Mine Protector
Chapter 16: Caught
"Yes...you heard me right. We've been waiting for you."
It was a pity that Malfoy hadn't bothered to secure her other arm against the wall, otherwise she might not have been free to yank his grubby hand off her mouth and make him slap his own pretty face with it.
-There's really no better reply than an angry *thwap*...- Hermione thought contentedly, remembering that lovable smack she had bequeathed to him a few years ago.
"Wha...?" Draco flung his head back and backed away from her, eyes watering with humiliation.
"Sorry about that...you were wrenching my wrist, you see," she said smoothly, composing herself. "And ugh...your hands smell like damp dog, by the way."
In reply, two more Slytherins appeared from the dark, their faces practically enameled in impassiveness. It was Roland Nott and Malcolm Baddock. Hermione had to give Draco credit for originality; since when did he go anywhere without the ubiquitous Crabbe and Goyle?
Nott and Baddock flanked Draco protectively, and she saw that, like Draco, they were also outfitted in winter robes and scarves. "What have you boys been planning...midnight sledding?" she asked, and as she did so, made a gesture that was peculiar even to her. She silently raised a finger and invisibly drew a thin, horizontal line in the air, directly in front of the three Slytherins. They seemed not to notice.
"Someone please take that bitch out," Draco complained, rubbing at his cheek.
"Gladly..." Nott said, a crooked smile dividing his features. "Stupefy!" he cried, and a curse exploded from the end of his wand, zig-zagging until it hit the dead-center of her chest.
-----
Weirdly, Hermione felt nothing. The light crackled a few inches in front of her, rather than actually making contact. In that split-second she saw Nott's single brow arch in confusion. One more split-second and she forced herself to fall to the ground, landing like a rag-doll with her arms and legs akimbo.
-Ouch...this had better be worth it...-
"Are you sure that was strong enough?" Draco asked, apparently unconvinced. "She didn't fly backwards like Weasley did."
"Of course it was," Malcolm insisted. "Nott is better with a wand than the two of us put together."
"That's right," Nott said assuredly. "She didn't fly back because she's got more powerful magic than Weasley, obviously. Everyone knows that she's top of her class."
-Interesting...- Hermione thought through her feigned unconsciousness. Nott had always been a particularly quiet, innocuous Slytherin. She didn't even realize that he knew a single thing about her, aside from the fact that she was Harry Potter's friend.
"Who's carrying her?" This time, she couldn't tell if the words came from Nott or Baddock.
"*I* am the strongest," a self-important voice claimed. Draco, no doubt. And without waiting for the others' approval, she felt his hands tug at her underarms; easily, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, where her head dangled towards the ground uncomfortably. She slitted her eyes open and saw the dungeon floor, plus a generous portion of Draco's Quidditch-conditioned ass. The one she was supposed to be kicking right at this very moment.
-This had *really* better be worth it...- she thought emphatically, shutting her eyes again. Draco marched up the hallway and her head thumped painfully against his back Feeling his hand curl into her robe and around the back of her thigh, Hermione imagined he was enjoying this--it was just like the cartoons where a caveman clubbed a woman on the head and carried her back to his filthy bachelor pad. The fact that Draco grew up in a pureblood household and had probably never seen a cartoon in his life didn't change the fact that he was definitely relishing this brutish role.
As the trio continued to walk, Hermione realised she had no clue where she was being taken. Not back to the Slytherin common-cave, that was for sure. She presumed they were taking her out of the school, possibly right into the hands of some death-eaters.
-You have really gone off the deep end this time, girl....you're just going to let them HAND you over to death-eaters after what happened to Severus?-
She considered delivering a swift kick to the front of Draco's head and making a run for it, but curiosity was already sinking its talons into her. It seemed that Ron had come out of a similar situation in one piece, and she had to maintain confidence that she would also be fine. Weighing her options mentally, she decided it was more important to discover exactly what was going on outside Hogwarts. And if she found herself in mortal danger...well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?
"Stop," Nott commanded, and Draco pulled to a halt. "Stay here until I give the word." Peeking again, Hermione saw that there was a little more light in this area, which she imagined might be the archway that led to the great hall. Nott was gone a few minutes, and when he returned declared that the coast was clear. Soon they were outside--though Hermione noted that they had not exited via means of the front or side entrances, which could only mean that there was a secret entrance located on the ground floor somewhere. Not surprising, as the castle was full of secrets.
"Directly into the Forbidden Forest, just like last time," Nott said. "And remember...no magic until we're well away from the castle!" At this, Hermione wondered how the three Slytherins had managed to cast a spell in the school corridors without setting off wards. They must have de-activated the ones in the dungeon, somehow.
"Hurry it up," Nott hissed, causing her to question just how long Draco had been taking orders from the small, unassuming boy. Even so, he didn't seem to like obeying Nott much; every time the other Slytherin opened his mouth, she felt Draco's body tense up.
Soon, the smell of damp, moldering leaves indicated they had entered the forest, and what she could see of the ground was partly obscured by tendrils of fog, moving underfoot with a life of their own. Cold seeped into her pores like a thick narcotic, and she found herself wishing her robes were heavier, or that her socks were darned from wool instead of cotton--any little comfort, at this point, would be nice. As they moved over rougher ground, her escort re-adjusted his grip on her, lifting her head up slightly so it didn't bang against him quite so much. If he hadn't been Draco Malfoy, she might have been grateful for such a gesture.
The Slytherins trundled to a stop and stood quietly, apparently listening for something.
"We should keep going," Draco spoke up suddenly. "There are things in this forest that I don't want to run into."
"What, like the ruddy star-gazing centaurs?" Nott asked, his tone harsh.
Draco had no reply, but Hermione imagined the glare on his face must be one of mammoth proportions.
"The clearing is straight ahead," Nott continued. "No turning back now."
More walking. The blood that had pooled Hermione's head was making her dizzy, and the contents of her stomach were threatening to make an encore appearance. When Draco finally pulled her from his shoulder and onto a patch of grassy ground, she was flooded with silent relief.
"Here they come." From Baddock, this time.
-Here *who* comes? Oh god Oh god Oh....- The instinct to flee washed over her in a smothering tide, and she fought to quell it down. The best thing to do was to allow herself a small look...just a peek. She had to know just how many others were approaching. Squeezing open her eyes, she saw that she was laying in a small, overgrown pasture; a dilapidated shed on one end suggested that the area had once been used for farming. Malfoy, Nott, and Baddock were standing with their backs to her, watching silently as two more men approached from the other side of the forest, hoods pulled up to obscure their faces. As they came closer, however, they pulled the rich fabric of their robes back slightly, allowing Hermione to pinpoint one of the men at once: it was Lucius Malfoy.
"Who stunned her?" He asked immediately.
"It was me," Nott said, his voice swelling with self-importance.
Lucius cast a murderous look in his son's direction. "Still unwilling to take the upper hand, Draco." Not a question; an accusation.
Draco himself shrugged, as if thoroughly bored. "I did what you asked of me, didn't I?" he drawled, using the same veiled sarcasm that he reserved for most of the Hogwarts' teaching staff.
Lucius ignored him, and instead focused back on Nott. "Roland, your father is standing watch at the other end of the forest. I will tell him of you achievement...." He toed Hermione's arm as if she were a dead animal. "The mudblood is supposed to be quite powerful....it must have been a strong curse. Well done."
The man flanking Lucius, who might have been Baddocks' father, nodded in silent agreement.
"Now go. We'll be taking the girl from here." Lucius snapped his fingers as if dismissing a troop of house-elves.
