A/N: You know you're taking too long in between updates when you have to consult your own writing to remember what the heck is going on...sorry to those who are hanging in there with me; I hope you're still out there! This chapter proves, despite what I said before, that this is going to be a whopper. I can't seem to write anything small anymore.
Nocturne: Wept and Prayed
Insist that I must be alone; no, not alone, alone --
you cannot understand, cannot atone.
R.E.R.
- - -
Snape woke to the sound of retching in the darkness. Jarred and disoriented, he sat up in bed and searched the gray-blue shadows; no, not his chair, where was the bookshelf? Where was the blackened hearth? What was this narrow bed, strange but oddly familiar, so soft that the sides rolled in on him and he sank into the mattress?
The recognition of distant waves crashing against the rugged cliffs of Brindle brought him back, and as his eyes adjusted he knew ths place, and was struck with the odd feeling that this was home. The dissolution of panic did not, unfortunately, solve the problem of someone throwing up noisily in the bathroom. The door was ajar, and a fluttering heartbeat of candlelight splashed against the bedroom wall.
In retrospect, feeding her eggs and sausage and mushrooms had probably been a poor decision. He wasn't sure what she'd been eating to stay alive down there, but he could very well guess that neither of the Malfoy elders had felt inclined to make sure their banished daughter got a hearty breakfast. Or lunch or supper, for that matter.
"Ariadne," he said. The coughing and sputtering stopped.
"I don't feel well."
"So I surmised," said Snape. With a repressed groan, he tossed back the blankets and approached the bathroom.
It certainly smelled like sick. Ariadne had her forehead resting on the toilet, arms listlessly draped over the sides of the bowl, with fingers clutching the seat on either side. Her birch-twig legs were curled up underneath her. About half of her tangled hair had disappeared into the toilet bowl. She gave him a miserable look, then leaned in and threw up again.
"Ah..." said Snape, "I'll...make some tea."
He hurried out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. The small round window afforded a classic view of the wide black sea stretching out to the equally dark horizon, but Snape didn't notice it. He was rummaging through his just-bought items to find the rose and mint tea he'd bought. Shame they weren't at Spinner's End; he could have brewed up his own settling serum in minutes. Tea would have to suffice for now. As he set the kettle on the stove and lit the burner with his wand, he heard the creak and rattle of the water-pipes. Perhaps she was finally finished.
"Mister Snape?" She called from the back. He turned and saw her hovering at the door, candle in hand. "I will have a bath now."
"Very well," he said, resigning himself to the fact that he probably wouldn't be going back to sleep any time soon. He turned back to the stove.
"I need a towel," she said after a moment or two, when he thought she'd gone.
"In the wardrobe," he replied, and then remembering that his mother had probably sealed the thing to keep out the moisture. "I'll get it."
He swept into the bedroom, noting that she still instinctually shrank away when he approached too quickly. She stuck herself around the side of the armoire, peering out at him from beneath her filthy hair. A breath of dusty, long-trapped air wafted out of the opened wardrobe. The towels and rain-jackets were still in good condition, Snape noted, smirking at the improbably small set of galoshes leaning tiredly against his mother's larger ones.
"You're not old," said Ariadne, as though she were picking up the end of an argument. Snape, one brow set high in his forehead, handed her the towel.
"No?" he asked. She shook her head and slipped into the bathroom.
"Nope. I remember you seemed old then...you don't seem as old now." Her voice bounced lightly against the faded tile in the bathroom. He heard her turn the tap on; the pipes grumbled in protest. After a hesitant moment, the water splashed into the old ceramic tub.
"You're older, too," he said. "That might be why."
"Yeah," she said. "How old am I?"
Snape winced. It was very likely that when he told her how much time had passed since her imprisonment, she might react...unfavorably.
"I believe you're about twenty," he replied carefully. There was a long, long silence, punctuated only by the running water.
"I'm a grown-up?" she asked. Her voice was more incredulous than angry, and Snape let out a hissing breath.
"Ah...technically, yes," He replied. He was not about to tell her that she was an adult. She still had to be reminded how to use a knife and fork. There was no response, only a few quiet rustling noises barely discernible over the water.
