It's wet outside, though the rain's stopped. Puddles soak the pale hemline of my newly-adopted robe. An inch of cold water soaks my trainers. Gooseflesh ripples my arms like a plucked chicken's skin.
"At bottom." Loki sniffles. "Bottom... steps. Master."
In the dusk sun, everything seems washed in shades of gray, and I almost don't notice the pooled black wool cape against muddy earth. But then I see shafts of milky-white skin at the nape of his neck, his fingers like pale spiders against the dark ground.
And dark smudges against his pale skin. I lean forward and breathe in deeply, praying for courage. The air smells sharply of copper; the dark streaks are blood. I close my eyes and reach out to his neck. His skin is too gray and flat looking. I suspect he's dead.
That's why he returned my wand, I think. He knew he might die. I'm startled by the sudden realization, now, that Professor Snape is the one person who's been protecting me against the Malfoys and... whatever it is that's out there. I know nothing about what's happening outside my golden cage. I have no idea where I am. Captor yes, but also protector.
The wind comes in sobbing gusts. How far would I have to walk to find other people? A settlement?
My finger connects with his throat. Please don't let him be dead.
Thank God, I still feel warmth, still feel his heartbeat's gentle rhythm beneath vellum-fine skin. His face is half-sunk in the soil, and when I turn his head upward, there's mud and blood and what I suspect is vomit over his mouth and face. I use my hand to wipe it before I realize that I have my wand. A quick swish and both he and I are cleaned off. His head settles in my lap, sticky-red trailing from his cuts, his expression set in a permanent grimace even though he's unconscious.
"Professor Snape?"
No response.
"Professor Snape, can you hear me?"
Again, nothing. Loki presses his hand to his teeth to stifle his cry.
"Severus," I try, a last ditch attempt.
He groans something incomprehensible against my leg. I brush my fingers through his perpetually-greasy hair and heal a few stray lacerations, hoping that he can somehow feel that I have no ill-intent.
"I'm sorry, this is going to hurt," I whisper. "But it can't be helped. I'm going to have to levitate you."
Even as he floats upwards from the ground, I can hear his strangled cry. It sounds like he's trying to shout through fluid; even I realize that's a very bad sign.
I head down the left corridor, but Loki tugs on my hem and points in the opposite direction.
"No, no," Loki murmurs. "Master's bedroom is upstairs, is easier this way."
"The stairs are warded, Loki."
He smirks. "Not the stairs for servants, is they? Follow me, Loki knows, Loki be good and Master will be better. Come, bring Master flying!"
I sigh and gently turn Professor Snape's body in the opposite direction, accidentally knocking his ankle against a balustrade in the process. He lets out a grunt, and I cringe.
"Not too much longer," I whisper to him, touching his shoulder.
My fingers come away smudged with blood. I try not to dwell on it as Loki guides us through tiny, winding corridors, and finally up a claustrophobically-narrow, unadorned staircase. I have to angle Professor Snape as I float him through, and my stomach flips when I realize he's leaving a dark-red trail behind us.
"Not much longer," I reassure him, though it might be a lie for all I know.
"That's right," Loki whispers. "Soon, we be quick. Through this door... see? Is on the left."
I have no doubt that this giant walnut door keeps unwanted visitors out of Severus Snape's bedchamber. When he wakes, he might be angry that I've invaded his personal space. Right now, it doesn't matter.
His body settles into the dark satin bedding. I turn to Loki, all business.
"Bring me a phial of blood replenishing potion number three," I order. "The lime-green one, third cabinet from the left, second shelf down."
Loki hesitates. "But Master says Loki mustn't bring Missy anything she might harm herself with..."
"Your master will be dead if you don't get me the potion. Now are you going to do it, or am I going to have to do it myself?"
I run my hand menacingly over my wand. Loki's eyes widen before flicking back towards Professor Snape. Loki eventually nods and vanishes, leaving me with the near-impossible task of extricating his master from his robes. It's only now that I'm alone, with decisions to make, that I realize how hard my heart is beating, how much I wish he'd just wake up. Some sign that he'll be all right.
I brush one hand over his arm. I've been so foolish. What if he really does die? I could run away. Where? England is ruled by Lord Voldemort, the property is surrounded by wards. God knows where else... no. Now is not the time to think about that. Now I have to focus on healing him.
