."
She opens her eyes, hoping to see someone she knew once and is disappointed at the sight of an unsure teenager's head looming above her naked body—something breaks and her chest feels constricted; she doesn't know if she wants it anymore and it isn't right of her to do this to him; he is too young and innocent to be sullied by the likes of her—she clicks her tongue and pushes him away.
"You should leave."
Gods, he even has his pants on.
One would think—no, he's just naive.
Besides, it would take him less time to get dressed now.
"What?"
"Take your clothes and leave, Severus." She pulls away the bed-sheet and covers her upper body, glaring at him. He needs to go before she passes out. "Now."
He's perplexed and mortified at her rudeness; he grabs his shirt and his robes, working fast to clothe himself.
She doesn't know what he's thinking for she has turned her head away and she won't look at him.
She's going to cry.
And she wants to wash her hands.
'I'm fascinated by the grandeur that human beings can experience—the kind of grandeur that chokes up your throat and makes your eyes go round in amazement, the kind of grandeur that is indefinable—a masterpiece that leaves your mouth open and makes your heart stop. You understand, professor, don't you? I want to experience that once before I die, just once and I know that I will have no further regrets... ever. And sometimes, I believe that if we were to win, victory would be very much like experiencing that grandeur."
He looked at her as if she was crazy.
"You talk too much, even for a girl." He sneered at her, going back to roasting his meat on a stick.
Hey guys, so tell me if you liked this chapter.
Um, please?
I am a bit uncertain, as always, but your glorious reviews always encourage me to write faster and better.
Really.