Baddock and Nott turned on their heels in instant obedience, but Draco hung behind. "What is it?" Lucius spat at his son, impatient.
"Where are you taking her?" he asked. Hermione had the impression that he was keeping his tone carefully benign, but his stiff posture suggested nervousness.
-Is he actually worried about me?- she wondered, wishing she was in a better position to read his expression.
"Why so concerned?" Lucius asked, the man by his side still silent.
Draco cocked his head in a way that might have been defiant. "Because I still have to go to school with her....if anything should happen, I'm sure to be the first suspect."
Lucius smiled unpleasantly. "Though I admire how you look out for number one, son, I must insist that you leave... NOW. As planned, we will questioned the mudblood girl, then we will obliviate her memory. When she wakes up, she will find herself in Hogsmeade, surrounded by empty bottles of butterbeer. Just like the red-headed Weasley did."
"That plan seems pretty third-rate," Draco said, curiously smug. "No one will believe that Granger crept into the village and got pissed. She's too bloody up-tight for that..."
"You question the plan because it is simple," the other man said suddenly. "Which is precisely why the plan works." The finality of his tone suggested that the subject was no longer up for debate. Sulkily, Draco left the clearing. Hermione was almost sorry to hear him go.
Now she was alone with the two death-eaters, and there was at least one more nearby.
Lucius' cohort kneeled on the grass next to her prone form. "Nothing sweeter than an unconscious school girl," he crooned, running a bare fingertip along her exposed calf.
"There's no time for that, Macnair," Lucius said, annoyed. Hermione vaguely remembered that Macnair executed magical creatures for the Ministry; of course, it only made sense that he would be some kind of sadist, then. Despite Lucius' warning, he continued to touch her, daring to reach up and stroke her kneecap; it felt as if his icy fingers were leaving patches of frost in the path that he made. She squirmed internally. -Just how long will I have to take this?...-
She opened her eyes with purpose. -Not long, apparently...-
Being greeted with Macnair's face almost made her wish she hadn't acted so hastily: a burly man, he was looking her over with a feral, hungry gaze. His skin was ashen and pock-marked, his brow rather hulkish--but his ugliness didn't turn her stomach nearly as much as his ravenous expression did. When he saw that she was awake, he didn't startle or hesitate, he only smiled further--a frighteningly genuine smile that hinted at unspeakable appetites.
"There now, Miss Granger...so nice of you to join us," Lucius said maliciously, still standing. Of course, she didn't really expect someone like *him* to lower himself down to her side.
She didn't bother acting fuzzy-headed in the manner of one who had just been stunned. Instead, she got right to the point. "What do you want with me, Mister Malfoy?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
His eyes widened appreciatively. "You have a fast recovery time, I see," he remarked. "No wonder you get higher marks than Draco....though how a plodding mudblood like you does it is a mystery to me."
"Enough with the flattery." She propped up on her elbows, patting the pockets of her robe casually.
"Looking for this?" Macnair asked, displaying her wand and teasing it back and forth like a pendulum. Uh-oh...he was good. She'd been so tweeked by his roaming hands that she hadn't noticed when he'd nicked her wand. At her surprised expression, Macnair released a trollish chuckle.
Looking as if he found Macnair's antics gauche, Lucius finally kneeled on the grass beside her, spreading his cloak out fussily. "Never fear, my girl...you won't remember any of this, unfortunately," he said, pulling a vial of clear liquid from his robes. From the way it sloshed about, Hermione gauged its consistency to be thinner than water. Veritaserum, she was certain.
Whatever happened, she could *not* swallow a single drop of it.
Macnair cupped her chin, squeezing lightly until she opened her mouth passively. "There's a good girl," he cooed obscenely, and Lucius unstopped the vial, leaning forward to spill the contents onto her tongue.....
As his hand journeyed towards her, she saw that he was precariously balanced on the heels of his expensive Italian shoes, his knees spread apart for support. Taking advantage of his vulnerable position, she shot out with her right foot and whomped him squarely in the balls.
"YUG!" Lucius croaked, and the truth serum dribbled down the front of her robes, missing her mouth by just a few centimetres. His face, which typically resembled a mask of exquisitely carved ivory, went red and twisted as he rocked sideways and curled into a fetal position, whimpering.
-Too close...- she thought distractedly, watching him gasp for breath.
Then cold steel touched the edge of her throat. It was Macnair, holding a knife to her neck.
"Nice move," he whispered into her ear moistly, his chin settling into the groove of her shoulder. "Lucius likes to get answers using the old hocus-pocus, but I find that Sweet Lou here is far more convincing." He caressed the flat of the blade just beneath her chin, wrapping his free arm around her ribcage as he spoke. Beside them, Lucius continued to roll on the ground in silent agony.
She swallowed. "Only lunatics name their knives, you know."
He gave her a painful squeeze that forced breath out of her lungs. "Think you're smart, don't you," he hissed, the pretense of seduction dropping out of his tone.
In response, she butted her head back with all her strength, cracking her skull into Macnair's already misshapen nose. He grunted in surprise and loosened his hold on her, enough so that she elbowed her way free and was up on her feet, running.
-Oh god oh fuck...he's behind me...right behind me!- She could practically feel his hot, animal breath at her back, faster than terror. She was speedy herself, but for such a large man he moved in a remarkably nimble manner, galloping at a high pace, his arms windmilling out as if to help propel himself along. She was pulling ahead, though; grass whipped at her ankles and the forbidden forest rose before her, promising either sanctuary or certain death--though she didn't know which would find her first. Here the ground was just a tiny bit uneven. She stumbled on the incline, almost losing her footing, and felt her precious lead on him drain away.
"Got you!" he cried, flinging his arms around her as if they were engaged in a merry game of tag. She struggled to break free, but he was the one holding the knife. Casually, as if skinning a rodent, he sliced several deep gashes across the surface of her robes, destroying the material. Then he made another pass and the blade carved directly into her flesh, a long line of agony drawn just above her navel. She yelped and yanked the wrist that was cutting her in a sharp, upwards motion, turning the knife back towards him, hearing delicate bones grind together. He bellowed and she felt dim satisfaction, even as warm blood was seeping into the waistband of her skirt. Using all her weight, she shoved backwards and they both fell to the ground with a mighty thud; she was sprawled across his heaving chest and rolled off him, staggering back to her feet.
She had half-expected Macnair to leap up and resume the pursuit, but he was moaning wordlessly, his hands working inside the tattered front of his robe, eyes glazed with agony.
"Oh shit," she murmured, pulling aside the fabric with tented fingers. His own knife was burrowed into his gut, clear to the hilt. No blood seeped from the wound, but it was beginning to burble from his mouth, looking black as mud in dim moonlight. Had he stabbed himself when they fell together? It certainly looked that way, though Hermione thought she would have felt the butt-end of the knife dig into her back if that were the case.
Fishing her wand from the ruins of Macnair's clothing, she cast a spell on both of them to subside bleeding and speed up the healing process. She could only hope that it worked on internal injuries, as well. Then, all delicacy aside, she wretched the knife loose from Macnair's belly and, after a few minutes of thought, pocketed it. She typically admired knives, and would keep this one as a souvenir--it had been the very first to scar her body, after all.
"What have you done?!" She didn't even notice that Lucius had pulled up to her side, limping slightly.
"He'll recover," she said grimly, then turned on Lucius, her wand out-stretched.
Even under the night sky, she saw his already-wan complexion pale. He was at least a tiny bit nervous--no wonder, considering that his sidekick was nearly unconscious from blood-loss.
