Faith For The Faithless

Chapter Four: A New Camp and Compassion

Ginny Weasley stood up stiffly and bent her knees a little to stretch the joints out. She had been crouched on the frozen ground for five minutes and the frost had already covered her red hair with a thin layer of ice.

"They've been gone for at least three hours," she announced, her voice muffled through the woollen balaclava she wore.

"You didn't expect them to stay, surely?"

The dark skinned Auror who had replied tartly was standing in the doorway, swathed in layers of wool and fur. His face, apart from the dark brown eyes which gazed at her, was covered in garb similar to what she wore.

"Of course not," she snapped, pulling her fingers into her sleeves and curling her hands into fists to preserve any warmth that was left, "but some sort of sign might have been nice!"

"Like 'hello, Ginny, sorry we missed you'? 'Cos I don't think that would have been likely. Never mind, maybe the next time they'll invite you in for some hot skilly."

"Shut up Kingsley!"

They stood in silence for a few second; clouds of vapour from their breath rising between them so they could barely see each other. Finally Ginny shrugged, although the gesture was completely blanketed by the clothing she wore.

"Look, let's just go home, alright. It's so cold."

"It's bloody Russia!" Kingsley bellowed, "Of course it's bleeding-well cold!"

Ginny reigned in her anger tightly, revelling in the feeling of warmth her sluggish magic gave when it trickled down her arm in response to the emotion. Without another word she disappeared, only the icicle of a pop left behind her. With a furious growl, Kingsley Shacklebolt vanished after her, his pop echoed by the loud sneeze which would haunt him all the way back to drizzly England via several floo-ports and apparating stops.

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"Hvem er De?"

The man opposite them regarded the pair in furs with distinct suspicion from behind his scarf. A thick woollen hat was pulled down over his ears and he wore a chunky wool jumper, but no coat. There was a little snow lingering on the ground, but most of it had been burnt off by a warming sun which stood at its highest point in the sky. When they did not answer him, he attempted to talk again.

"Hva er De gjøre på min eiendom?"

Suddenly he pitched forward towards them with an expression of horror etched on his ruddy features. Hermione leapt back as far as Snape's firm grip on her would allow. Above the man's body stood Blaise Zabini with his wand out, still emitting a little green residual magic. His face was stretched in a grin as he began removing his furs and bundling her underneath his arm. Their trunk sat in the garden next to him, half on top of a large growth which was probably some sort of crop.

"That was hasty, Zabini," Snape rebuked, turning the man over with a boot, "he could have been useful."

"Or he could not have been," argued the younger man, picking one end of the trunk up and beginning to pull it towards the squat building just a few feet away from them.

" Hjelp!" echoed out suddenly, a frantic, terrified scream.

Snape and Zabini did not seem to wish to hurry towards the woman's ultimate demise, and ducked their heads as they entered the house. It was as well they had as a stunner flew past them and into the fields; Lestrange was standing with his wand out and two bodies at his feet, his mask dangling idly from his fingers and his furs half off.

"Such a pleasure for you to join me," he lisped out, spittle flying from his wide mouth.

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The central commands of the Order of the Phoenix were assembled in Albus Dumbeldore's former office at the top of the spiral staircase protected by an angry gargoyle. All four of them were listening intently to the pair who had returned from Russia several hours earlier with frowns on their faces. Arthur Weasley was sucking on a piece of Droobles' Best Behaviour Gum, which did not swell up and blow noisy bubbles as the original gum did, but retained the long-lasting flavour; Remus Lupin was tapping a quill against the table top while Minerva McGonagall scribbled notes on a long piece of parchment despite the enchanted quill flying over a similar piece a few feet away. A small, withered looking woman with a large hat on seemed to be staring at a whirling piece of golden machinery but her ears were perked forward and her elbows, firmly planted on the table, twitched a little when the speakers exchanged narratives.

"…And well, that's it," Ginny finished, shrugging her shoulders a little at their surprise, "I mean, there were definite signs that they had been there, but no-one was left behind."

Arthur Weasley frowned in consternation.

"What was left behind?" he asked, passing the sweet from one cheek to another as he tried to work out this problem.