"There should be some washing potion-"
"I found it," she sang, sounding remarkably more upbeat. He heard splashing, and a faint exclamation over the heat of the water.
He left her to her ablutions, assuming she had the fortitude not to drown herself in the bathtub. Back in the kitchen, the kettle was just beginning to whistle. He let it reach a strident pitch while he readied the teacups and took out the cream. He sat drinking for a few moments, long pale hands curled around the warm cup, breathing the sharp, bright smell of the mint. After a while, the pipes clanged again and were silent.
For the first time, he looked at the clock on the wall. It was ten past midnight. He rubbed his eyes and sipped his tea. The mint cleared his brain of the remaining shreds of sleep, and he began to worry.
He knew there would be a story in the Daily Prophet the following morning, most likely detailing his violent attack on a bunch of innocent Aurors and his brutal kidnapping of a strange young girl from Malfoy Manor. It might take a few days for someone with a brain to speculate on her identity -- but Narcissa would know in an instant. And how long before they found him? It was not the Ministry he worried about -- he could evade them indefinitely, bumbling fools -- but should Voldemort decide he wanted his favorite minion found...well, it would be no great feat for him.
The fortuitous burning of the Dark Mark could not have collided more perfectly with his thoughts. The teacup clattered onto the saucer and he gripped his arm with one hand, tounge teeth-caught to avoid a gasp at the surprising pain.
He was under explicit orders not to appear before Voldemort in the case of a summons. It was far too risky, and would remain that way until the Ministry fell. They communed very little for that same reason -- no matter the precautions, there was always the chance that one of those Aurors would take half a day off from being an idiot and stumbled upon the secret Floo-network, or found the only remaining shard of mirror in some dank store of questionable ownership.
The mirror was usually the safest unless they were in a place like Malfoy Manor, where the unpredicatble guarding-spells had a tendency to skew the signals of certain magical devices. He released his grip on the Mark and summoned the small shard of mirror from the pocket of his day-robes. It glided silently into the kitchen. Snape saw Voldemort's red eyes glaring out at him before the mirror even landed in his outstretched palm.
"Explain, Snape," said the Dark Lord, his voice rising flat and tinny out of the glass. Snape controlled his face and found himself faced with a very quick decision.
"She escaped, My Lord," he replied.
"Did you know of her before this?"
"Of course not. Would I have kept such a thing from you?" It was a gamble, hinting at her dubious gifts. But surely he knew -- he would have tormented or frightened it out of Narcissa with very little effort. She could shield her mind from no-one.
"No, you would not. Find her and destroy her. Lucius showed me, once, in an Imago, what she can do. She is a liability."
"I will find her, of course." Snape paused -- it was a long shot, but... "Perhaps if I should find her, Lord, I would not kill her, but bring her to you to use as you saw fit?"
"I do not think she would be compliant for me," he said with a twisted sort of smile. His gaze shifted for a moment, and he hissed something in Parseltongue.
"Find her," he said again. "You will tell me when she is dead."
Snape nodded tersely, and in the next moment the glass showed only his own pallid reflection.
Well, that was that, then. By morning he would have half the Ministry's force on his tail, and Voldemort keeping track of his movement. The cottage wasn't Unplottable. It had no reason to be.
Which meant what? It would be one thing to hop from place to place himself, evading the Aurors on his own. He could spend an evening at any Muggle inn or hotel, he could hole up in abandoned cottages along the countryside, he could sleep a night in an ancient castle slowly submitting to the ravages of time. But now he had this...this girl to care for, to conceal even more completely than he concealed himself. Should someone catch a glimpse of him with her in tow, and the word reached his master...
And aside from that, she could barely be trusted not to throttle him in his sleep, much less behave herself around real people.
Resentment burned through his confusion; resentment at that blasted Potter, at Albus and his incomprehensible clues, at his own inability to recall what exactly it was about the girl that still niggled at his brain and refused to go away. He was tired of thinking; he was tired. They had a day here, perhaps two, perhaps a week. The Dark Lord had enough in play already to allow this pesky Malfoy girl to slip his mind for several days. And then Severus would have time...