Working on a hunch, Hermione smiled cunningly. "Accio Veritaserum!" she said, and a second vial flew from his pocket and into her upheld palm. She closed her fist around it and breathed a sigh of contentment.
"I had a feeling that the death-eaters motto was 'be prepared'....looks like I was right," she said, unstopping the vial and giving it a cautious sniff. Oh yes...this was the real thing. Ministry-grade, too, from what she could discern.
"Let's see...I could just dump this on the ground now, couldn't I?" she mused, enjoying his panicked expression. "But I have a better idea...." She moved forward and he opened his mouth obediently, though his eyes betrayed his horror at what was happening. "Thank you...you're being very agreeable," she said, tipping the serum onto his tongue. He swallowed without being asked to do so.
She stepped back to observe him. His body appeared to relax dramatically, a calm drunkenness overtaking his features and softening them out until his face almost seemed likable. He lowered himself into the grass and sat back casually, as if he were merely attending a picnic.
Hermione sat down beside him. "Lucius?" she asked, curious.
"Hmm...yes?" he replied, his voice disconnected.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, you're Hermione Granger. Muggle-born, sixth year at Hogwarts, prefect, top of your class....you're one of Harry Potter's friends, and my son hates you." He smiled placidly, fanning his fingers against his out-stretched legs.
"Why did you want to use the truth serum on me, Lucius?" she asked, a bit disturbed by just how well the veritaserum worked. -If I had swallowed any...Oh Gods....- she shuddered at the notion.
"The Dark Lord asked me to," he replied, his face expressionless. "I was supposed to ask you about your name, where you come from, what you do at Hogwarts, how much magic you know, what you and Dumbledore talk about, what you and Harry do together--"
"But why?" she asked, growing impatient.
"The Dark Lord believes that there is more to you than meets the eye. He senses that Potter has allied himself with one who has recently developed powerful, ancient magic. He wants to know more about your purpose."
"I see," she said, and Lucius remained quiet, waiting for her next question. She studied his handsome, clueless face for a few moments before raising her wand. "Obliviate," she murmured.
Light blinked back into Lucius' eyes. "Where am I?" he asked, rubbing his forehead dazedly.
"Stay here," she commanded, and rose to her feet.
Macnair was where she had left him, still stretched out in pain. The bleeding from his mouth had stopped, though, and his eyes narrowed dangerously at her approach. "You--" he began, trying to sit up.
"Obliviate." He fell back, lapsing into unconsciousness.
"Repairo," she said, and his damaged robes magically mended themselves. When he woke up, he would wonder at the fresh wound in his belly, and would probably miss his knife, 'Sweet Lou'....but he wouldn't remember what had happened.
She should have been happy to escape with her life, but she found herself tired and deflated, instead. Voldemort would know that his death-eaters' memories had been altered...there was no avoiding it. And of course, he would link this incident back to her. She could only hope that he would perceive the scenario as one in which Harry Potter and his incorrigible band of friends had once again gotten the better of him, as they so often did.
Looking down at herself, though, she almost laughed at the state she was in. Blood was spattered clear down to her ankles, and her robes were shredded to the point where she doubted a repair spell would fix them. Her belly ached desperately, stinging with every step that she took; mud and guck was ground into every pore of her body, her lower ribs felt cracked, and three of her fingernails were ripped down to the quick. She certainly couldn't go to back to her dormitory looking like this--nor could she risk checking in with Madame Pomfrey.
She came to a decision quickly. She would return to Severus' quarters.
-----
After six hours of deadened, dreamless sleep, Severus woke and reached across the bed, his arms curling around the now-cold spot where she had been. His eyes fluttered open. A single slice of moonlight illuminated the bedding, revealing her absence.
-You can't have expected her to stay with you, fool....- he thought bitterly. No, he hadn't expected. Merely hoped.
He massaged his brow; the pain in his head had subsided, but there was an odd vacuum that remained in the depths of his skull, as if a rotten tooth had been pulled loose and extracted.
After a quick shower, he settled himself before the fire, a glass of brandy in hand. It was nearly three in the morning, and he reminded himself to take a sleeping draught before bed the next night--he needed to get back on a sane sleeping schedule, once and for all. As he sipped thoughtfully, a familiar shuffling noise came from behind him: the bricks that made up the doorway to his office were cascading away. She had returned to him.
The brightness he felt in his heart went cold and caliginous when she crossed the threshold, clutching the scraps of her robe close to her body. She smiled at him faintly, but trembling shoulders betrayed her. Wet and filthy, her hair had a few stray leaves caught in it, and a flecks of dried blood stood out against her pale neck.
Fury blazed through every one of his nerve endings--the torment of Imperius shrinking from his memory at once. "Who did this?" he demanded, swooping towards her.
"Malfoy and Macnair..." she wheezed, doubling over slightly. Amazingly, a light bit of laughter came from her lips. "Looks like Voldemort picked the same day to put us through the mill....didn't he?"
"What did they do to you?" he growled. "Was it Cruciatus?"
She grimaced. "Afraid not....just old-fashioned physical violence. You should see the other guy..." she quipped lamely, her voice weak.
"Tell me what they did!" He moved forth, straightening her up at the shoulders. She gasped in pain and the ruined robes fell away; beneath them, her blouse was equally ravaged, open from neck to waist, revealing the length of her bloodied torso. Bruises the size of small hams were forming on either side of her ribcage.
"Oh Gods..." she pitched forward, putting her hands on his chest for support. Her eyes were glassy with anguish that bordered on madness. "Severus...oh...it hurts," she said. And the quality of normalcy in her voice frightened him: she sounded perfectly lucid--neither stammering, nor whimpering. *It hurts*.....the words were delivered like a statement of fact and rationality.
-Its not that she just accepts the pain--she *expects* it....-
Silently, he cursed Voldemort for the remainder of his monstrous days. Let the viper burn.
"Please...let me see," he said, and, calm despite his rage, pulled her hands away from the wounds she was shielding. A long, deep gouge ran across the width of her stomach, still oozing blood--not a mortal wound, though if she hadn't magically slowed the bleeding, she could have very well bled to death, in time. Gently, he pressed his fingers into the side of her ribs; she drew in a sharp breath, but didn't cry out. "Broken," he murmured, feeling the bones shift. "I can do something for the pain, and speed up the healing. But I can't mend these things all at once. You'd need a medi-witch for that."
She nodded vaguely, looking in need of sleep more than anything.
"We need to clean you first," he said, holding her up carefully. "I have some insta-cleanse powder in my classroom--"
"No," she interrupted. "I need a real bath. I need...to feel clean again." Her voice was husky, finally cracking with signs of emotion.
"But you can scarcely move."
She looked up at him purposefully. "Then you'll have to help me," she said simply, and he nodded his head, not daring to deny her anything.
In the bathroom, she sat stiffly on the toilet while he busied himself by fetching clean towels and a bathrobe. The deep, iron-banded tub, like the sink in his classroom, was fed water through the mouth of a stone gargoyle. Usually he liked the effect, but this time it struck him as inappropriate and ominous--not something a girl should have to look up at as she washed away the memory of her attackers.
As she struggled to remove her own clothing, he watched hesitantly from the corner, unsure of himself. There were several handy spells that could whisk clothing off a body instantly, but he doubted that she needed the mental jolt of such an experience. After this pause, he quietly assisted in pulling off the remainders of her bloody blouse--parts of it had dried to her skin grotesquely, particularly around her wound, and she winced when he picked the stiff fabric away. Her brassiere looked as if it had once been shell-pink; unhooking its clasp, his stomach dropped. He couldn't deny that he had wanted to undress her....but never like this. Soon she was entirely naked, and he gathered her old clothes into a pile. Later, he would burn them.
