They had taken to the woods to minimise their chances of being spotted. Nearly six hours had passed since they had first fled from Snape's estate, and dusk was upon them. The last remnants of sunlight bled through the burnished gold and rust-coloured autumn leaves, and the forest around them looked as though it was smouldering, waiting to burst into flames at the first light of the moon, if only to pay tribute to the day-star.
"It's getting dark," Severus muttered, casting a glare at the setting sun. "We can stop here. If the Aurors haven't tracked us yet, they're not going to -- not tonight, at least."
Acantha turned toward the East, where the sky was already a dim indigo, and narrowed her eyes, an annoyed frown settling on her features. "Damn the trees...where are we?"
"Nottinghamshire, I believe."
"Sherwood Forest? How very fitting for two outlaws such as we," she mumbled scathingly. Snape sneered at her and shrugged off the leather rucksack he had been carrying that contained what food and drink were salvageable from his estate, along with a couple of blankets and a few toiletries, all of which had been shrunken to easily fit inside the bag, then began to clear a small area of the ground of the dead leaves that blanketed it with his hands. The more magic they used, the greater the chances became of their being found, and whatever they could do without aid of their wands, they did the Muggle way. It was a small inconvenience to suffer for the sake of safety.
Sinistra, who was now shivering with the lack of warm sun and constant movement, quickly picked up on Snape's idea and began to scan the ground for small rocks, which she picked up and arranged in a circle around the potions master's patch of earth. The deep emerald cloak he had given her to wear had been his mother's, and it whipped against her legs as a small whirlwind stirred through the forest, rousing the lingering scent of feminine perfume from the fabric. The rest of the woman's fine clothes had unfortunately fallen victim to moths.
Acantha had been wary of accepting the cloak when he had offered it to her. The possessions of the dead were considered marimé to her people, contaminated, not to be kept or used by others, but she hadn't had time to argue with him. The tribulations that lay ahead of them were too pressing, and it was nearing winter -- they would never succeed in their quest if she froze to death because she had allowed a mere superstition to cloud her mind of what was truly important -- the Dark Heir, redeeming herself, her family's faith in her, saving the world...
...Severus. Yes, he was important, too. Her trust in him, and his in her, without which she was certain both of them would die. She had been brought up to believe that there was power in unity, in family. One person is nothing, can do nothing without the support of another. One person may have glory, but glory is nothing without others to recognise it, to believe it true. It was the reason why she had chosen to share the risks he took as a spy amongst the Death Eaters -- he had been alone, and had been willing to accept the fact that his efforts could very well cost him his life. She had not been willing to allow him to make that sacrifice, not single-handedly.
Acantha did not believe in accidents. When she had discovered his renewed endeavours in a careless moment before dinner one evening the previous summer when she had been on her way down to the Great Hall, her face buried in a newly-published report by Yarreweh, the Aborigine Astronomy professor employed at Ayers School of Magic in Australia, there was no doubt in her mind that she had been given that knowledge for a reason. She'd collided, quite literally, with Snape, who had been striding hurriedly in the opposite direction as she. He'd been clutching his left arm, had scarcely glared at her before continuing on his way, and it hadn't been difficult for her to put two and two together.
That night, she'd gone to Dumbledore and told him of her decision to join Severus in the tasks he had undertaken. The old wizard had argued with her on the matter for nearly an hour before calling the potions master to his office, and then it had been another hour of debate, each party unswerving in their viewpoints until she had given them both an ultimatum which they could not refuse -- either Snape agreed to begin inducting her into the Death Eater fold, or she would make his treachery known to any and all who would listen. He had not believed her, but Dumbledore had relented, and against the two of them Snape could do nothing but furiously concede to her request.
He'd been so angry with her at first, said that she was acting like a petulant child, that there were no laurels to be won and proudly displayed from this work, that she had no idea what she was getting into and he did not have time to babysit her. He was relentless, ruthless, and it wasn't until many months later that she had earned both his respect and his trust, after the Dark Mark had been seared into her arm, and she had felt the Cruciatus Curse for the first time, and had not cowered away from either.
And then one day he had finally asked her, "Why?"
