Chapter 4
They made it to Northamptonshire by dusk. Never before had Acantha been so grateful for the health benefits of the many staircases that led from the ground floor to the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts. They had eaten little throughout the day, and if their current pace remained, they would not have to stop for food until they were safely across the Strait of Dover and in France, which was roughly two, perhaps three days' travel away, as they had decided to bypass Greater London entirely and take the roundabout route through Essex into Kent, in the interest of lessening their chances of being seen by Ministry employees.
The many staircases may have ensured her the absence of actually passing out from fatigue, but she was nevertheless exhausted, crumpling to the ground as soon as Snape finally gave the word that they could stop for the night near a small Muggle farming village by the name of Little Forkington. They were sheltered by a cluster of trees that rose like knobbly fingers against the smooth Midland Plains, but the space was still too open to gamble a fire.
Severus sat down beside where she was sprawled with somewhat less grace than usual, and she smiled inwardly at his obvious attempt -- and failure -- at disguising his own overtiredness.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, already retrieving the last of the rye bread from the rucksack and breaking it in two.
"I would say yes, had I strength enough to eat," she sighed, staring listlessly at the ripening moon that cast silvery shadows through the half-bare tree branches. He placed her half of the bread into her limp hand, and after a few moments the salivating of her mouth coerced her into wearily pulling herself up to a sitting position, leaning against a tree trunk as she ate.
"It appears your weakness was fleeting," he drawled wryly. "Tell me, did this sudden burst of power come from a collapsing star?"
Acantha shot him a withering glare. "Don't patronise me, Snape."
"My apologies for coming across as such, but I assure you the question was genuine. Sardonically solicited, perhaps, but genuine."
"Does your mouth never tire of being so full of words?" she wondered aloud. "If you were on your deathbed, you would use your dying breath to boast of your vocabulary one last time."
"And you would spend your final days avoiding nearly every question asked of you."
She smirked. "Touché."
"You came to Britain to teach, did you not? To enlighten the ignorant of the nature of the stars? Why then do you now refuse such a request?"
"Because I am tired," she snapped. "I am tired of talk, and of stars, and of endless questions. I only wish to eat, sleep, and be done with all of this."
"Don't bristle at me, woman, I am enjoying this no more than you," he bit back, popping the cork on the bottle of merlot and taking a healthy swallow. He moved to pass it to her, and she swatted his hand away. Snape rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, do die of thirst, that will be most helpful to our cause," he hissed sarcastically. "Petty obstinacy doesn't become you, you realise."
Acantha scowled at him. "What care is it of yours what becomes me?"
"While I don't overly concern myself with the matter, I doubt the killing curse would go well with your complexion. Duck."
"What?"
"Duck!" he shouted, shoving her to the ground just a flash of mordant green light crackled like electricity through the air, hitting the trunk where she had been leaning against it. What pallid leaves still clung to the tree rapidly browned and scattered to the earth as the branches shrivelled and warped with instantaneous death. Snape hurriedly rose and pulled her to her feet. Sinistra chanced a glance behind her as they began to run -- Death Eaters, four of them, and they would have been invisible in the bleak night had it not been for the moonlight reflecting off of their bone-white masks. How had they found them so fast?
"Avada Kedavra!" came a bellow from behind them, and simultaneously they dived and rolled as another curse sailed over their heads, hitting a wheat field and leaving a circle of entropy five feet in diameter in its wake.
"The cornfield," Snape hissed as they scrambled to their feet and began to run again, staggering to dodge the spells aimed their way every couple of seconds. At last, they reached the stalks, tearing halfway through the field before he stopped, held her back as well. "We need to split up -- we can't allow them to return to Voldemort to tell him of our whereabouts. Head for the barn; I'll meet you there," he quickly instructed. Acantha nodded once, and they parted ways, each heading in the opposite direction as the other.