He scooped her up and lowered her into the warm water, supporting her back even as she was submerged. He sponged her shoulders down with soothing amaryllis oil, and though pain was still swimming in her eyes, she seemed to relax under his touch.
"Stop looking at me like that," she said lightly. "None of this was your fault."
He shook his head. "Both of us attacked on the same day...it can't be coincidence. He was in my mind, and he saw...."
"He saw nothing," she said evenly. "Lucius was ready to use veritaserum on me, but I forced it down him, instead. He implied that Voldemort was curious about me, but said absolutely nothing that led me to believe he had knowledge of my true identity."
He dunked the sponge into the tub and wrung it out, frustrated. "But why did he go after you now, after--"
"Think, Severus," she interrupted, stilling him with a move of her hand. "Dumbledore is away for two days. He's meeting with Fudge and the Ministry--it's all over the papers."
Snape said nothing, realizing that she had a valid point. He had long suspected a form of mental and spiritual connection between the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore; Voldemort would not have dared to violate the school--or those within in it--if the headmaster had been nearby.
"I still don't understand....Lucius shouldn't even be able to touch you within this school. Even with Dumbledore away."
"Some of the Slytherins...." she said, then trailed off, her features a struggle of conflicting emotions. "It was Draco Malfoy, Marcus Baddock, and Roland Nott. They stunned me...delivered me."
He closed his eyes, holding in a breath. So...some of the older Slytherins were finally following in his own generation's footsteps, born and suckled on the words of their twisted parents. "They stunned you?" he asked archly. "What you describe is more or less kidnapping....and delivering you into the hands of the death-eaters counts as intent to harm. I promise you that they will be expelled for this."
"No," she said softly, shaking her damp head. "It won't work, Severus....I could have stopped them at any moment. Their stun couldn't even touch me."
"What exactly do you mean?" he asked after a long pause, his voice dropping a few degrees.
She sighed and leaned back into the tub, and the exhaustion on her face reminded him of how she had looked seven years ago, when her *true* age had been sixteen. "It's a long story. Tell me--what do you know of Anaemus?"
"Anaemus?" He frowned. From what he knew, the Anaemus was nothing more than a myth, one more version of the wizarding-worlds' favorite bedtime story, detailing a supremely powerful magic that needed no wand or incantation to be performed. "I've heard very little about it that I would trust," he finally admitted.
"I've been learning a little bit about it from Albus. Now, I don't really know much more than you do, but a week or so ago I somehow stopped Albus from cursing me during one of our practice sessions, and I wasn't even holding my wand at the time. And then tonight, just before Nott stunned me, I drew a line in the air, like this..." she held out a finger and pantomimed the motion.
"With your wand?" he asked, not catching on to her meaning.
"No....that's what I'm trying to tell you. I just drew a line--not even knowing *why*--and it made a barrier appear. Nott's curse was absorbed before it could hit me." She looked at him desperately, sensing his disbelief.
"Are you telling me you only pretended to be stunned?" he asked, his tone stoney.
"Yes," she said in a small voice.
Now incredulity rattled him to the core. She had seen him in a state of complete shame and vulnerability less than twelve hours ago, knowing he had suffered in the hands of Voldemort and his death-eaters, and yet courted similar disaster with the thoughtlessness of....of a reckless, teenaged Gryffindor!
"Do you realize what could have happened to you?" he seethed, and he might have well shaken her if she wasn't already injured. "How could you behave so foolishly?!"
She began shake with silent sobs, and bent over to clutch her knees into her chest; whether it was to hide her nudity or her shame, he did not know, but with broken ribs, it was a position that was sure to hurt. Saying nothing, he uncoiled her from the hunched pose as carefully as possible, then shook his hands dry.
By the time she was warming by the fire, wrapped in a bathrobe, he had mixed up a healing potion. He didn't speak until the potion was in her hands, saying only: "Drink all of it, straight away." She did as he told, even though it was clearly difficult to swallow the foul stuff down. The mixture came with its own pain-reliever, and she was soon testing the strength of her limbs by standing up and stretching, her movements still slow and careful.
"Here," he said brusquely, handing her a set of his school robes--magically altered, of course, so they would fit her. He turned his back as she dressed, ignoring the fact that he had just spent nearly an hour washing her nude body, using a tenderness that he had never before privileged to anyone else.
"I know you're angry..." she said, her voice hitching. "But please, look at me?"
He faced her, his expression unchanged. Dressed now, nothing but her face and hands showed--and that skin was white and scrubbed, two rosy spots burning on the flesh just below her eyes. She looked so young...why did she have to look so young? A muscle in his chest spasmed, wanting to reach out to her, tell her it was okay..that he forgave her.
-Traitor...- he thought bitterly. -It's not *her* that needs forgiveness, is it?-
"It's nearly morning. Your friends will be missing you," he said, unable to express any more than that.
She didn't beg him. Didn't even look back as she slipped out the door.
----
Hermione expected that tonight was right up there with the worst moments of her life--second only to the night that her family had been killed.
Unfortunately, downhill events tend to keep heading in the same direction once they've gained some momentum.
After she droned a password, the fat lady opened the portrait hole, glaring at her for coming at just past four in the morning; only the fact that she was a prefect saved her from a long-winded chewing out. At this hour, the Gryffindor common-room should have been empty. There would be evidence of students, of course--sweaters draped over tables, chocolate frog wrappings left about, Neville's homework sticking out from under a chair--but all the students should have been asleep.
Someone was awake, though. He stood facing the fire, and the flames created a faint nimbus around his entire body, blurring his features so that they were unrecognizable. Then the portrait hole clicked shut behind her, and he whipped around to face her.
"Harry..." she said dully. "Still up then, are you?"
He moved away from the blinding fire. "Yes. I was waiting up for you."
She swallowed thickly. Why was his tone so formal? And why was he looking at her that way? Harry was the type of boy who flitted in and out of eye-contact when he spoke to someone, as if wary of the emotional weather surrounding the other person's face. But now his eyes were locked to hers in defiance.
"Sorry then," she said, unable to meet his stalwart expression. "Expect I must have fallen asleep....in the library."
The excuse sounded suddenly ridiculous, even to her.
"Spare me," he spat, also unconvinced.
She froze, realizing that he wasn't merely annoyed with her--nor upset, not precisely. His look was one of mingled mistrust and....hate.
Relishing the fact that she was speechless, he anchored his arms across his chest. "I gave you so many chances, you know."
"Chances for what?" she whispered, the dull pain in her chest and stomach forgotten as something far more agonizing crept through her veins.
"Chances to tell me who you are!" He said, his voice rising by octaves. Then, with savage reflexes, he leapt forth and took rough hold of her arms, pinning them to her bruised torso.
-Oh please no not YOU Harry please no...- she thought mindlessly, biting down on her tongue to block out the eruption of fresh pain.
"Quit playing dumb!" he condemned, daring to shake her just slightly. "I know you're not who you say you are!"
-Those words...-
Then she remembered where she had heard them. Or read them, rather.
In those blasted notes, of course.
**********************
Am I sadistic enough to write two cliffies in a row? Apparently...Yes! And glory be, does Angst abound or what?
explanation: Nott's first name is not listed in the Harry Potter lexicon; I've seen him called Alan and Mark by other writers, but I thought Roland sounded a bit more sinister. So yeah, there's my take.