His Death Eater robes are heavy velvet, the once-silver embroidery now thick with filth.
When I tear off the top two buttons, the fabric slips away, leaving only a simple shirt and pants. That's as far as I've gotten before Loki reappears with the blood replenisher. I flick my wand - the pants vanish, but the shirt and undershirt are stuck to his skin with blood. I leave them - I don't want to hurt him.
Knowing he's unconscious, I crawl onto the bed to get at him more easily.
I flick my eyes over his battered body. I bark orders like a military commander.
"Loki. Pain killer and a scalpel, please."
Loki's eyes widen, and I swear he's imagining me using his beloved Master as a living dissection specimen. He doesn't question me, though, and returns moments later as I'm forcing open Snape's mouth and pouring the horrible-tasting potion down his throat. Not quite sure what to do, I lean down and listen to his chest. It doesn't sound liquidy anymore; his breathing seems to have cleared. Just in case, I place a bubble-head charm over him before getting onto the clothes.
I'm not a Medi-witch. It's all guesswork beyond the basic first aid that every witch or wizard picks up along the way.
There's no way I'll pull him out of his clothes without injuring him further, so I very, very carefully cut his shirt, then undershirt with the scalpel, and peel them back.
I let out a sigh of relief. No nicks. Though with the number of gashes he's already suffered, I doubt it would matter.
His shorts will stay on him, though I have to cut off his undershirt.
With three best friends who constantly played Quidditch, I know how to perform charms to fix a cut. The twitching from Crucio overexposure, that's another matter altogether, and I decide to ignore it and hope for the best. The gashes are long and deep, perhaps well-aimed slicing hexes. By the time I've cleared the biggest ones from his chest and shoulders, the blood replenisher's worked its magic, and the unhealthy gray pallor has been replaced by its usual unhealthy whiteness.
He's all scarred. Not from tonight, but very old ones; a lunate mark on his shoulder, a hard white circle on his upper arm, a long, straight one from hs upper chest to his belly. When I reach out to test his pulse again, his skin crawls, and suddenly, one hand darts out to clamp down on my wrist. His eyes snap open, black, wild, darting about the room.
I freeze. He's most definitely alive.
"It's just me," I whisper.
He slowly relaxes and the steel fist unclenches from my arm. His eyes flutter shut. He lets out a mumbling noise and moves his head slightly, unknowingly using my side as his pillow.
"I've never seen anyone this hurt before," I murmur. "What did you do?"
"What I didn't do," he mutters. "Do you think the Dark Lord thought I needed a potions assistant?"
His voice is slurred with exhaustion and the temporary high from the blood replenisher. It's strange, he's always been overpoweringly in control, and now he's no better than a doll in my hands. He's not terrible looking this way, relaxed and pale, with thin lips and eyelashes like dark scythes against alabaster.
"I shouldn't have brought you here," he murmurs. "But I didn't know what else to do, Hermione."
I run my fingers over his temples like I used to do with Ron and Harry when they'd drank too much.
"I was terrified you wouldn't come back," I say. "I thought you were dead."
He doesn't hear me. His breathing is steady, he's relaxed, and his expression is almost pleasant. He's fallen asleep. I watch him, admiring his pale skin, dark hair, long fingers for a few minutes. I'm drawn to him, affectionate. I lose track of time, but the rain peters out and the sun rises while I sit in the balloon chair, staring at him.
Though I'm not quite sure why, I give in to my odd urge to press a kiss to his forehead, and slip out.
---
"You'll be bait, Miss Granger. Lucius Malfoy is one of Voldemort's closest. Severus - Professor Snape here - is, in actuality, spying for us. If we capture Lucius using you to lure him out, that would leave us with only Bellatrix Lestrange to deal with," Headmaster Dumbledore told me.
"Do not readily agree, Miss Granger," Professor Snape hissed. "This is a lethal game you play. More likely than not, it will prove fatal."
"I can't just say no, Sir!" I protested. "Not if it might end the war."
"Allow me a few moments to explain to her the reality of the situation, Headmaster."
Dumbledore paused for a moment, then nodded. "Do not go out of your way to frighten her off, Severus. I know you wish to."
"I wish that no eighteen old girl would be placed in such a situation," he snapped. "I will give her honesty, which is more than you have offered!"
