New Perspective 2
TAKEN ON TRUST
By Bellegeste
Disclaimer: Characters etc belong to JKR and her publishers.
A/N: The title of this chapter seems to have aroused speculation, but I'm afraid I haven't crossed a Thestral with a Borometz…
Thanks to Cecelle and Duj for their invaluable comments at first draft stage.
Chapter 13 : AND THESTRALS ARE VEGETARIAN
The afternoon light thickened, dimming and softening to the diffused, green-gold luminescence that precedes a summer storm. Hermione pressed on, quickening her pace, swinging her arms to match her stride, wanting to get home before the rain. The warm, dry spell of the last few days, so welcome after so many drab and chilly weeks, was threatening to break. Indigo clouds lowered like damp flannels waiting to wring themselves out over the landscape.
Up the slope from the bridle-path she went and onto the disused railway line, now part of the Trans-County Trail. Compacted brown gravel had been laid to replace the sections of buckled track and tar-black, wooden sleepers, relics of the long-redundant branch line. Rural commuters had long since been displaced by dog-walkers, joggers and lads on wide-tyred mountain bikes, grazing the surface with their wheelies and brake-locking sliding skids. But on that Monday afternoon she had the place to herself.
How long had she been walking – an hour? So she must have covered about four miles. It felt like at least ten. Inside one boot, her sock was bunching uncomfortably; she was thirsty and sticky. The air she breathed was heavy, humid and unrefreshing. Stamina came at a price. Was she prepared to pay it, and for how long?
Fitness training was only half the story. Hermione had needed to get out of the house, away from the numbing shock, which had paralysed the country since the previous day: a nation of Muggles in mourning for the death of a princess. Paris, Sunday 31st August.(1) The outpouring of grief consumed the media; the wall-to-wall coverage was suffocating, overwhelming, inescapable. She had never particularly thought of her parents as royalists, but they, like the rest of the populace, had their TV sets permanently switched on, tuned in to the almost constant bulletins concerning the funeral arrangements, parliament's cautiously non-committal response and the developing furore over the lack of any public statement by the Queen. Already Kensington was knee-deep in bouquets, becoming the largest wreath in human history; floral tributes from a stunned public that would saturate the air with their heady fragrance and, later, require bulldozers to clear.
Had the whole world gone mad? Was no one safe any more – magical or Muggle? Not concentrating on where she was going, Hermione scuffed her shoe on a stone and stumbled. It took a nimble skip and a hop to recover herself before forging onward, aiming for the junction in the trail where she might either continue on the right-hand, longer route along the railway, or short-cut left across farmland and back home.
By rights, she reflected dourly, I should be on the Hogwarts Express now, with Ron and Ginny and Neville. I'd be doing prefect duty, telling everybody it'd soon be time to get into their robes… September 1st: this should be the first day of term. The note had arrived yesterday morning.
"A magical missive," her father had announced in a jocular tone, dropping the envelope into her lap, narrowly missing Crookshanks. The cat's ears had flattened; he wouldn't forget an insult. "Thought something was on fire; there's a terrible reek of smoke in the porch, but there was nothing. Just this letter for you. Burger Boy finally got round to writing, has he?"
Ah, Rumpus the delivery elf, Hermione assumed, noticing the Hogwarts' crest. 'We regret to inform you… unfortunate circumstances… revised starting date for the autumn term…'
Oh, so not closed permanently then, just a delayed date. That was something. Did that mean McGonagall had resisted the temptation to offer a teaching post to Luna's dad?
A surge of nostalgia for the school and the wizarding world swept Hermione briskly on for the next hundred yards. Concentrating on her stride, with piston arms, she tried to power-walk the bleak loneliness out of her system. Sometimes Hogwarts seemed so remote, so unattainable, so unbelievable that she found herself doubting its very existence. Even though she was now of age, she'd been careful not to use magic at home this summer. It would be folly to draw attention to her location and put her parents at risk. But the result was that she now felt out of practice and out of touch. Looking over her texts for the next term and preparing the theory simply wasn't the same.
She would be returning to a different magical world. A world without Dumbledore or Molly Weasley, a Hogwarts without Harry or Malfoy - or Snape. How would he contact her when she was safely within the reinforced wards? Would he even want to? Or would she have outlived her usefulness by then? Would he be making new contacts in the outside world, new connections?
Cattle-grid or cow-gate…? Such ingenuity just to keep a few animals from blundering through a gap in the hedge. She paused in her ruminations long enough to squeeze into the V of the side-gate, pushing it 'to' behind her to make space for her to pass. Then she was off, leaving the trail behind, following tractor tracks diagonally across the field, not noticing the route, conscious only of the repetitive rhythm of her footfalls, the persistent pattern of her thoughts.
It was four days since she had spoken to Neville, nearly a week since her last visit from Snape. If she had been uneasy before about the professor's position in the Death Eater hierarchy, after her conversation with Neville she was – let's face it – worried. Tricking Neville into talking to The Quibbler – that was bad enough. But dragons? Surely Neville had got that wrong. Snape was no dragon handler, no dragon whisperer. If his woeful attempt at getting round Fluffy was anything to go by, he was no expert on magical creatures, unless they were sliced or dismembered and floating in formaldehyde – or whatever preservative potion it was that wizards used. The alternative was no better – werewolves? What stupid, unnecessary risks had he been taking now? Anyway, he hated werewolves, didn't he? No, she was more than worried. Try as she might, whether she was tuned-in to her umpteenth royal obituary broadcast, or rescheduling her workload to compensate for the shortened term time, or contemplating the vacuous void that was her love life, her thoughts kept sliding back to Snape. He was the trip switch that blacked out the rest.