My birthday is Thursday the 6th--if you want to give me a present, a review would do just fine ;)
Chapter 16: Caught
"Yes...you heard me right. We've been waiting for you."
It was a pity that Malfoy hadn't bothered to secure her other arm against the wall, otherwise she might not have been free to yank his grubby hand off her mouth and make him slap his own pretty face with it.
-There's really no better reply than an angry *thwap*...- Hermione thought contentedly, remembering that lovable smack she had bequeathed to him a few years ago.
"Wha...?" Draco flung his head back and backed away from her, eyes watering with humiliation.
"Sorry about that...you were wrenching my wrist, you see," she said smoothly, composing herself. "And ugh...your hands smell like damp dog, by the way."
In reply, two more Slytherins appeared from the dark, their faces practically enameled in impassiveness. It was Roland Nott and Malcolm Baddock. Hermione had to give Draco credit for originality; since when did he go anywhere without the ubiquitous Crabbe and Goyle?
Nott and Baddock flanked Draco protectively, and she saw that, like Draco, they were also outfitted in winter robes and scarves. "What have you boys been planning...midnight sledding?" she asked, and as she did so, made a gesture that was peculiar even to her. She silently raised a finger and invisibly drew a thin, horizontal line in the air, directly in front of the three Slytherins. They seemed not to notice.
"Someone please take that bitch out," Draco complained, rubbing at his cheek.
"Gladly..." Nott said, a crooked smile dividing his features. "Stupefy!" he cried, and a curse exploded from the end of his wand, zig-zagging until it hit the dead-center of her chest.
-----
Weirdly, Hermione felt nothing. The light crackled a few inches in front of her, rather than actually making contact. In that split-second she saw Nott's single brow arch in confusion. One more split-second and she forced herself to fall to the ground, landing like a rag-doll with her arms and legs akimbo.
-Ouch...this had better be worth it...-
"Are you sure that was strong enough?" Draco asked, apparently unconvinced. "She didn't fly backwards like Weasley did."
"Of course it was," Malcolm insisted. "Nott is better with a wand than the two of us put together."
"That's right," Nott said assuredly. "She didn't fly back because she's got more powerful magic than Weasley, obviously. Everyone knows that she's top of her class."
-Interesting...- Hermione thought through her feigned unconsciousness. Nott had always been a particularly quiet, innocuous Slytherin. She didn't even realize that he knew a single thing about her, aside from the fact that she was Harry Potter's friend.
"Who's carrying her?" This time, she couldn't tell if the words came from Nott or Baddock.
"*I* am the strongest," a self-important voice claimed. Draco, no doubt. And without waiting for the others' approval, she felt his hands tug at her underarms; easily, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, where her head dangled towards the ground uncomfortably. She slitted her eyes open and saw the dungeon floor, plus a generous portion of Draco's Quidditch-conditioned ass. The one she was supposed to be kicking right at this very moment.
-This had *really* better be worth it...- she thought emphatically, shutting her eyes again. Draco marched up the hallway and her head thumped painfully against his back Feeling his hand curl into her robe and around the back of her thigh, Hermione imagined he was enjoying this--it was just like the cartoons where a caveman clubbed a woman on the head and carried her back to his filthy bachelor pad. The fact that Draco grew up in a pureblood household and had probably never seen a cartoon in his life didn't change the fact that he was definitely relishing this brutish role.
As the trio continued to walk, Hermione realised she had no clue where she was being taken. Not back to the Slytherin common-cave, that was for sure. She presumed they were taking her out of the school, possibly right into the hands of some death-eaters.
-You have really gone off the deep end this time, girl....you're just going to let them HAND you over to death-eaters after what happened to Severus?-
She considered delivering a swift kick to the front of Draco's head and making a run for it, but curiosity was already sinking its talons into her. It seemed that Ron had come out of a similar situation in one piece, and she had to maintain confidence that she would also be fine. Weighing her options mentally, she decided it was more important to discover exactly what was going on outside Hogwarts. And if she found herself in mortal danger...well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?
"Stop," Nott commanded, and Draco pulled to a halt. "Stay here until I give the word." Peeking again, Hermione saw that there was a little more light in this area, which she imagined might be the archway that led to the great hall. Nott was gone a few minutes, and when he returned declared that the coast was clear. Soon they were outside--though Hermione noted that they had not exited via means of the front or side entrances, which could only mean that there was a secret entrance located on the ground floor somewhere. Not surprising, as the castle was full of secrets.
"Directly into the Forbidden Forest, just like last time," Nott said. "And remember...no magic until we're well away from the castle!" At this, Hermione wondered how the three Slytherins had managed to cast a spell in the school corridors without setting off wards. They must have de-activated the ones in the dungeon, somehow.
"Hurry it up," Nott hissed, causing her to question just how long Draco had been taking orders from the small, unassuming boy. Even so, he didn't seem to like obeying Nott much; every time the other Slytherin opened his mouth, she felt Draco's body tense up.
Soon, the smell of damp, moldering leaves indicated they had entered the forest, and what she could see of the ground was partly obscured by tendrils of fog, moving underfoot with a life of their own. Cold seeped into her pores like a thick narcotic, and she found herself wishing her robes were heavier, or that her socks were darned from wool instead of cotton--any little comfort, at this point, would be nice. As they moved over rougher ground, her escort re-adjusted his grip on her, lifting her head up slightly so it didn't bang against him quite so much. If he hadn't been Draco Malfoy, she might have been grateful for such a gesture.
The Slytherins trundled to a stop and stood quietly, apparently listening for something.
"We should keep going," Draco spoke up suddenly. "There are things in this forest that I don't want to run into."
"What, like the ruddy star-gazing centaurs?" Nott asked, his tone harsh.
Draco had no reply, but Hermione imagined the glare on his face must be one of mammoth proportions.
"The clearing is straight ahead," Nott continued. "No turning back now."
More walking. The blood that had pooled Hermione's head was making her dizzy, and the contents of her stomach were threatening to make an encore appearance. When Draco finally pulled her from his shoulder and onto a patch of grassy ground, she was flooded with silent relief.
"Here they come." From Baddock, this time.
-Here *who* comes? Oh god Oh god Oh....- The instinct to flee washed over her in a smothering tide, and she fought to quell it down. The best thing to do was to allow herself a small look...just a peek. She had to know just how many others were approaching. Squeezing open her eyes, she saw that she was laying in a small, overgrown pasture; a dilapidated shed on one end suggested that the area had once been used for farming. Malfoy, Nott, and Baddock were standing with their backs to her, watching silently as two more men approached from the other side of the forest, hoods pulled up to obscure their faces. As they came closer, however, they pulled the rich fabric of their robes back slightly, allowing Hermione to pinpoint one of the men at once: it was Lucius Malfoy.
"Who stunned her?" He asked immediately.
"It was me," Nott said, his voice swelling with self-importance.
Lucius cast a murderous look in his son's direction. "Still unwilling to take the upper hand, Draco." Not a question; an accusation.
Draco himself shrugged, as if thoroughly bored. "I did what you asked of me, didn't I?" he drawled, using the same veiled sarcasm that he reserved for most of the Hogwarts' teaching staff.
Lucius ignored him, and instead focused back on Nott. "Roland, your father is standing watch at the other end of the forest. I will tell him of you achievement...." He toed Hermione's arm as if she were a dead animal. "The mudblood is supposed to be quite powerful....it must have been a strong curse. Well done."
The man flanking Lucius, who might have been Baddocks' father, nodded in silent agreement.
"Now go. We'll be taking the girl from here." Lucius snapped his fingers as if dismissing a troop of house-elves.
