Faith For The Faithless

Chapter One in Perm, Russia

The factory the Deatheaters were stationed in during the month of January had been uninhabited since 1788 to muggle eyes. The floors of thick concrete were covered with a layer of straw to serve as a temporary carpet; the tall, narrow corridors smelt dank and mildew covered patches of the war; in places the walls had tumbled down enough for the river outside to be seen. In the entrance hall, rusty nails on which once the tattered woollen coats of workers had hung were bent double, and graffiti had been scrawled in Russian on the walls; crude words designed to impress the next child who dared to steel their courage and skulk in. The bitter winter wind whistled through the broken windows above the three metres of snow piled outside. It was a pitiful sight.

Peter Dunwronk crouched next to a metal bin holding all that could be conjured of a fire, pitiful orange flames. Over the Deatheater garb he wore a thick fur that had turned grey with disuse, and he shivered into the turned up collar violently. The three pair of gloves he wore did nothing to ease the growing stiffness of his thick fingers. His hair, underneath a fur lined woollen cap, was matted and filthy. His companion was trying hard not to breathe in too deeply, and had huddled his impeccably black furs around his body so tightly he appeared not to have the bare, hairless skin of a human beneath them. Dunwronk swore, and inched closer to the fire. His companion inched sideways, away.

"Wh' did 'e choose Russia in win'er?"

"It isn't for you to question, Dunwronk," his companion sniffed disdainfully and stood up to stretch his cramped legs, "you just do what you're told."

Dunwronk regarded the other Deatheater with derision, and a hint of curiosity.

"If you's so 'igh an' migh'y, why are youse 'ere wi' th'likes o' me?"

The more senior Deatheater snarled, baring a set of perfectly white teeth, and squatted on the floor again, shivering. He did not answer the question, and Dunwronk did not ask again, although he continued to watch the younger man with bright, agitated eyes. The snow stopped pouring down, and evening gathered in. The temperatures plunged and both Deatheaters moved closer to the fire, regardless of their dislike of the other.

"What's that?"

Dunwronk pulled himself up as quickly as his companion had done and peered into the snow filled gloom. Weaving their way over the top of the snow spread on all fours like an animal was a figure. Dunwronk and the other shared a glance, and leapt onto the snow. There was a bleat like a wounded animal, and all three bodies tumbled into the snow, a mess of wands and fists and fur.

The senior Deatheater was the first to emerge from the snow, tremors wracking his frozen, wet body. His hat was gone and blonde hair that covered his shoulders fell in disarray around his pale, blue face with its pointed chin and wide, swarthy eyes. He wrapped his arms around himself in a valiant attempt to warm up as he staggered towards the fire. Dunwronk followed closely behind, hauling someone by their ankles. His captive was wrapped in so many furs in differing shades of grey and black it was impossible to see the figure beneath it, and the face was wound about with a thick layer of black wool and netting to fine it was a wonder any sight was possible.

Dunwronk ripped the headscarf off ruthlessly, and stuffed it into one of his voluminous pockets with an ill concealed look of glee. The figure was female, with curly, dull brown hair that scattered all over her face, and bright honey eyes that peered up at her captors. The Deatheaters looked at each other and grinned jubilantly.

"We'll take her to the Dark Lord," the blonde commanded.

The girl was seized by her upper arms and dragged along the corridor. The two Deatheaters moved so quickly that at times her feet lost control and the dragged her around several corners, bumping her up a flight of rotten wooden stairs. They pushed her through a narrow doorway, and a sudden blast of heat enveloped them.

"Shut the door!" a harassed, high pitched voice yelped, and Dunwronk kicked the door behind him.

Both Dunwronk and his companion fell to their fours and crawled along the floors, face down. When they looked up, they were beside a large winged armchair, embroidered in rich velvet, placed in front of the fire. In it sat the Dark Lord, reclining in thin fur robes with a glass of red wine clutched in his reptilian hand. Slanting red eyes peered at them, and when he spoke shivers passed down their spines.

"My good and noble Lord, who fights so valiantly for His cause-"

"What isss it Malfoy? Why do you disssturb our peaccce?"

Draco Malfoy looked up and kissed the bottom of the fur lined robes.

"My Lord," he gasped, sweating in the warmth of the fire and the thick robes, "I have found an insurgent in the snow!"

"I can sssee that," Voldemort replied dryly, "I am not infirm, you fool."

"May the health and strength of my Lord last without end," Malfoy repeated mindlessly, "what is it that my Lord wishes done with the girl?"

"My Lord," a deep baritone interrupted the conversation, "may I speak?"

"Of courssse," Voldemort looked delighted as he regarded the thin, ebony haired man sitting close to him, "Ssseverus, it isss a pleasssant day indeed when you ssspeak."

Severus Snape bowed low in his seat and stood to stand in front of the prisoner who was held by Dunwronk. Peter Pettigrew watched the dark man pace around the girl nervously, and glanced at the door to see if it had been shut properly to prevent drafts swirling around the narrow, crowded room. The girl met Snape's eyes firmly, and then looked down at the floor as if she was humiliated by what his empty gaze held. Finally he looked back at the Dark Lord.

"My Lord, the girl was my apprentice."

"Apprenticcce?" Voldemort slithered, and leant further towards the standing group from his armchair.

"Indeed, my Lord, the girl has been receiving private tuition from me for almost two years, with the aim of expanding her considerable brains in the direction of your power. She has been a great help."

"Why isss ssshe here, in Perm in January?"

"I seek knowledge from my Professor."

All five men in the room turned to the girl in surprise. She was staring with rapture in her eyes at Snape. A little smile played around her lips.