Severus slowed his pace after about thirty feet, crouched low, and listened. He could hear the rustle of the stalks as the Death Eaters gave chase, following the bent trail he and Acantha had left through the field. As silently as he could, he wove between the cornrows, slithering to a new position ten feet to his right like a snake in the grass. He could see little, but the soft, crunching sound of footsteps drawing ever closer kept him alert to the Death Eaters' advancement until they occupied the spot he had recently vacated and halted, uncertain of where to look next. From his vantage point so low to the ground, he could make out two pairs of black boots -- they, too, must have divided their efforts.
Worry briefly invaded his mind -- he would have no trouble with the two-against-one odds, but he was not so sure of Acantha's capabilities. He had furthered what training she had in duelling when he had been working to inaugurate her into the Dark Lord's legions, and though she had done quite well, she was still nowhere near as skilled as he in the art, and neither of them had any idea how practised these four foot soldiers were.
He shook the thought from his head -- only a gadje fool would underestimate a Gypsy. Snape may have been gadje, but he was no fool. She could take care of herself, and if she could not...he wasn't sure how he would feel about the latter, and now was certainly not the time to work it out.
"Go on ahead," one of the Death Eaters muttered quietly to the other, "I'll stay here, in case he doubles back."
The potions master drew his wand as the other Death Eater grunted in response and started through the stalks again to Snape's left, waiting until the man's footsteps were indistinguishable from the sound of the sudden breeze that whisked through the cornrows before taking aim.
There was a distant shout of "Crucio!" followed by a shriek of agony, and the Death Eater spun on his heel in alarm. Snape saw his chance.
"Expelliarmus!" he snarled, and the Death Eater flew backward into the stalks, his wand landing with a mellifluous clatter at Severus' feet. Snape snatched it up without a thought and threw it toward the middle of the field, as far away from his enemy's reach as he could manage before taking off after its owner.
The Death Eater was already on his feet, drawing something from within the leg of his boot that glinted metallically in the moonlight. He lunged forward before the potions master could speak a curse to stun him, but Snape reacted fast, slipping between the cornrows and dodging the dagger only just. The man swung at him again, and this time, Severus was prepared; he seized hold of the Death Eater's wrist and jerked his arm around behind his back, pulling his shoulder out of its socket with a dull cracking sound. The man made a strangled sound of pain, and the blade fell from limp fingers. The potions master released the man's arm in favour of grabbing hold of his chin, and around his left temple. With a single sharp wrench and a sickening crunch, it was over, and the Death Eater's body crumbled lifelessly to the ground.
Snape bent to pick up the knife, then found himself lurching forward from a stiff strike to the back of his head. His vision flickered for a moment, the world around him fading in and out of focus. Out of instinct, he quickly turned onto his back, and almost immediately felt a heavy weight come down upon his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. Above him, the second Death Eater who had returned at his colleague's cry of pain was motionless but for a few shocked rasps that rattled in the back of his throat. Slowly regaining his breath, Snape was vaguely aware of something hot and sticky seeping through his robes. He rolled the other man off of him, and promptly learned why -- the Death Eater had unwittingly impaled himself on the dagger. Grimacing in distaste, Severus pulled the blade free from the man's gut and pocketed it with his wand before standing, still swaying slightly from the blow to his head.
The barn, he had to reach the barn -- Acantha.
The memory of someone invoking the Cruciatus Curse and of the female scream that followed it rushed back into his mind, and all traces of dizziness left him as he started in the direction that scream had come from at a run.
Damnable woman, he thought to himself as the cornstalks whipped against his face. Couldn't just allow a man to enjoy Armageddon in peace, oh no, just had to be the sprightly "Let's save the world!" type...going to get herself killed...might already be dead -- no. She's not dead. I've yet to bitterly blame her for all our woes, and she is not getting out of that responsibility so easily...
The cornfield was void of activity, silent except for the sound of the wind shivering through the stalks, and he took the lack of commotion as a positive sign as he finally broke free of the rows and headed for the barn.
When he was not ten feet from his destination, a figure stepped out of the shadows, green cloak and purple-black robes fluttering faintly in the breeze. It rushed toward him, and Snape was somewhat shocked when it embraced him, though one of his hands came to rest on its back regardless.