Baddock and Nott turned on their heels in instant obedience, but Draco hung behind. "What is it?" Lucius spat at his son, impatient.
"Where are you taking her?" he asked. Hermione had the impression that he was keeping his tone carefully benign, but his stiff posture suggested nervousness.
-Is he actually worried about me?- she wondered, wishing she was in a better position to read his expression.
"Why so concerned?" Lucius asked, the man by his side still silent.
Draco cocked his head in a way that might have been defiant. "Because I still have to go to school with her....if anything should happen, I'm sure to be the first suspect."
Lucius smiled unpleasantly. "Though I admire how you look out for number one, son, I must insist that you leave... NOW. As planned, we will questioned the mudblood girl, then we will obliviate her memory. When she wakes up, she will find herself in Hogsmeade, surrounded by empty bottles of butterbeer. Just like the red-headed Weasley did."
"That plan seems pretty third-rate," Draco said, curiously smug. "No one will believe that Granger crept into the village and got pissed. She's too bloody up-tight for that..."
"You question the plan because it is simple," the other man said suddenly. "Which is precisely why the plan works." The finality of his tone suggested that the subject was no longer up for debate. Sulkily, Draco left the clearing. Hermione was almost sorry to hear him go.
Now she was alone with the two death-eaters, and there was at least one more nearby.
Lucius' cohort kneeled on the grass next to her prone form. "Nothing sweeter than an unconscious school girl," he crooned, running a bare fingertip along her exposed calf.
"There's no time for that, Macnair," Lucius said, annoyed. Hermione vaguely remembered that Macnair executed magical creatures for the Ministry; of course, it only made sense that he would be some kind of sadist, then. Despite Lucius' warning, he continued to touch her, daring to reach up and stroke her kneecap; it felt as if his icy fingers were leaving patches of frost in the path that he made. She squirmed internally. -Just how long will I have to take this?...-
She opened her eyes with purpose. -Not long, apparently...-
Being greeted with Macnair's face almost made her wish she hadn't acted so hastily: a burly man, he was looking her over with a feral, hungry gaze. His skin was ashen and pock-marked, his brow rather hulkish--but his ugliness didn't turn her stomach nearly as much as his ravenous expression did. When he saw that she was awake, he didn't startle or hesitate, he only smiled further--a frighteningly genuine smile that hinted at unspeakable appetites.
"There now, Miss Granger...so nice of you to join us," Lucius said maliciously, still standing. Of course, she didn't really expect someone like *him* to lower himself down to her side.
She didn't bother acting fuzzy-headed in the manner of one who had just been stunned. Instead, she got right to the point. "What do you want with me, Mister Malfoy?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
His eyes widened appreciatively. "You have a fast recovery time, I see," he remarked. "No wonder you get higher marks than Draco....though how a plodding mudblood like you does it is a mystery to me."
"Enough with the flattery." She propped up on her elbows, patting the pockets of her robe casually.
"Looking for this?" Macnair asked, displaying her wand and teasing it back and forth like a pendulum. Uh-oh...he was good. She'd been so tweeked by his roaming hands that she hadn't noticed when he'd nicked her wand. At her surprised expression, Macnair released a trollish chuckle.
Looking as if he found Macnair's antics gauche, Lucius finally kneeled on the grass beside her, spreading his cloak out fussily. "Never fear, my girl...you won't remember any of this, unfortunately," he said, pulling a vial of clear liquid from his robes. From the way it sloshed about, Hermione gauged its consistency to be thinner than water. Veritaserum, she was certain.
Whatever happened, she could *not* swallow a single drop of it.
Macnair cupped her chin, squeezing lightly until she opened her mouth passively. "There's a good girl," he cooed obscenely, and Lucius unstopped the vial, leaning forward to spill the contents onto her tongue.....
As his hand journeyed towards her, she saw that he was precariously balanced on the heels of his expensive Italian shoes, his knees spread apart for support. Taking advantage of his vulnerable position, she shot out with her right foot and whomped him squarely in the balls.
"YUG!" Lucius croaked, and the truth serum dribbled down the front of her robes, missing her mouth by just a few centimetres. His face, which typically resembled a mask of exquisitely carved ivory, went red and twisted as he rocked sideways and curled into a fetal position, whimpering.
-Too close...- she thought distractedly, watching him gasp for breath.
Then cold steel touched the edge of her throat. It was Macnair, holding a knife to her neck.
"Nice move," he whispered into her ear moistly, his chin settling into the groove of her shoulder. "Lucius likes to get answers using the old hocus-pocus, but I find that Sweet Lou here is far more convincing." He caressed the flat of the blade just beneath her chin, wrapping his free arm around her ribcage as he spoke. Beside them, Lucius continued to roll on the ground in silent agony.
She swallowed. "Only lunatics name their knives, you know."
He gave her a painful squeeze that forced breath out of her lungs. "Think you're smart, don't you," he hissed, the pretense of seduction dropping out of his tone.
In response, she butted her head back with all her strength, cracking her skull into Macnair's already misshapen nose. He grunted in surprise and loosened his hold on her, enough so that she elbowed her way free and was up on her feet, running.
-Oh god oh fuck...he's behind me...right behind me!- She could practically feel his hot, animal breath at her back, faster than terror. She was speedy herself, but for such a large man he moved in a remarkably nimble manner, galloping at a high pace, his arms windmilling out as if to help propel himself along. She was pulling ahead, though; grass whipped at her ankles and the forbidden forest rose before her, promising either sanctuary or certain death--though she didn't know which would find her first. Here the ground was just a tiny bit uneven. She stumbled on the incline, almost losing her footing, and felt her precious lead on him drain away.
"Got you!" he cried, flinging his arms around her as if they were engaged in a merry game of tag. She struggled to break free, but he was the one holding the knife. Casually, as if skinning a rodent, he sliced several deep gashes across the surface of her robes, destroying the material. Then he made another pass and the blade carved directly into her flesh, a long line of agony drawn just above her navel. She yelped and yanked the wrist that was cutting her in a sharp, upwards motion, turning the knife back towards him, hearing delicate bones grind together. He bellowed and she felt dim satisfaction, even as warm blood was seeping into the waistband of her skirt. Using all her weight, she shoved backwards and they both fell to the ground with a mighty thud; she was sprawled across his heaving chest and rolled off him, staggering back to her feet.
She had half-expected Macnair to leap up and resume the pursuit, but he was moaning wordlessly, his hands working inside the tattered front of his robe, eyes glazed with agony.
"Oh shit," she murmured, pulling aside the fabric with tented fingers. His own knife was burrowed into his gut, clear to the hilt. No blood seeped from the wound, but it was beginning to burble from his mouth, looking black as mud in dim moonlight. Had he stabbed himself when they fell together? It certainly looked that way, though Hermione thought she would have felt the butt-end of the knife dig into her back if that were the case.
Fishing her wand from the ruins of Macnair's clothing, she cast a spell on both of them to subside bleeding and speed up the healing process. She could only hope that it worked on internal injuries, as well. Then, all delicacy aside, she wretched the knife loose from Macnair's belly and, after a few minutes of thought, pocketed it. She typically admired knives, and would keep this one as a souvenir--it had been the very first to scar her body, after all.
"What have you done?!" She didn't even notice that Lucius had pulled up to her side, limping slightly.
"He'll recover," she said grimly, then turned on Lucius, her wand out-stretched.
Even under the night sky, she saw his already-wan complexion pale. He was at least a tiny bit nervous--no wonder, considering that his sidekick was nearly unconscious from blood-loss.