He was suddenly aware of a voice drifting in from the bedroom. It was quick, repetitive, droning, as though it recited...
Snape bolted out of his chair, tea forgotten.
"Come away O human child, come away o human child, o human child, to the woods and waters wild, waters wild --"
"Ariadne?" He paused in the bedroom, and sucked in a cautious breath. Well, he could still breathe. Small favors.
"With a fairy, hand in hand in hand in hand."
"Ariadne, stop." The bathroom door was closed, but as he tested the knob, he found it unlocked. Slowly, so slowly, he pushed the door in.
The first thing he noted was the smell -- acrid, sharp, like old rust and human warmth. It was not pleasant. He did not see that the tub was full of blood; his gaze was averted -- for her modesty, his dignity -- but soon her rising voice was too strident to bear, and without consent his eyes quit the tile floor and found her in the tub, lolling around in the scarlet water.
"What have you..."
Something warm trickled down his face; his fingers investigated, and came back glistening red. He followed the sticky trail to his ear.
He dragged her, shrieking, from the tub, his eyes clogged and stinging with blood, her scrawny body slippery in his hands. At once, the water went clear again, save a few floating suds and the milky residue of the washing potion.
"Quiet," he said, as the girl moaned on the floor. He did not look at her as he flung the large towel over her trembling form.
"You let it in," she sobbed. Snape touched his face again. His hands returned, clean.
"Let what in," he ground out, though he knew.
"The darkness, the bad, bad dark. I'm cold," she said. "Please, please, please."
There is no cure for what she has, Snape thought. There was nothing in his extensive knowledge of magical lore that could explain her impossible, deadly madness.
"Off the floor," he said. Was the blood an illusion? Was she injured? Had he not pulled her out, would she have...would he have bled to death, collapsed on the floor while she crooned like a feverish child in her gristly bath? If he were not here to witness these things himself, he would have called the teller crazy, and locked him up for good.
She didn't move, so he gathered her up, towel and all, and carried her into the bedroom. He dumped her onto the mattress and quickly threw the covers over her body -- all the way up to the chin, for good measure. Even if he had been the questionable sort of man who got his jollies wherever he could, he felt no inclination to see her nude.
She shivered still, whispered still, though now without cadence or repetition. Snape scrubbed his bare hands over his face and groaned as he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.
He needed access to literature, to whatever he could find concerning the effects of curses on unborn children. The Ministry-run library in Diagon alley was out of the question -- even in his best disguise, it would be ten kinds of suicide to try and sneak around in what was now probably a very well-guarded area. He was a man with no allies, no assets, and no ideas.
Ariadne stirred in the bed. He ignored her, mired in his own thoughts. It was not until he felt a cool, small hand on his elbow that he turned to acknowledge the girl.
She stared up at him, and despite her ordeal looked remarkably better than she had before. Her face was clean, at least. Wide eyed, she studied him, her hand still resting on his elbow.
"You're a good man," she said. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."
"I'm not a good man, and it's all right," he replied.
"I don't want to hurt you," she said. "Are you going to help me?"
"It seems I must," he replied.
"Oh, good. He must. He must, must must." She yawned hugely and wiggled under the sheets. Was it worth the trouble to insist that she return to her own bed? Against his own will, he watched her face for a moment, lines and shadows in the moonlight. Despite the starved jawline and prominent cheekbones, he could see the aristocratic slope of the Malfoy nose, and though the lips were pallid and chapped, he recognized the full bow-shaped mouth for which Narcissa had always been so lavishly complimented. She didn't look like a raving lunatic, at least not when she was this relaxed. She seemed to have recovered from the ordeal rather swiftly -- and, come to think of it, always did. Her previous bouts of rage, he thought, were more a symptom of fear than madness. That, at least, was a small comfort.
He waited until her breath became even and soft, and then he quietly moved away from the bed and out into the living room. He lit the oil lamps and settled himself into a dusty chair. He thought of lighting a fire as well, to chase away some of the pervasive dampness of the sea air, but it was warm enough that the heat would quickly overpower the small room.