"Rubbish," Kingsley answered moodily, "just old toot that they clearly hadn't thought worth taking with them."

"No," Ginny's mouth stretched into a thoughtful line, "I don't think so. I think they left in a hurry. I mean," she began to clarify seeing the puzzled faces, "some of the stuff left there was quite valuable. Look at this."

From the pockets of her jeans she pulled a small gold object roughly the size of a silver sickle and placed it on the table in front of McGonagall, who regarded it with suspicion. Tapping it sharply she murmured a few words and the object grew until it was the size of a dinner plate.

"What is it?" asked a puzzled Arthur.

"It's a bowl," Lupin leant over the table, nose quivering with excitement, "look at the runes on it. It's for the collection of blood, I would imagine. They're terribly expensive and have to be kept pure at all times."

"So what's the stuff on it?" the elderly lady, who had been about to poke the crust on the bowl with a swollen finger, "doesn't look like blood, or like it's been kept pure."

The six of them stared at the bowl for a moment until McGonagall broke into a smile.

"Porridge!" she announced, "It's porridge! Can't you see the oats?"

"Why, yes, of course," Lupin turned the bowl over in his hands, "indeed it is."

"So either they're getting sloppy and leaving items like these lying around for some reason," Ginny concluded, "or they left in a real panic."

"Or," Kingsley's face broke into a smile, "a certain somebody's found Snape and is intent on ruining his equipment."

"Thank you, Ginny, Kingsley, if you could just monitor the communication devices at all times please? The last tip-off was a good one and our quick response certainly surprised You-Know-Who," the old lady looked rather pleased, "these muggle devices seem to be working superbly!"

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The apprentice was sitting on the edge of Snape's bed with her legs folded up underneath her and her bushy head lowered to the piece of parchment she was holding. Three simmering cauldrons sat along the narrow wall, leaving very little floor space. Two were protected by bubble charms to keep the fumes firmly held; the other was spewing a delicious smell throughout the room.

Sighing, Hermione stood up from the bed and leant over the cauldron with a ladle. She was stirring it slowly when the door flew outwards and Snape stamped into the room, knocking slush off his black boots and onto the rug covered floor. His face was set into a firm scowl and his lips were tightly pursed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he bellowed, kicking irritability at her.

She didn't answer, and made no noise when the toe of his boot caught her elbow with a slapping noise. Instead she held the ladle, full to the brim with whatever was in the cauldron, out to him and buried into the trunk to find a spoon.

"What is this?" he grouched.

"Stew."

"Where did you get the bleeding food?"

"What's happening out there?" she asked instead of replying to his question.

"Nothing of your concern," he snapped, folding his long legs underneath the bed with a grimace.

The stew was hot, although it didn't really taste of anything, and spicy and warmed him through to his freezing toes. It was nowhere near as cold as Russia, but it rained perpetually leaving all the Deatheaters with wet furs and bedraggled hair. Hats slid down over faces, furs stank to high heaven, men sneezed and wheezed all over the place.

Hermione sat next to him on the bed while he gulped down the meal; it scalded his throat slopped down the front of the filthy fur he wore. She refilled the ladle without any prompting while he climbed out of his coat, and then began unbuttoning his shirt as he sat and ate his fill. Her nimble fingers danced in and out of the horn buttons and pulled it off his aching shoulders, folding it neatly and laying it over the end of the large bed. His boots came off next while he had another fill of stew, sucking any goodness he could out of the thinly diced rements of vegetables and meat. Soon he sat naked but for the briefest of his underwear and she pulled off her own damp clothing.

"In," he gestured towards the side of the bed furthest from the door, next to the wall, scowling.

She complied and pulled the blankets up around herself. His thin body was pressed next to hers, the wet furs steamed a little in the heat and threw off the scent of animals and men living together, and she slept.

"Stupid girl," he groused, wrapping an arm around her warmth, "stupid, stupid girl. Why did you even come here?"

If anyone had heard they might have said that underneath the fury there was the barest slice of compassion in his voice.

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"Hvem er De?" Who are you? Norwegian

"Hva er De gjøre på min eiendom?" What are you doing on my property? Norwegian

"Hjelp!" Help! Norwegian

All translations are rough estimations only