Working on a hunch, Hermione smiled cunningly. "Accio Veritaserum!" she said, and a second vial flew from his pocket and into her upheld palm. She closed her fist around it and breathed a sigh of contentment.
"I had a feeling that the death-eaters motto was 'be prepared'....looks like I was right," she said, unstopping the vial and giving it a cautious sniff. Oh yes...this was the real thing. Ministry-grade, too, from what she could discern.
"Let's see...I could just dump this on the ground now, couldn't I?" she mused, enjoying his panicked expression. "But I have a better idea...." She moved forward and he opened his mouth obediently, though his eyes betrayed his horror at what was happening. "Thank you...you're being very agreeable," she said, tipping the serum onto his tongue. He swallowed without being asked to do so.
She stepped back to observe him. His body appeared to relax dramatically, a calm drunkenness overtaking his features and softening them out until his face almost seemed likable. He lowered himself into the grass and sat back casually, as if he were merely attending a picnic.
Hermione sat down beside him. "Lucius?" she asked, curious.
"Hmm...yes?" he replied, his voice disconnected.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, you're Hermione Granger. Muggle-born, sixth year at Hogwarts, prefect, top of your class....you're one of Harry Potter's friends, and my son hates you." He smiled placidly, fanning his fingers against his out-stretched legs.
"Why did you want to use the truth serum on me, Lucius?" she asked, a bit disturbed by just how well the veritaserum worked. -If I had swallowed any...Oh Gods....- she shuddered at the notion.
"The Dark Lord asked me to," he replied, his face expressionless. "I was supposed to ask you about your name, where you come from, what you do at Hogwarts, how much magic you know, what you and Dumbledore talk about, what you and Harry do together--"
"But why?" she asked, growing impatient.
"The Dark Lord believes that there is more to you than meets the eye. He senses that Potter has allied himself with one who has recently developed powerful, ancient magic. He wants to know more about your purpose."
"I see," she said, and Lucius remained quiet, waiting for her next question. She studied his handsome, clueless face for a few moments before raising her wand. "Obliviate," she murmured.
Light blinked back into Lucius' eyes. "Where am I?" he asked, rubbing his forehead dazedly.
"Stay here," she commanded, and rose to her feet.
Macnair was where she had left him, still stretched out in pain. The bleeding from his mouth had stopped, though, and his eyes narrowed dangerously at her approach. "You--" he began, trying to sit up.
"Obliviate." He fell back, lapsing into unconsciousness.
"Repairo," she said, and his damaged robes magically mended themselves. When he woke up, he would wonder at the fresh wound in his belly, and would probably miss his knife, 'Sweet Lou'....but he wouldn't remember what had happened.
She should have been happy to escape with her life, but she found herself tired and deflated, instead. Voldemort would know that his death-eaters' memories had been altered...there was no avoiding it. And of course, he would link this incident back to her. She could only hope that he would perceive the scenario as one in which Harry Potter and his incorrigible band of friends had once again gotten the better of him, as they so often did.
Looking down at herself, though, she almost laughed at the state she was in. Blood was spattered clear down to her ankles, and her robes were shredded to the point where she doubted a repair spell would fix them. Her belly ached desperately, stinging with every step that she took; mud and guck was ground into every pore of her body, her lower ribs felt cracked, and three of her fingernails were ripped down to the quick. She certainly couldn't go to back to her dormitory looking like this--nor could she risk checking in with Madame Pomfrey.
She came to a decision quickly. She would return to Severus' quarters.
-----
After six hours of deadened, dreamless sleep, Severus woke and reached across the bed, his arms curling around the now-cold spot where she had been. His eyes fluttered open. A single slice of moonlight illuminated the bedding, revealing her absence.
-You can't have expected her to stay with you, fool....- he thought bitterly. No, he hadn't expected. Merely hoped.
He massaged his brow; the pain in his head had subsided, but there was an odd vacuum that remained in the depths of his skull, as if a rotten tooth had been pulled loose and extracted.
After a quick shower, he settled himself before the fire, a glass of brandy in hand. It was nearly three in the morning, and he reminded himself to take a sleeping draught before bed the next night--he needed to get back on a sane sleeping schedule, once and for all. As he sipped thoughtfully, a familiar shuffling noise came from behind him: the bricks that made up the doorway to his office were cascading away. She had returned to him.
The brightness he felt in his heart went cold and caliginous when she crossed the threshold, clutching the scraps of her robe close to her body. She smiled at him faintly, but trembling shoulders betrayed her. Wet and filthy, her hair had a few stray leaves caught in it, and a flecks of dried blood stood out against her pale neck.
Fury blazed through every one of his nerve endings--the torment of Imperius shrinking from his memory at once. "Who did this?" he demanded, swooping towards her.
"Malfoy and Macnair..." she wheezed, doubling over slightly. Amazingly, a light bit of laughter came from her lips. "Looks like Voldemort picked the same day to put us through the mill....didn't he?"
"What did they do to you?" he growled. "Was it Cruciatus?"
She grimaced. "Afraid not....just old-fashioned physical violence. You should see the other guy..." she quipped lamely, her voice weak.
"Tell me what they did!" He moved forth, straightening her up at the shoulders. She gasped in pain and the ruined robes fell away; beneath them, her blouse was equally ravaged, open from neck to waist, revealing the length of her bloodied torso. Bruises the size of small hams were forming on either side of her ribcage.
"Oh Gods..." she pitched forward, putting her hands on his chest for support. Her eyes were glassy with anguish that bordered on madness. "Severus...oh...it hurts," she said. And the quality of normalcy in her voice frightened him: she sounded perfectly lucid--neither stammering, nor whimpering. *It hurts*.....the words were delivered like a statement of fact and rationality.
-Its not that she just accepts the pain--she *expects* it....-
Silently, he cursed Voldemort for the remainder of his monstrous days. Let the viper burn.
"Please...let me see," he said, and, calm despite his rage, pulled her hands away from the wounds she was shielding. A long, deep gouge ran across the width of her stomach, still oozing blood--not a mortal wound, though if she hadn't magically slowed the bleeding, she could have very well bled to death, in time. Gently, he pressed his fingers into the side of her ribs; she drew in a sharp breath, but didn't cry out. "Broken," he murmured, feeling the bones shift. "I can do something for the pain, and speed up the healing. But I can't mend these things all at once. You'd need a medi-witch for that."
She nodded vaguely, looking in need of sleep more than anything.
"We need to clean you first," he said, holding her up carefully. "I have some insta-cleanse powder in my classroom--"
"No," she interrupted. "I need a real bath. I need...to feel clean again." Her voice was husky, finally cracking with signs of emotion.
"But you can scarcely move."
She looked up at him purposefully. "Then you'll have to help me," she said simply, and he nodded his head, not daring to deny her anything.
In the bathroom, she sat stiffly on the toilet while he busied himself by fetching clean towels and a bathrobe. The deep, iron-banded tub, like the sink in his classroom, was fed water through the mouth of a stone gargoyle. Usually he liked the effect, but this time it struck him as inappropriate and ominous--not something a girl should have to look up at as she washed away the memory of her attackers.
As she struggled to remove her own clothing, he watched hesitantly from the corner, unsure of himself. There were several handy spells that could whisk clothing off a body instantly, but he doubted that she needed the mental jolt of such an experience. After this pause, he quietly assisted in pulling off the remainders of her bloody blouse--parts of it had dried to her skin grotesquely, particularly around her wound, and she winced when he picked the stiff fabric away. Her brassiere looked as if it had once been shell-pink; unhooking its clasp, his stomach dropped. He couldn't deny that he had wanted to undress her....but never like this. Soon she was entirely naked, and he gathered her old clothes into a pile. Later, he would burn them.