In the quasi-darkness he brooded, his chair on the edge of the quivering golden lamplight. Halfheartedly he considered the books lining the sagging shelves. But these were useless; children's stories, his mother's romance books, a Muggle volume or two from the house's first long-dead occupants. Idly his eyes traced the dusty spines: Esmerelle's Wizard, The Knarl and the Krup, A Witch's Guide to Housekeeping, Common Country Curses and How to Break Them. Nothing that would explain how a young woman could bring tears of blood, or turn her fingers into razor-fire, or pull all the air from a man's lungs.
If only there was someone -- anyone -- on the outside that he could trust to bring him books, to help him uncover the truth behind Ariadne's hopeless condition. A scant few months ago, he would have had a safe harbor for her at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and a host of trained wizards with library access who wouldn't be Stupefied on the spot. If Albus had really wanted to save her, why wait until too late to hint at her existence? Why not just...
Now that he thought about it, Dumbledore had told him in enough time to effect a rescue before his...demise. And Snape had been to Malfoy Manor several times between the cryptic conversation and that fateful night on the tower, but he had never thought to remember the old wizard's words.
Not for the last time, Snape wished for his stores; specifically for the firewhiskey situated casually between a stack of worn-out cauldrons and cracked potion vials. What he would not give for the numbing burn of alcohol, for the incipient drowsiness and subsequent sleep? Instead he palmed his cheek and sighed, and stared at the empty black mouth of the hearth until his heavy eyes drifted closed.
- - -
The Daily Prophet came to Hermione in a plain brown wrapper and always beat the Muggle newspaper to her parent's doorstep. Her father often showed a passing interest in the goings-on of the Wizarding world, but that morning he declined, being late for work and only half-shaven besides. A much needed storm had stumbled through around midnight and had knocked the power out for just long enough to set all the clocks back a good six hours.
That was one of the things Wizards had on Muggles, Hermione thought as her father finished shaving, watching his faint reflection in the kitchen window -- the clocks knew what time it was, rainstorm or not. She sipped her orange juice as she unwrapped the Prophet, eyes scanning past her father's image to see if there were any owl-shaped specks outlined against the post-storm brightness of morning.
"Dear," he called up the stairs, "It's half past eight!"
"Down in a moment," Anne Granger called from the upstairs bathroom. Philip sloughed his razor in the sink and set it on the window sill. Hermione could practically hear her mother admonishing him for it nine hours from now. Soon Rose came clopping down the stairs, still smoothing her mass of damp curls into a low bun at the base of her neck.
"Love, dearest," said her mother, throwing a kiss in her direction. "Remember we're out to dinner with the Robinsons tonight."
"Have a good day, then," said Hermione, only half-hearing her parents' amicable argument as they clattered out of the front door and sped away in her father's car. It was rather uncharacteristic of the Grangers to be anything but punctual, so the entire scene had an air of comedy about it that kept Hermione chuckling until she unfolded the paper. Her smile dissolved in an instant and she swallowed quickly to avoid spewing juice all over the polished kitchen table.
MURDEROUS PROFESSOR TAKES HOSTAGE!
Early yesterday evening, Ministry Aurors traced suspected murderer Severus Snape to the Malfoy family estate in Wiltshire. The former Hogwarts Professor was detected in a Locarium set up by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as a precaution when alleged Death Eater Lucius Malfoy was placed under arrest and sent to Azkaban.
"It's quite lucky someone was watching," said an unnamed Ministry official. "Locarium's no good if no-one's around to see it go off."
Aurors waited until dusk and then invaded the manor, deflecting the old warding-spells with advanced counterspelling. They found upon inspection two dead House Elves that appeared to have been killed by the Unforgivable Avada Kedavra curse.
The team of Aurors found Snape in a third-floor bedroom, where he appeared to be restraining a young woman. Snape Disapparated with his hostage before the Aurors could apprehend him.
"We're at a loss as to who she might be," said Goddard Townsend, the leader of the Auror team that invaded the manor.