"Severus." Dumbledore's voice held an uncharacteristic note of warning. "Do not try to manipulate this situation to your advantage..."
"Excuse me," I interrupted, "But what are you two talking about?"
"Oh, nothing you need concern yourself with." Dumbledore smiled. "Suffice to say, you may very well allow Harry to get to Voldemort, should you accept this plan."
"Well then..."
"Wait, my dear," he interrupted. "I have promised Severus that everything will be explained to you before you make your decision. So, Miss Granger, I hope you will listen carefully while he tells you what we will need. There you go, Severus. Explain away."
With that, Dumbledore lifted himself from the sofa, brushed off his robes, and ambled out the door. Professor Snape watched the door closing, and, once it had, took a quick glance around the room as he always did, scanning it for portraits, chocolate frog cards, or mirrors which might overhear secrets. Onc content that nothing was listening, he lifted himself up from his seat, poured him and I each a drink, and seated himself down at the opposite end of the bench.
At Order Headquarters, during the Spring break, things were different than at school between Snape and I. He still hissed insults at Ron and Harry, called them Potter and Weasley, and in darker moods, Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber, still made comments about Ginny and Harry's near-hourly snogging sessions and their future brood of imbecile children.
At Order Headquarters, he didn't give a damn if I drank and ignored me when I sat up in the kitchen until two thirty in the morning with a good book and a good bar of chocolate. Hell, sometimes he'd even sit there with me.
His lip curled.
"Are you insane, Miss Granger?"
"What?"
I frowned at him and took a sip from the tumbler he poured for me. He was angry, but kept it tightly reined.
"Miss Granger, do you have a death wish? It was only a few weeks ago you professed just the opposite."
"Don't be foolish. You know perfectly well that I don't have a death wish, as you put it."
"Well then why would you volunteer for a mission which will likely end with you in a pine box and with Potter reciting an eloquent eulogy?"
"It's probably not going to end that way. You're supposed to come and save me, aren't you?"
"Lucius is not like his son. He has no morals. He is a sociopath of the purest sort, and in war, that is most certainly an advantage."
My expression must have showed my surprise. My mouth formed a tight 'o' and I looked up from my drink to scrutinize him. Only his eyes betrayed his annoyance.
"You think it's weak to show emotion?"
"Yes," he replied. "It is not a matter of opinion. Clear judgment is clouded by feelings."
"I disagree," I replied. "If you love a person, you'll work harder to keep them safe. I know that if you truly care for someone, you'll do anything to keep them alive, even sacrifice yourself."
"Which is what you intend to do."
"I'm willing to," I said quietly.
"Who's willing to sacrifice themselves for you, Miss Granger? Who believes you're worth saving?"
I sighed, ignoring his question. "If it means the end to the war, I'll act as bait."
"You'll be in the crossfire, Miss Granger. Lucius does not make mistakes. It's just as likely that he will find a way to remove you from London to Malfoy Manor, where we won't be able to retrieve you. The things he would do to you are beyond your imagination."
"If I don't agree, the task will just fall to someone else." I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "I'm capable of doing it."
"Its not your capability I question, its your bloody-minded Gryffindor duty," he snapped. "You do not owe those two morons anything. You have spent seven years protecting them!"
"They're my best friends!"
"They aren't your equals."
I'd had this conversation with him before, and each time it left me angry and upset and full of a dozen insults that I was too polite and respectful to throw at him. Good God, the man didn't even seem to have any friends. How dare he judge me?
"Say it, Miss Granger, I know you want to."
"Say what?"
He shrugged, polished off his drink, and stood suddenly.
"Show some backbone, Miss Granger. If you're willing to throw your life away to Lucius Malfoy, I expect that much at least of you."
He slammed down his glass, and before I had a chance to say anything more, he'd left. I heard him stalk down the hallway, throw a handful of powder into the fireplace, and floo into Knockturn Alley. Just like he always did when he got in a snit.
A moment later, the Headmaster came in again, took a look at Professor Snape's drained glass, my own full one, and my eyes, rimmed red with unshed tears.
"Well, well. Have we come to a decision, then?"
I nodded. "I'll do it."