"Because such a heavy weight should never be borne alone," she'd answered him. "Because pain should never go ignored, and those who taste it never forgotten. When I discovered your secret, it became mine as well. I am now just as responsible for it as you are. I was not raised to pity the anguish of others, but to share in it. Grief cannot be contained by selfishness; it belongs to everyone who learns of it. It is their obligation to feel it just as wholly as the one whom it is focused upon, and I could not allow you to be so greedy with your guilt."
He'd wanted to quarrel with her about it, she knew, but he had held his tongue, accepted her response, and ever since then there had been mostly silence between them. Until recently, of course.
He left after a short mumble to her about collecting firewood, disappearing into a dense thicket of oak trees. Acantha busied herself with the rucksack, unpacking the blankets and laying them out on the ground. They were thick and down-filled, and large enough fold thrice over one's body like a sleeping bag.
The food they'd packed was simple: A couple of round loaves of bread -- pumpernickel and rye -- a large wedge of cheese, a few sausages, oranges and apples, all of which had been kept fresh by an anti-spoiling charm for probably longer than Sinistra cared to imagine, as well as a couple of bottles of wine from the cellar. Not exactly the makings of a gourmet feast, but it was good food, hearty food that would keep them strong for plenty long enough before they would have to acquire more by undoubtedly questionable means.
She set about composing something of a meal for them as she waited for Severus to return, tearing off two pieces from the rye loaf, and breaking off a couple of chunks of the cheese. The events of the day had left her exhausted and her appetite meagre, but she knew she would wake up ravenous if she did not eat tonight, and it was better to force down a few bites now than to be sluggish tomorrow from a double-ration of breakfast.
She was struggling to open one of the wine bottles -- a blackberry merlot -- when Snape reappeared, his boots crunching on the dead leaves that covered the ground and his arms full of thick sticks. He glanced briefly at the blankets and food before kneeling down and arranging the wood in the makeshift fire-pit, then igniting it with a spark from two flints Sinistra remembered him picking up earlier that day from the forest floor.
Giving up on the wine bottle, she passed it over to him with a frustrated sigh. "Here. You do the honours."
Much to her annoyance, Snape popped the cork easily and took a swig before passing it back to her. She accepted it cantankerously and took a drink, and then another, not having realised how thirsty she was until the sweet liquid hit her tongue, warming her from the inside as the fire warmed her skin.
They ate in silence; there was not much left to be said. Their first destination had already been decided upon.
The chances that Voldemort and Dumbledore had chosen to keep the Dark Heir in Britain were slim -- they would not risk its safety by harbouring it so near the centre of so many dangerous goings-on. It would be secreted away, hidden in a place where their influence -- and the worry of that influence -- was less. Someplace that they would know well regardless, that had a history of keeping even the Darkest things unseen. Tomorrow, Acantha and Severus would begin the lengthy journey to Albania, to where the Dark Lord had concealed himself for nearly a decade, where the Dinaric Alps and Pindus Mountains met, a point of intense magic, the path to which was wrought with great peril.
It was rumoured that the mountain ranges of Eastern Europe were the birthplace of Dark magic, cold and desolate of hope with heavy black clouds hanging low, spilling forth thick, rolling fog into gnarled forests to better mask the devious depravities that were supposedly commonplace in that region. Vampire country, teeming with trolls, wolves, swarms of Doxies, and home to two of the most deadly of dragon breeds -- the Ukrainian Ironbellies and Hungarian Horntails, the territory of the latter Snape and Sinistra would need to cross to reach Albania.
For all the haste with which they had left Hogwarts and Snape's estate, now it seemed as though they had nothing ahead of them but time. They would be travelling on foot -- Apparating and Portkeys were closely monitored by the Ministry, and they could not risk leaving a trail for the Aurors and Death Eaters to follow. Flight by broomstick would heighten the chances of their being spotted, as would stealing a Muggle automobile. The Ministries of Magic of both Britain and other European countries had taken to placing their operatives disguised as Muggle guards on their respective countries' border roads soon after Voldemort's second rising to watch for precisely the sort of people Severus and Acantha were now considered -- Dark witches and wizards on the run. Even if they got rid of the car and crossed the borders away from the checkpoints, they would need to steal another every time, and though the odds of anyone making a connection between the two were scant, it was a shadow they were not willing to leave behind.