The young woman was described as very thin, with pale blonde hair and extremely fair skin. She is suspected to be around thirteen or fourteen. Anyone with any information as to either her identity or the whereabouts of this criminal should contact the Department of...
Hermione set the paper down, and before she could fully process what she had read, the hearth in her parents' parlour flared green. She dashed from the kitchen and fell to her knees to see Ron's sleep-rumpled visage staring out at her.
"Did you --"
"I just read --"
"Do you think Harry..?"
"He's still asleep --"
Ron turned around; in the fire Hermione was afforded a momentary view of his ear.
"He's come down," said Ron through clenched teeth, "What should I do?"
"Oh, you can't hide it from him," said Hermione practically, "And besides, it doesn't sound like anyone we know, does it?"
"I'll be back," said Ron. "Stay close by, all right?" He disappeared from the flames.
Knowing it wouldn't be long before Ron popped back in again, Hermione thanked her stars (and not for the last time) that she had been canny enough to convince both Ministry officials and her parents that it was in everyone's best interest to connect their fireplace to the Floo network. It was ever so much faster than an Owl, and even though they had placed travel-restrictions on the connection, it still made her feel much more united with the world she grudgingly left each summer. In two weeks she would sojourn to the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding, but the days leading up to it did have a tendency to drag on and on. She loved her parents, truly, but the past six years had changed her beyond recall, and she could not find solace in the simple, quiet, predictable life they led. Not anymore.
Thing like this -- like finding out that one of their (admittedly reviled) Professors was not only a murderer, but a kidnapper to boot -- made her feel even more disconnected with the Muggle world. That poor girl...
She retrieved the paper and re-read it while she waited for Ron. She read slowly this time, and continued past the line about contacting the Ministry should one see any signs of Severus Snape or his victim. She found it odd that there had been two dead House Elves, even after her initial disgust at the idea that someone would hurt something so defenseless. The thing was, it didn't seem...well, not that she knew him, after all, none of them did -- but it didn't really seem a Snape-like thing to do. Although anyone who could find it in himself to slay Albus Dumbledore would probably not think twice about offing a couple of House Elves. The paper didn't say where they had been found. And what was Snape doing at the Malfoys' anyway, with Lucius in Azkaban?
The whole thing seemed off, at second examination. She wasn't sure why, and she was sure that Ron and Harry would ream her sideways for not jumping immediately on the Snape-is-a-total-nutter train.
Accompanying that thought was a flash of green light, and this time two sleepy boy-faces appeared in the flames, jostling for position.
"Dad left straight off after he read it," Ron said. "He expects it's some poor Muggle-born that was locked in the Malfoy's torture chambers. Probably trying to get her out of there before the Ministry raided the manor."
"That doesn't make any sense," said Harry, "I told him that the Prophet regularly reports on any missing people, and you'd bet they would know who she was if she'd gone missing before this."
"Right, Harry," said Hermione. "It said she was skinny and pale with blonde hair. Anyone we know look like that?"
"Sounds like a bloody Malfoy," Ron grumbled, "Maybe it was Draco, and they only thought it was a thirteen year old girl."
"Oh, what a time to joke, Ronald," said Hermione. "I'm rather surprised Snape allowed himself to be seen. I thought him craftier than that, really."
"He's not crafty, he's evil," said Harry. His face was pinched, and Hermioned could read the darkness in his eyes even through the greenish hues of flame. "It was probably just some Muggle he kidnapped so he could --"
"Right, Harry, let's be reasonable," Hermione said swiftly. "What are we supposed to do about it? It's far too dangerous for Harry -- for any of us to be running around right now. And Harry...you've got bigger things to be looking for, don't you?"
Ron and Harry exchanged a look, and Harry's face went from pinched to frighteningly calm.
"You're right, Hermione. We'll just let Snape murder to his heart's content. I'm sure that's what...what he would have wanted."
Dumbledore's name hung, unspoken, in the morning stillness. Down the street, Hermione heard the neighbor's wretched Pomeranian, Ella, yapping furiously at the postman. She looked down at her hands.