After the unevenness of the grass, with its ruts and ridges, tussocks and thistles, the tarmac of the lane felt level and easy underfoot. Hermione hurried on, aware of the breeze picking up, the sultry, moisture-laden atmosphere. Ahead she could already see a grey scribble of rain tipping from a daub of dark cloud, like one of Peeves' water-bomb booby-traps but on a grand, global scale. Cutting through the outskirts of the village, she nipped down a side-street and along the footpath, which led through the estate of old people's bungalows and into the more affluent streets. Her parents' house was one of a dozen detached properties on a small, executive development. She could see it now, at the end of the cul-de-sac. Almost home.
xxx
How long had he been waiting by the gate? He was Disillusioned again, but not deeply this time, not completely invisible. Movement registered in her peripheral vision, alerting her to a shadowy presence and her intellect did the rest, so that when he spoke her name she was prepared, saved from the ignominy of shrieking in alarm. Hardly checking her pace, she continued down the drive and towards the front door, not trusting herself to address him, strangled by relief and reproach.
"Miss Granger." His voice was cool, yet - as ever - compelling.
"What?" She was glad now that she couldn't see him clearly – it gave her an alibi for the confusion that must be written too plainly on her features. But, if ever she needed to see his face, it was surely now.
"I have information for Potter."
"I can't talk here," she muttered. "The neighbours think I'm odd enough as it is. You'd better come inside." Her hand was already in her zip pocket feeling for the key.
"That will not be necessary. My written instructions are self-explanatory," he replied curtly, refusing the invitation.
Yes, and Thestrals are vegetarian.
"Sir, if you want me to brief Harry, you'll have to go through it with me. Please, come inside. It's going to chuck it down any minute – we'll get wet."
In the hallway the Disillusionment Charm slid off him with a liquid silk fluidity, uncovering the man beneath the spell, like a soft dust drape slipping off the portrait of an Old Master painted in chiaroscuro, pale features accentuated by the dark background.
Carrying her walking boots in one hand, Hermione padded in her socks down the hall into the kitchen and dumped them in the boiler room, which, despite her mother's tidy tirades, was always a jumble of coats and shoes, outdoor gear, skiing and golf equipment.
"Here we are again," she laughed, bright and brittle. Shrugging out of her anorak she hung it loosely on the back of a chair. Her father's morning Telegraph lay open on the table. There was only one story: Diana. Hermione nodded at the paper.
"You'd do better to set The Quibbler on to that. What about 'You-Know-Who in Death of a Princess Conspiracy' – there are bound to be enough whacky theories circulating. They could be researching it for months. It'd keep them off your back. You didn't have to drag poor Neville into it."
"Has Longbottom complained?" Snape gave the paper a cursory glance.
"Not exactly. But you know Neville – he's not one for publicity."
"I know he lacks the confidence to achieve his potential. It will do him no harm for his talent to be recognized. One cannot spend the whole of one's life locked up in a greenhouse." Or a Potions dungeon. "But I'm not here to discuss Longbottom."
Snape produced a parchment: two pages of his distinctive, close, spiky script – formulae and incantations, interspersed with annotated graphics illustrating, Hermione assumed, wand movements. The Horcrux counter curses.
"The efficacy of any one spell in isolation cannot be guaranteed - it will depend on the nature of the, ah, artefact, and how it has been protected. But used in combination, in conjunction with this Shielding Charm, they are powerful enough to inflict severe damage. Thus armed, Potter stands a chance of staying alive."
Hermione made a sterling effort to concentrate on the clipped explanation and focus on the text, but instead of following his finger to the relevant passages, her eyes were drawn to the angry, scabbing scars on the back of his hands. Any normal scratches should have healed days ago.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she exclaimed, unable to stem the flood of reproach any longer. "Did you think that I'd mind? No, of course I mind – it's awful for you, but I don't mean it like that. Haven't I been friends with Remus all these years? Did it make any difference? And Bill – we all still love Bill. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
"Miss Granger! You're rambling."
What do you expect? Isn't that what Ramblers do?
"You could have told me -" Her throat, parched from walking and now constricted with emotion, seized up altogether and she found herself coughing. Snape selected a glass tumbler from the draining board, filled it with water and placed it on the table.
"Sit," he ordered. "Now. Told you what?" He was guarded, suspicious. Hermione took a few calming sips.
"That you'd been bitten," she croaked.
"Bitten? By what? Whatever gave you that idea?" One did not often see Snape bemused. It was a shame that Hermione was too upset to appreciate the novelty.
"It all fits," she said. "Look at your poor hands – don't tell me owls did that to you. And then, at full moon last weekend I didn't see you for three days. At the time I didn't think anything of it, but… And when you were here last Tuesday you were so dreadfully tired and hungry… As if you hadn't got enough to deal with! I should have recognised the signs. I've been so blind!"
Snape sat down next to her. Hermione kept her eyes firmly fixed on the table, dreading to read in his face the confirmation of her fears.
"Miss Granger." His voice was neutral, balanced on a fulcrum between harsh and gentle. She looked up, brimming with hope and ready sympathy.
The scales tipped.
"You should check your facts rather than indulge in hysterical speculation," he sneered. "You are mistaken. I have not been bitten by a werewolf."
End of chapter.
1: 31st August 1997. I felt that it would be unrealistic to portray a UK Muggle household on this date without some reference to the death of Diana.
Next Chapter: UNSPOKEN TRUTHS. Snape finally gives hermione some answers, but not necessarily the ones she was hoping for...