Their journey would be long -- weeks, possibly months -- but its length would give them an advantage. If they could elude confrontation, capture or worse, then the noise surrounding their 'treachery' would perhaps begin to die down, half-forgotten by the time they were in a position to accomplish what they had set out to do. If their ambitions were kept quiet, unpublicised -- and both Dumbledore and Voldemort were in no hurry to publicise the child's existence to the Light wizarding world -- then their determination could be mistaken for hopelessness, cowardice, and they would be underestimated when the time came for the pawns to checkmate both kings. It was a long shot, but they had to believe...
"What are you thinking about?" she asked him, taking a last drink of wine.
"My students," he said quietly after a moment's silence. "When June comes, if we still have not succeeded...you are aware that some of them may be joining the Death Eaters in their quest to have us killed."
Acantha looked away from him, finding the fire easier to stare into than his eyes. "Well...heavens forefend if I'm ever felled by Rufus Montague. That boy is lucky if he can locate the moon most nights."
"He is an excellent dueller."
"Ah. Yes, that would be a more effective skill in a fight than knowing how a supernova affects the balance of magic in the universe," she muttered, bitterness tingeing her voice. "What do gadje need to know of celestial forces? As long as they have their precious power, they could not care less where it comes from."
He arched an eyebrow at her, but she closed the subject with a short, half-disgusted sigh and began to unlace and pull off her boots. "Sleep soon, Snape," she murmured, cocooning herself in one of the blankets.
Severus didn't respond. Her back was to him, and he watched the rise and fall of her side as she drifted off, the sound of her breathing becoming slowly softer, quieter, until at last she was asleep.
The sounds of the forest echoed in his ears; chirping crickets, the rustling of the trees as the wind wove its way between their branches, the light crackle of brittle leaves as they joined the ones that had already fallen to the earth. Her words echoed in his mind.
She had used 'they', not 'you', in voicing her complaints of gadje ways to him -- the first time she had ever done so. She, like himself, often chose to say things without use of the actual words, and he knew that the lack of 'you' in her grousings was not a simple slip of her tongue. He had accepted her as an equal nearly one year ago, and it was clear to him that she now viewed him as the same. Not that she had thought herself superior to him before, not in the least, but they were different, very different culturally.
"Gadje Gadjensa, Rom Romensa," she had told him once. It had come across as something of a warning to him -- that she was fiercely protective of her Gypsy heritage, and he was not to question her ways and methods of doing things.
But she had used 'they', she had used 'they' and he was choosing to interpret that as a silent acknowledgement that even though she would still be firm in her ways, perhaps now she was ready to teach him why, and what they meant to her. As a Slytherin, he knew what it was to be protective of the motivations for his actions, and he had respected her privacy to be the same, though she at times drove him mad with what superstitions she still upheld but would not explain to him. But perhaps now...perhaps now she would, and Severus could not deny that his curiosity had been piqued for quite some time.
He replaced the food in the rucksack and removed his boots before laying back on his own blanket, folding it over himself once, and closing his eyes. Tired as his body was, it was nevertheless difficult for him to sleep. Images floated in and out of his mind like ether, like sand through splayed fingers, always random, always slipping just out of reach when he tried to place them. Eventually, though, slumber did claim him, light and restless with dreams he would not recall in the morning, but would leave tendrils of disquiet to slink 'round his consciousness all the same.
+++
She awoke with the sour taste of sleep in her mouth, and the sun on her face. Drowsily, Acantha opened her eyes, squinting at the brightness of the world around her.
The air was cold, and there were trees.
This was not altogether new information -- she had known of trees prior to this, and certainly cold air -- but in the haze of morning, she couldn't for the life of her call to mind as to why the former would be present in the Astronomy Tower.
A sharp crunching sound came from behind her, and she bolted upright in alarm and twisted around to face the intruder.
Snape.
And she was not in her bed at all -- rather, on the ground, and so tangled up in a blanket she wondered if it wouldn't take her years to get free.
Of course, she thought to herself as coherent thought made its way lethargically back to her brain. Nottinghamshire.
"There's a river just east of here, if you wish to wash up before breakfast," he told her.
"Which part?"
He narrowed his eyes at her, and frowned. "What do you mean, 'which part'?"
"Which part of the river is it; near the mouth or near the middle?"