---
I carefully shut the door behind me, leaving the Professor to sleep in peace. The robes I wear are sweaty and filthy, and I peel them off, toss them onto a nearby armchair. My matching white slip is modest enough, I figure, for prancing about the house. Hell, I could prance about here naked; the only ones who'll see me are the portraits anyhow.
I'd like time to think, but instead, Loki appears with a worried expression.
"Mister Malfoy is here."
I gasp. No, no, no, this is not the time. I can't possibly deal with Lucius Malfoy alone. The Professor can't save me this time, not in his present condition.
Professor Snape has complex spells around his bedchamber, dark protective charms that I can't recognize. I figure, if I'm going to speak with Malfoy, here is the safest place. At least, if I shout a lot, Professor Snape might wake up.
"Show him up here, tell him I can't leave the Professor's side."
Loki nods, and a moment later I see a pair of heads appear up the side staircase.
"I don't know why anyone would ward the main staircase," I hear a snotty, familiar voice snap. "The servant's staircase of all things."
Mister Malfoy, thank God, means Draco in this case.
"Draco, don't dwell on it, I'm sure he has his reasons."
"Paranoid bastard, what the hell does he have to protect anyhow? He isn't what you'd call aristocracy." Draco halts mid-step. "Granger."
I nod at him, then, after a moment, at Ginny by his side. She gulps, and her eyes widen. She's afraid of me. Not that I blame her.
"We came to see Professor Snape." Draco keeps his tone imperious.
"He's asleep."
"Half-dead, you mean," Draco says. "I saw what Aunt Bella and the Dark Lord did to him. You better start putting out, my dear Mudblood, unless you want him dead - perhaps you do? You were given to Snape with a specific purpose in mind."
"And what's that? Rutting about after a hard day of Crucio and killing?" I reply.
Delay him. Keep him from coming inside.
Ginny gasps at my smart mouth, and Draco's eyes narrow.
"Such insolence," Draco says. "If my father had gotten his way and kept you, you wouldn't dare speak to me, let alone raise your voice."
"Believe me, Draco, had I any choice, I would stay as far away from you as possible. I have no desire to converse with you in any fashion."
"Snape evidently indulges you too much." Draco sniffs. "Unlike you, Ginevra always acts appropriately. Unquestioningly."
"I noticed that," I whisper. "Ginny..."
She bites her lip and her gaze flickers toward Draco before it falls to the floor.
"Look, Ginevra, I don't give a damn if you talk to your Mudblood friend, it's not like she has anything of consequence to say to you. Just don't let her uselessness rub off on you," he says. "Good grief, Snape was going to duel my father for you, Mudblood. I don't have any idea what he sees in you."
"Why would he have to duel your father?"
"Because." Draco examined his fingernails, sounding nonchalant. "My father suggested that perhaps Snape was... incapable... of performing his duties, if you catch my drift. Snape didn't take that too well. But my father has a point. After all Snape's machinations to obtain you, I half-expected you'd already be fat with a mixed-blood bastard child."
Why would Snape work that hard to keep me, just to lock me up in a downstairs bedroom? If, as Draco says, he really wanted a whore, he could have simply Imperio'ed me. Perhaps it is out of guilt, knowing that he alone betrayed the Order. Or perhaps it is because I was the only student he seemed to stand.
Or perhaps, as Draco suggests and as all evidence points to, Snape really does hold some attraction toward me. If so, he has a strange way of showing it.
"What a tragedy that it hasn't yet occurred." I sneer.
He glares at me, removes his cloak, hands it to Ginny. "On second thought, I don't want you exposed to her smart mouth, Ginevra. Take my cloak and the contraceptives Snape brewed you back to the Manor and wait for me to return."
"Yes, Draco," she murmurs, and then, after hesitating a moment, "Good-bye, Hermione."
"Good-bye, Ginny."
She vanishes, leaving Draco and I facing one another like a pair of cats about to attack.
Draco makes the first move. He stalks toward the bedroom door, and I step in front of him to block him.
"Let me through, Granger."
"Just who do you think you are? This isn't your home. What do you need with an unconscious man?"
He takes one hand, pins me against the wall, and moves his head toward me ear so I can hear his lethal-soft whisper.
"I have every right. You are less than a servant." He leans back slightly. "You will serve me."