"Oh, Severus, thank God," Acantha mumbled into his shoulder before pulling back. She frowned, noticing the dark stains on his hand and robes.
"It's not mine," he assured her before she even asked the question, then attended to his own concerns. "I heard a scream."
"I know. One of the Death Eaters was a woman. I used her as a shield to block the other one's curse as I stunned him."
"Are they dead?"
"Yes. I stepped on their throats while they were unconscious -- crushed their windpipes. It was...rather disgusting, but I didn't want to use an Unforgivable Curse unless I absolutely had too."
Snape nodded in agreement. "It's all the better that we don't use them. The sense of power one feels afterwards can...become addictive," he softly admitted, stepping away from her and casting a chary gaze over her shoulder at the farmhouse a field away. She glanced back and saw what had captured his attention -- a light had come on from inside the house; the Muggles living there were awake and no doubt on their way to see what all the commotion outside was about.
"Into the barn," she murmured, and he followed her without protest. The scent of livestock that assaulted them was nearly stifling as they felt their way around, their eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light from the moon. "Here," she said, taking him by the hand and leading behind a pile of haystacks. They sat back on their heels, and did not have to wait long for the voices of the farm's owners to echo through the walls of the barn -- two people, both of them men, one distinctly older-sounding than the other.
"It won't take them long to discover the bodies if they see the trails we've left in the cornfield," Snape whispered. "It is imperative that we hasten our departure."
"Always so many words," she sighed. He ignored the comment, then frowned when he felt her stiffen next to him. Her eyes shifted cagily around their pitch black environs. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" he snapped.
"Shh! ...that."
Severus strained to hear whatever it was she was on about. There was nothing for a few moments, and then a barely-audible but unmistakeable whinny of a horse -- the farm's stables had to be close by. He turned to her, a questioning look on his face that she could not see but perceived nevertheless.
"Snape...can you ride?"
"I heard shoutin', I swears I did. It weren't jus' me imagination," Jonathan Harrison of Little Forkington, aged twenty-three years, groused to his elder brother Morris as they headed out to the wheat fields of the farm that had been their father's, and his father's before him.
"Prob'ly jus' some bastard kids again, lookin' fer a good time b'neath the stars," Morris replied, smacking his torch with his hand when it sputtered for the third time in as many minutes. It gave off a last shudder of light, then died completely. "Bollocks," he swore under his breath. "Blasted thing. 'ave we got any bat'ries inna house?"
"I dunno, try the kitchen," Jon mumbled absently, scowling out at the fields as he scanned them with his own torch. Morris went to go do just that, leaving the younger Harrison to his muttered dissatisfaction. "Little bastards...need to find their own damn fields to shag in. Ain't nothin' romantic 'bout havin' a roll inna wheat anyway...'Fields of Gold', my left ass cheek...yeah, an' I live in Buckingham bloody Palace..."
A semi-loud clang jangled from behind him, and he spun around on his heel, tightening the grip on the battered cricket bat he held at his side. "...Morris?" he called out. "Morris, s'at you?"
No response. "To hell with this...'ey! Who's there?" he yelled, and this time received an answer in the form of a loud whinny from the stables, followed by galloping hoof-beats. Not a minute later, two of the horses, complete with riders who most definitely did not belong on aforementioned horses' backs, came dashing out of the open barn doors and sprinted across the wheat fields towards the trees.
"OI! Those are our horses! Morris, get yer fat ass on the phone and call the police, someone's stealin' our horses! Son of a bitch, get back here! Bastards!"
His outraged cries fell upon deaf ears as the thieves continued off into the distance, one of them leaning down near the trees to pick up a parcel, scarcely slowing down to do so. Within minutes, they were out of sight, leaving behind a fuming Jonathan Harrison to curse a blue streak and throw his torch into the cornfield in disgust.
+++
They reached Epping Forest in Essex before dawn. The adrenaline rush from the fight against the Death Eaters had quickly worn away, leaving them with renewed physical exhaustion that had both fighting to keep their eyes open. The horses weren't faring much better -- they, too, had yet to sleep, and the last they had been able to stop for a drink had been some thirty kilometres back, in Hertfordshire.