He scooped her up and lowered her into the warm water, supporting her back even as she was submerged. He sponged her shoulders down with soothing amaryllis oil, and though pain was still swimming in her eyes, she seemed to relax under his touch.
"Stop looking at me like that," she said lightly. "None of this was your fault."
He shook his head. "Both of us attacked on the same day...it can't be coincidence. He was in my mind, and he saw...."
"He saw nothing," she said evenly. "Lucius was ready to use veritaserum on me, but I forced it down him, instead. He implied that Voldemort was curious about me, but said absolutely nothing that led me to believe he had knowledge of my true identity."
He dunked the sponge into the tub and wrung it out, frustrated. "But why did he go after you now, after--"
"Think, Severus," she interrupted, stilling him with a move of her hand. "Dumbledore is away for two days. He's meeting with Fudge and the Ministry--it's all over the papers."
Snape said nothing, realizing that she had a valid point. He had long suspected a form of mental and spiritual connection between the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore; Voldemort would not have dared to violate the school--or those within in it--if the headmaster had been nearby.
"I still don't understand....Lucius shouldn't even be able to touch you within this school. Even with Dumbledore away."
"Some of the Slytherins...." she said, then trailed off, her features a struggle of conflicting emotions. "It was Draco Malfoy, Marcus Baddock, and Roland Nott. They stunned me...delivered me."
He closed his eyes, holding in a breath. So...some of the older Slytherins were finally following in his own generation's footsteps, born and suckled on the words of their twisted parents. "They stunned you?" he asked archly. "What you describe is more or less kidnapping....and delivering you into the hands of the death-eaters counts as intent to harm. I promise you that they will be expelled for this."
"No," she said softly, shaking her damp head. "It won't work, Severus....I could have stopped them at any moment. Their stun couldn't even touch me."
"What exactly do you mean?" he asked after a long pause, his voice dropping a few degrees.
She sighed and leaned back into the tub, and the exhaustion on her face reminded him of how she had looked seven years ago, when her *true* age had been sixteen. "It's a long story. Tell me--what do you know of Anaemus?"
"Anaemus?" He frowned. From what he knew, the Anaemus was nothing more than a myth, one more version of the wizarding-worlds' favorite bedtime story, detailing a supremely powerful magic that needed no wand or incantation to be performed. "I've heard very little about it that I would trust," he finally admitted.
"I've been learning a little bit about it from Albus. Now, I don't really know much more than you do, but a week or so ago I somehow stopped Albus from cursing me during one of our practice sessions, and I wasn't even holding my wand at the time. And then tonight, just before Nott stunned me, I drew a line in the air, like this..." she held out a finger and pantomimed the motion.
"With your wand?" he asked, not catching on to her meaning.
"No....that's what I'm trying to tell you. I just drew a line--not even knowing *why*--and it made a barrier appear. Nott's curse was absorbed before it could hit me." She looked at him desperately, sensing his disbelief.
"Are you telling me you only pretended to be stunned?" he asked, his tone stoney.
"Yes," she said in a small voice.
Now incredulity rattled him to the core. She had seen him in a state of complete shame and vulnerability less than twelve hours ago, knowing he had suffered in the hands of Voldemort and his death-eaters, and yet courted similar disaster with the thoughtlessness of....of a reckless, teenaged Gryffindor!
"Do you realize what could have happened to you?" he seethed, and he might have well shaken her if she wasn't already injured. "How could you behave so foolishly?!"
She began shake with silent sobs, and bent over to clutch her knees into her chest; whether it was to hide her nudity or her shame, he did not know, but with broken ribs, it was a position that was sure to hurt. Saying nothing, he uncoiled her from the hunched pose as carefully as possible, then shook his hands dry.
By the time she was warming by the fire, wrapped in a bathrobe, he had mixed up a healing potion. He didn't speak until the potion was in her hands, saying only: "Drink all of it, straight away." She did as he told, even though it was clearly difficult to swallow the foul stuff down. The mixture came with its own pain-reliever, and she was soon testing the strength of her limbs by standing up and stretching, her movements still slow and careful.
"Here," he said brusquely, handing her a set of his school robes--magically altered, of course, so they would fit her. He turned his back as she dressed, ignoring the fact that he had just spent nearly an hour washing her nude body, using a tenderness that he had never before privileged to anyone else.
"I know you're angry..." she said, her voice hitching. "But please, look at me?"
He faced her, his expression unchanged. Dressed now, nothing but her face and hands showed--and that skin was white and scrubbed, two rosy spots burning on the flesh just below her eyes. She looked so young...why did she have to look so young? A muscle in his chest spasmed, wanting to reach out to her, tell her it was okay..that he forgave her.
-Traitor...- he thought bitterly. -It's not *her* that needs forgiveness, is it?-
"It's nearly morning. Your friends will be missing you," he said, unable to express any more than that.
She didn't beg him. Didn't even look back as she slipped out the door.
----
Hermione expected that tonight was right up there with the worst moments of her life--second only to the night that her family had been killed.
Unfortunately, downhill events tend to keep heading in the same direction once they've gained some momentum.
After she droned a password, the fat lady opened the portrait hole, glaring at her for coming at just past four in the morning; only the fact that she was a prefect saved her from a long-winded chewing out. At this hour, the Gryffindor common-room should have been empty. There would be evidence of students, of course--sweaters draped over tables, chocolate frog wrappings left about, Neville's homework sticking out from under a chair--but all the students should have been asleep.
Someone was awake, though. He stood facing the fire, and the flames created a faint nimbus around his entire body, blurring his features so that they were unrecognizable. Then the portrait hole clicked shut behind her, and he whipped around to face her.
"Harry..." she said dully. "Still up then, are you?"
He moved away from the blinding fire. "Yes. I was waiting up for you."
She swallowed thickly. Why was his tone so formal? And why was he looking at her that way? Harry was the type of boy who flitted in and out of eye-contact when he spoke to someone, as if wary of the emotional weather surrounding the other person's face. But now his eyes were locked to hers in defiance.
"Sorry then," she said, unable to meet his stalwart expression. "Expect I must have fallen asleep....in the library."
The excuse sounded suddenly ridiculous, even to her.
"Spare me," he spat, also unconvinced.
She froze, realizing that he wasn't merely annoyed with her--nor upset, not precisely. His look was one of mingled mistrust and....hate.
Relishing the fact that she was speechless, he anchored his arms across his chest. "I gave you so many chances, you know."
"Chances for what?" she whispered, the dull pain in her chest and stomach forgotten as something far more agonizing crept through her veins.
"Chances to tell me who you are!" He said, his voice rising by octaves. Then, with savage reflexes, he leapt forth and took rough hold of her arms, pinning them to her bruised torso.
-Oh please no not YOU Harry please no...- she thought mindlessly, biting down on her tongue to block out the eruption of fresh pain.
"Quit playing dumb!" he condemned, daring to shake her just slightly. "I know you're not who you say you are!"
-Those words...-
Then she remembered where she had heard them. Or read them, rather.
In those blasted notes, of course.
**********************
Am I sadistic enough to write two cliffies in a row? Apparently...Yes! And glory be, does Angst abound or what?
explanation: Nott's first name is not listed in the Harry Potter lexicon; I've seen him called Alan and Mark by other writers, but I thought Roland sounded a bit more sinister. So yeah, there's my take.
My birthday is Thursday the 6th--if you want to give me a present, a review would do just fine ;)