"What does it matter?"
She sighed wearily and shook her head, "Never mind," and rummaged through the rucksack, extracting from it a tortoiseshell hairbrush. "How far to the East?"
"Half a kilometre at most."
She nodded and, after squirming free of the damnable blanket and tugging her boots back on, started in the same direction as the rising sun.
The splash of glacial water on her face once she had reached the river wiped all traces of sleep from her mind. She'd gone a little further upstream, to where small rapids snaked around and over a dam of rocks, where she could see that the brightness of the dawn was already being dimmed by the dreary clouds of day. It might have seemed ominous, had it not been so common, even more so as winter drew nearer. Still, the thought combined with the chill of early morning made her shiver. You have spent far too long with your head in the skies, she scolded herself. It is time you returned to the earth.
She tore the brush through her hair, forcing free the tangles and snarls that had knotted in it after the previous day's travellings. It was a hindrance, impractically long for the mission they had taken it upon themselves to carry out, and she would have cut it, had she anything to cut it with. As it was, she managed to sever a length of one of her shoelaces using a jagged rock, and twisted and tied it back in a tight braid. It would have to do for now.
She had nearly reached their campsite when a flash of heat sprung suddenly from her left forearm, and her blood ran cold. She pushed back her sleeve -- the Dark Mark emblazoned on her flesh scorched black, and she trembled with the sharp, throbbing pain of it. It will pass, she told herself, it will pass in a moment...
But a moment came and went, and still the burn did not lessen -- it blistered. It was too hot, too hot and she could not touch it, bubbling on her skin and smelling of charred meat. Her right hand clasped tightly around her left wrist, her knees threatened to give way and just when she thought she would not be able to contain the screams welling in the back of her throat, something seized her by the shoulder, pulled her up, forced her to run, stumbling, blind to everything but the pain.
And then there was a sizzling hiss, and cold, blessed cold as her arm was submerged in the river, into the freezing water that demanded the fire to ebb from her skin. She watched, feeling slightly ill, as the water surrounding the brand boiled, and steam hissed off of the surface like snake's breath. The mark cooled slowly, fading from sickly black to ashy grey, until it was once again a stinging welt-red. She glanced over, noticing Snape for the first time, his own arm inundated in the river, gritting his teeth. Chancing a look at his eyes, she found that they were already staring back at her, glittering with an icy rage that, for a brief moment, half-frightened her.
"It's never burned like that before," she hissed softly, as though the mark had brought with it the Death Eaters and it was now dangerous to speak.
"No. He was not summoning us -- he was punishing us," he spat, stirring the water with his arm one last time before rising and jerking down his sleeve. "Come on. The Death Eaters are aware of our treachery by now, and they will be combing the country for us far more thoroughly than the Aurors. We must move quickly."
Acantha nodded once and stood, then followed him back in the direction of the campsite. He was right -- the Aurors were the lesser of two evils. They did not have a sadistic master to please, nor did they know precisely why apprehending both Severus and herself was so important. The Death Eaters would not apprehend -- they were out for blood, and if they did not paint their hands with it, pain and retribution awaited them as well. If the Aurors failed, they would be frustrated; if the Death Eaters failed, they would be tortured, and that promise gave them the dangerous edge of a rabid dog backed into a corner. They would sniff out the traitors, or they, too, would be put down.
She found he'd already packed up the blankets, and as she replaced the hairbrush in the rucksack she retrieved two oranges for breakfast, passing one to Snape as they got their bearings and started once again toward the South.
+++
"Psst!"
Draco Malfoy frowned at the sound, and paused in the dungeon corridor that would lead him to the hidden entrance of the Slytherin common room.
"Psst!"
There it was again, and more forceful than the first. He looked around confusedly -- nothing but shadows awaited his eyes.
"...hello?" he ventured, and no sooner had the word left his lips than he was grabbed by the shoulders and pulled into a dark, empty classroom with a startled shout.
"Shhh!" a female voice whispered from behind him, and Draco let out an annoyed sigh.
"Pansy, if this is your idea of spontaneity..."
"I'm not Pansy, you idiot. Lumos."
Light filled the room. The hands on Draco's shoulders released the hold they had on him, and he turned around, already scowling. "Granger? What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, brushing at the sleeves of his robes as if to rid them of Mudblood cooties.