I jump at the sound of Professor Snape's bedroom door opening with a bang, walnut on wall panels. Snape stands in the doorway, his one good arm resting against the doorframe. I didn't realize his left was injured; yet another injury to add to the roster of future cures.
His eyes are flat and cold. His one good hand trembles slightly.
"Draco. Leave."
Draco leaps back from me, face burning, and skitters down the staircase. I stand awkwardly in the corridor, now feeling strangely exposed in my light shift. When I step toward him, he darts forward, showing surprising agility for a man who, just two hours before, was on the brink of death.
His one working arm pulls me into his bedroom sharply. I squeak in surprise, though it doesn't hurt, and he tosses me down onto the bed.
"What was he doing here?" Snape snarls, towering over me intimidatingly.
"Draco? I don't know."
I'm trembling. He's terrifying. He hasn't his shirt on, and his white skin is marred with a hundred awful scars. His pointy teeth poke out from under his lips in a feral expression.
"You're sleeping with him, aren't you? I should have known, my house's golden child..."
"What? No! Never," I reply.
His eyes are deep with anger. He's kneeling over me, hands clenched into tight, white fists.
"He will not have you," he hissed. "You belong to me."
"Professor, I wouldn't, I mean, you can't honestly believe..."
"Do not lie to me, dishonest slattern!"
He brings back his hand. I twist my head to the side, clench my jaw and eyelids shut, and wait for his hand to connect with my cheek. My heartbeat races, my skin feels sweaty. He's never physically hurt me...
The slap never comes. Tentatively I open my eyes. Professor Snape is just sitting there, kneeling over me, head down, eyes locked on his flat hand.
"I'm as bad..." His eyes have a haunted cast to them. They're wide, and I can see the whites around the coalblack irises. Despite his heavy body, his earlier anger, something about his expression reminds me of a guilty child.
I swallow and try to regain my voice. "Sir?"
He reaches two fingers toward my face, but pulls back before they touch my skin. Here, like this, there's no denying that this is entirely a man. His entire weight is seated upon my thighs. His thighs are hot, hot, against mine, and the coarse hair scratches against my smooth skin. I couldn't leave if I wanted to. I'm torn between trying to wriggle away and bolt, and trying to comfort him.
If I wriggle away, as if I'm frightened of him, the damage might never heal between us. I'm not going to leave. Maybe he'll be upset. Maybe he'll call me an idiot, or a foolish child, but it's worth attempting to comfort him. He just looks so guilty.
I bring a hand to his face, cup one hollow cheek. The skin on my palm catches on the short stubble over his jawbone. He looks startled, eyes wide, lips parted. When he speaks, it's barely audible.
"What are you..." He clears his throat. "Where are your clothes? I had a dream you were in a wedding dress..."
"You were covered in blood and mud... and vomit," I whisper. "I got all dirty when I levitated you up here and took off the white robes."
He stares at me, waiting for me to speak this time, of my own volition.
"What happened? I thought you were dead, when I first found you."
My throat thickens with swallowed back tears - I'm angry that he could've left me alone, angry that he almost hit me, angry at the thought that I cared I much as I did, despite my resolve to act tough.
He brings his hands to mine, still cupping his face, draws them down, down, and lays them atop his bare chest. His own hands move up to my head, pulling at the coif that Loki worked so hard at earlier. I feel pins pulled out, curls springing free. My heartbeat quickens. I'm nervous. I don't know what to do, so I do nothing.
"I don't want you unhappy, Hermione," he leans forward.
His hands slide up my shirt, long fingers skimming my brassiere, fingers tracing through cotton padding. It takes him a minute to slide his fingers under it, find my skin beneath. Every touch is feather-light, like a museum curator examining a delicate sculpture.
I could push him away.
His breath is hot on my throat. I'm quiet, frozen where I lie.
I should push him away. I can see the bruises and scars all over his bare chest.
"I don't want you to fear me, Hermione," he whispers in my ear.
He kisses my neck and begins to unpeel my shirt. I don't protest.
---
A/N: This chapter was difficult to write, and I'm sure a lot of people find it uncomfortable to read, as I do. I tried to rewrite it more 'fluffily' but I couldn't make it work.
Questions - Duj, I didn't mean to imply that she'd only lost 10 lbs - I just wanted to contrast her 'old' thoughts against her 'now' thoughts, but it's really too vague. Thanks for pointing it out.