"After you left, Sir," she dragged out the 'sir' until it sent shivers of repulsion down Pettigrew's neck, "I had trouble finding another Potions' Master of such acceptance towards the dark arts. Even Pallius Simop shows little tolerance."

"So you wandered into a Deatheater camp to find me?" Snape was incredulous.

"I wasn't aware you would be with the Deatheaters, sir, but it is knowledge I want, not safety."

There was complete silence, and then a wheezing laugh started from behind Snape. He turned, startled, to see the Dark Lord with tears of mirth streaming down his scaly face. The Dark Lord waved a hand at them, and Dunwronk unwillingly released his captive.

"Ssseverusss," he hissed once he had regained himself, "the girl cannot be allowed to leave thisss compound."

"Of course Master."

"What isss the name of thisss remarkable apprentice of yoursss?"

"Notitia²."

"The old cussstomsss of one new name, excccellant. You ssshall teach her knowledge, Ssseverusss, and onccce ssshe hasss learnt, you ssshall bring her to be marked."

Notitia stood stiffly as Snape beckoned her and forced the back of her neck down in a bow to the Dark Lord. Seizing her by the shoulder and digging his thin fingers into the dip beneath the bone, he forced her towards the door with an immobile face. The door slammed behind them in an eddy of icy wind and left them in the frozen corridor.

"Watch your steps," the Professor snapped, "the ground is slippery."

His apprentice made no reply, but followed him mutely along the damp corridor and down to a warded door at the end of the darkness. He whispered the incantations softly and pushed her inside the doorway. The room beyond was no larger than a double elevator. As Snape lit the candles, vials and jars flickered into view, balanced on unstable shelves over cauldrons. In the far corner a pallet bed lay, made of straw and patched cotton. A second pair of robes and thick furs lay draped over it. The floor was the same concrete as the corridor, but covered with a tatty piece of velvet, worn along the edges.

"Why did you come?"

Snape seized her by the arms and swung her around to face him until there was less than a hairsbreadth between them. She gasped, startled by the sudden increase in heat the close bodies brought.

"I want knowledge," she answered defiantly, "I need knowledge."

"It is foolish!" he roared, and the silencing charms trembled alarmingly, "What good will it bring you?"

"Someone needs you, Professor, and it isn't only me. It's the son of the girl you loved, all those years ago. I know you hate him, but there are others as well."

"Why did you come to me? I murdered the one who could save us."

"Because I have faith in you," she replied softly.

"Because you were the only one who would," he contradicted her, "no one else believes what you think is true. Why do you carry on being faithful?"

"Just because no one else believes it, doesn't mean it is not true."

He dropped her arms suddenly and turned away from her.

"How long have you been travelling for?"

"Three days without breaks."

"Then sleep. You are more use to me an idiot than an exhausted fool."

He motioned to the pallet bed, and she stepped towards it obediently, a sudden exhaustion filling her leaden limbs.

"Take your furs off first," he countered.

The bed was not comfortable and it was cool even with two layers of furs and two pairs of robes. The hay tickled her naked legs and itched behind her knees as her hair spread all over the pillow. She was dimly aware of his voice swearing loudly before she fell asleep, still hungry and thirsty.

Severus Snape put an extra ward on the door once he had finished swearing, and walked with an outward appearance of perfect calmness towards the State Room. Voldemort was sitting back in his chair, but consuming everything that Draco Malfoy was saying with an inhumane hunger. The blonde was sitting on his hunches as close to the fire as he dared, embellishing everything about the feeble story. Dunwronk, his companion, had been sent away, presumably back to sentry duty, and Wormtail was in the corner looking distinctly put out at the attention Malfoy was receiving. Voldemort glanced up when Snape shut the door behind him, and gestured him to the armchair by the fire. Malfoy glared.

"I think that will be enough, Malfoy," Voldemort dismissed him; "You have done reasssonably well, ssso you may return to your chambersss."

Malfoy looked elated at the prospect of a single chamber again rather than the freezing bunks and communal beds the lower ranks had to share. As he turned to leave, the Dark Lord addressed him again;

"After you have completed your three hoursss on sssentry duty."

Malfoy hunched his shoulders, but knew better than to show annoyance in front of the Dark Lord. Voldemort turned to face Snape, swivelling around in his chair to look at this most trusted of servants.

"You took the girl to your roomsss?"

"Yes Lord. She is sleeping as we speak."

"I am sssurprisssed you let her sssleep," Voldemort leered, and Snape raised his eyebrows fluidly.

"My Lord," he inserted a note of carefully shock into his tone, "I would do no such thing with my student."

"Of courssse," Voldemort looked amused; Snape was sick to the stomach.

The sat in silence while Wormtail poured a glass of brandy for each of them. Once the servant had retreated, Voldemort continued their conversation.

"How long will ssshe ssstay?"

"As long as my Lord permits and she is useful."

"She'll be ussseful for a bed-warmer if nothing elssse. Keep her here asss long asss you want. Perhapsss I will converssse with her a little; if you call her 'notitia' then she mussst indeed be wissse."

"Thank you Lord, you are most gracious to those undeserving of your kindness."

Voldemort dismissed Snape by standing and gathering the long ermine robes about his thin frame. As the Deatheater entered his chamber, the gentle rise and fall of Granger's breathing caught him by surprise and he whipped his wand out instinctively. She continued to sleep with her breath drawing out in ribbons of mist, even as he threw a beaker at the wall above her head in rage at being here, now. The glass landed in the bed and he sighed as he dropped his robes on top of the bed and squeezed his slim body between the furs, folding his arms across his chest so he did not accidentally touch her.

The bed was warm, he fell asleep quickly.

² Notitia is Latin, meaning 'knowledge'