"I need to talk to you. It's about Professors Snape and Sinistra."
He stopped with the brushing, and Hermione knew she'd gotten his attention.
"What about them?" he demanded. "And why me? Don't you have Potty and Weasel to play detective with?"
"Harry won't believe me, and Ron...well, he's not really keen to talk about it," she muttered, quickly becoming annoyed the more she thought about that particular subject matter.
"Again, why me? What makes you think I'd intentionally be of help to you, of all people?"
"You're not going to help me -- you're going to help Professor Snape," she reasoned. Draco arched a sceptical eyebrow, a silent gesture for her to go on. "Oh, come on, you can't honestly tell me you actually believe the story Dumbledore told us. Professor Snape would never be stupid enough to become involved with such a careless woman -- he would consider the very notion of it an insult." She'd mentally practiced what she would say to the blond boy all throughout History of Magic, taking notes on how to best approach him and play off his juvenile prejudices instead of the military tactics of Veela mercenaries employed in the armies of Ancient Rome -- a huge sacrifice on her part that would, with any luck, pay off. She knew that if she could gain his support, however revolting it was to have to talk to him in order to get it, then the support of the rest of Slytherin House wouldn't be far behind.
"True enough," Malfoy agreed with an indifferent shrug. "What's your point?"
"I think Professor Dumbledore lied to us."
"Do you?" he asked, arrogance at her supposed ignorance seeping into his tone like water to a sponge. Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes.
"I know they're Death Eaters, Malfoy, that's not what I'm questioning."
He frowned, deflating slightly and looking somewhat petulant that she, a Gryffindor Mudblood, had figured out the Potions and Astronomy professors' secret.
"It was the only logical conclusion," she explained before he could pry further into the matter. "Look, it's not exactly classified information that the headmaster is somewhat partial to Gryffindors---" That much was true -- even Hermione could not deny it, though she was unopposed to it, especially with Snape's blatant favouritism of House Slytherin. "---but he publicly humiliated your head of house. He could have taken care of things quietly, claimed that Snape and Sinistra had both left for personal reasons and left the Aurors to hunt them in secret, but he didn't. He took the opportunity to further damage the reputation of Slytherin House."
Draco stared at her for a long while, his expression unreadable but for a hint of suspicion around his eyes.
"Granger," he finally spoke, "if you're really looking for my help, you're not going to get it by feeding me such an obvious load of dragon shit. If you need a gullible moron for your little mind games, try Crabbe or Goyle. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for Charms and I still need to get my textbook from my dormitory."
Malfoy spun on his heel and stalked out of the room before she could stop him. Hermione swore under her breath, but did not go after him, having seen full well what grovelling Draco demanded of his peers before he would deign to forgive them whatever cardinal sin they had committed against him. She would not beg, but she would have her point made, one way or another. After all, tomorrow was another day, and a Wednesday at that, which meant that the prefects would be holding their weekly meeting during dinnertime. She would make them listen.
And then hope like hell that Harry didn't hate her afterwards.
Gadje Gadjensa, Rom Romensa - "Gadje with Gadje, Rom with Rom"
Endnotes: Before anyone wonders, no, Malfoy and the other Slytherin students are thus far unaware of the existence of the Dark Heir. I'm going somewhere with that later on, trust me.
And of course, many thanks to...
Masala the Great -- Ah, good; I always worry about making the Trio overly melodramatic. Glad they didn't come across as such, and very glad you're enjoying this. :)
Light & Shade -- Hope you liked this chapter as much as the last.
Atheis -- Thrilled you like, and thank you.
Helena -- One track mind? You and me both. I keep jotting down bits of smoochy-stuff all over my notes and forcing my mind to stay here in the story when I write it. I'm so happy you like this, and of course, thank you yet again. :)
Alchemine -- I surprised myself with how possible it seems for Dumbledore to be Dark at heart. Very glad you enjoyed it; it's my little pride point of this story. ;)
bosch -- I've never read Agatha Christie, but I'm about to dart off to the library, so I'll have to look for that story. And Harry'll come around, eventually. The students are going to be playing a bigger part in this than I originally intended, I think.
Thanks again, all of you. I really appreciate all your comments.