"Harry," she said quietly, "I understand, I really do. But there's nothing we can do, is there? In times like these there are always..."
"Sacrifices?" Harry seethed. Hermione nodded, looking helplessly at Ron.
"I...think she's right, mate," said Ron. "You've got those...those things to look for, and not very much time to look for them. Maybe she was just...a friend," he finished lamely. Harry was silent, and then at once he withdrew his head from the fire, leaving Ron and Hermione alone.
"Well..."
"Right," said Hermione. "I'll see...I mean, I'll do a bit of research, see if I can find anything on the Muggle news about a missing girl. Maybe if I find something, I can..."
"He'll be all right," said Ron. "He just...well, you know how he is. Wants to save everyone."
Hermione suspected that it might have a bit more to do with hating Snape than saving a young girl's life, but she did not give voice to her opinion.
"I'll let you know if I come across anything," she finished. "Keep an eye on him, please, Ronald."
"All right, all right," said Ron. "See you in a couple weeks."
He disappeared, and the hearth was empty. Hermione shook her head and dusted her knees as she rose. How was it that no matter the crisis, they always seemed to find themselves inexorably entwined with it? She took the Prophet back into the kitchen and absently gulped down the rest of her juice and the toast that had gone cold. While rinsing her dishes, she scanned the skyline again for signs of owl-wings, even though in her experience they always had a tendency to show up just as she was opening the paper.
An internship with the Wizards' Society of Visionaries (she had initially balked at the exclusivity of the word "Wizard," wondering why they so blatantly left out the feminine; Professor McGonagall had explained to her that the legislative changes required to alter the 600-year old society's title would take up the rest of her life, were she to tackle it) was a coveted spot granted only to one student every twenty years, one from each from the three preeminent Wizarding schools. Hermione had come across the only bit of information she could find on the organization back in her third year. Three years later she had been notified by owl of her eligibility to apply for the internship, and had been urged by Mcgonagall, despite the current state of affairs, to follow through with the invitation.
From the very little she had read, joining the Society afforded one privileges that were still unknown to the common Witch or Wizard. Suffice it to say that there was a fierce sort of loyalty among its members; from what Hermione understood, they were in some ways above the law -- or, rather, that no matter the crime, they would always be welcomed back into the arms of their brethren. The information to which they were party, so she surmised, was above and beyond the confines of light or dark magic, fair Wizard or foul. Their love was of knowledge, of truth, of discovery -- just thinking about it made Hermione's scalp tingle. Despite the feeling of impending doom that hovered over her every waking moment, this was one bright spot in her constant fretting. When the war was over...
She had sent her finished application -- surprisingly brief, consisting of only a single question: "What is knowledge without truth?" -- only days before term ended, days before Dumbledore fell. There was no indication of how long it would take to review her application, but she had taken to watching the sky every day, just in case.
They would know who the missing girl was, or at least how to find her. The idea that there was something even more mysterious and secretive than the world she had only met six years prior appealed greatly to Hermione -- and there was a comfort in it, too, a comfort knowing that some things were larger and more permanent than the present.
Realizing she had been staring out of the window for a good fifteen minutes, Hermione shook herself and turned back into the interior of the kitchen. There was plenty for her to do today, and all of it far more productive than daydreaming about secret boys' clubs.
She almost missed the envelope, merely because it was sitting on the hall table with the rest of the mail. Well, it wasn't sitting on the table, rather it floated a few inches above it; a square silver envelope, stamped and sealed with wax. Hermione approached, wondering how an owl had managed to get in and out without her noticing, and with a floating letter to top it off. She plucked it from the air and examined the seal.
Her heart galloped in her chest -- pressed into the blue wax was a simple "V", its lines a curling slightly outward at each point. Though she did not recognized the symbol, she could venture a fair guess as to where it came from. With trembling hands she broke the seal -- at once both envelope and wax dissolved into thin air, leaving her with only the contents: a square card the color of morning, with silver ink marching in a proud, oddly familiar hand. Three lines, nothing more...
Hermione Jean Granger,
You are hereby accepted into the Wizards' Society of Visionaries.
Congratulations.