Neither fought the gildings' drive toward the water as they reached a small brook. Indeed, Acantha seemed content to allow her horse to follow its own choice in paths without her input entirely, as she suddenly slumped forward in the saddle and slid boneless to the ground, dead to the world. Severus dismounted his own horse, leaning against it for many minutes as his sore legs readjusted to the feel of solid earth beneath them before he went to her.
He'd heard no bones snap, and she didn't appear to be otherwise injured. With some effort, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her over to a large hornbeam tree before allowing himself to collapse and lean back against the trunk. She didn't so much as stir as he shifted her to what he thought might be a more comfortable position, smoothing her hair away from her face and ridding it of leaves.
The air was crisp and bitter cold, foretelling of an early winter, but in his shattered state, thought was fleeting; he couldn't bring himself to bother with the blankets for the night. They had their cloaks, and she was agreeably warm against him. It felt strange, somewhat unsettlingly so, for him to hold a woman as she slept, let alone one with whom he was not romantically involved. Even then, it was a rare display of intimacy -- he had never been one for amorous affection. His life had always revolved and, he was certain, would continue to revolve around darkness, in some form or another. By now he had become so accustomed to his shrouded existence, so used to that dark that any sort of light had become unnatural, blinding, painful. Happiness is chaos to one who has found order in melancholy.
Acantha Sinistra was a shade of grey. She did not wish to draw him out of his shell, but because she had found him there, she would sooner take part in his darkness and be a companion in his misery than she would attempt to drag him into the light or attempt to show him the way out. She had no illusions of 'saving him', but she was not content to leave him to his solitude, either. It was not her place to decide when he had mourned long enough -- that decision was his and his alone, and she knew this and respected it, but would quietly stay with him until his verdict had been reached, despite the consequences and whether he wanted her to or not.
He had not, at first. She had intruded upon his life, and it had taken a great deal of time for him to accept that her presence did not plan on fading from it any time in the near future. Looking back, his concern had been for her safety just as much as it had been for his. She was stubborn, infuriatingly so at times, and in the worlds he walked in, that was a dangerous quality to possess. But she had proven more than capable of holding her tongue when silence was required, and, over time, he had come to heed her judgements just as she did his, even found himself curious of them, much to his initial horrification.
He still didn't welcome her involvement in his affairs, but he didn't protest against it, either. After all, they had become as much hers as they were his -- she had seen to that.
His ruminations gradually diminished as he closed his eyes and concentrated on the warmth of her, and the black comfort of slumber. Tonight, it did not take him long to steal into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which he would not awaken for several hours.
To come in chapter five: "Meanwhile, back at Hogwarts..." Dumbledore and Voldemort plot, Hermione voices her argument at the prefects' meeting. Things are about to get more interesting...
And of course, the reviewer-thankings...
caius julius: Ah, I have ensnared another. Exxxcellent. [insert Mr. Burns-esque finger-steepling] Glad you're enjoying it so far, though I wouldn't call Draco stupid -- just not buying the bullshit demeanor Hermione tried to pull off. ;)
bosch: No, I meant thrice. I figured, what with the blankets' lack of zips that sleeping bags tend to have, the blankets'd have to fold over an extra time, lest they'd be coming off whenever someone rolled over. Must have people wrapped up like burritos. And sadly, no, I've never read Agatha Christie; merely seen a couple of mystery episodes on A&E. The shit library down the street didn't have the book you mentioned, so I'll trek across town to the other, less-shit library to look for it. Apologies for the lack of students in this chapter, but what I've got planned for them wouldn't fit into the time-frame -- they'll be back with a vengeance in the next part, though.
Helena: Ta much. :) You'll like the next chapter, I'm sure -- it's got this thing called 'plot development' that I've recently discovered. Things get more sinister on the evil-guys front (and they do have a lot of front).
Thanks for reading, and do tell me what you thought of this chapter. If you're reading this, this means you. Yes, you. Except for the guy in the third row -- he can blow me.