Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Eleven

It was a distinct glimpse: the headquarters, on relief, on

thoughts of home -- perhaps; setting his face towards the

depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate

station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps he was just

simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake.

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Hermione found that she did not even need to bother with a mental excuse. After a painfully long night, she made her way purposefully to the Apparition point nearest her hotel. She did not hesitate as she closed her eyes and opened them to see the nearly familiar Yorkshire countryside.

Perkins was just over the hill.

The receptionist smiled broadly as she stepped into the front hall. "Let me see ..." she said. "Miss Hermione Granger, here to see Severus Snape. How's that?"

"Right in one." She managed a faint smile.

"You know the drill," she said, sitting the familiar box on the edge of the counter and continuing to smile as Hermione obediently emptied her pockets and took off her shoes.

She'd forgotten to put on her thick socks and the cold from the tiles burned her toes. "I don't see why we've got to take off our shoes," she grumbled to herself.

With a chuckle, the receptionist gave her a look of understanding. "I think Severus' doctor likes controlling his patients' atmospheres completely. He's a wonderful doctor, though -- Dr. Cuthrell is one of our best."

"How is he, then?" Hermione asked, giving her pockets one last check. "Sn -- Severus, I mean. Not Dr. Cuthrell."

"No different than usual," she replied diffidently, sliding the box under her desk. "He's such a quiet fellow, according to the nurses. Rarely an ounce of trouble these days. You can go on back now, dear."

Unhesitatingly, she walked past the receptionist's desk, through the narrow hallway, and up to the door she knew would lead her to Professor Snape.

Snape.

Severus.

The word felt strange in her mind. But indeed, he was certainly no longer Professor Snape and he lacked the fire and brimstone she'd always associated with Snape. That left Severus.

But it felt incorrect, even as she twisted the cold doorknob under her fingers and crossed through the doorway. Snape glared up at her, hand running through his abominably short hair in a rather affected gesture.

She wondered briefly if he missed his former hair.

Hermione sat down, not speaking, and began to wait.

It did not take him long. "Why are you back?" he asked, tone verging on contemptuous.

"Why are you here?" she countered, surprised to find herself irritated at his question. "If you do not want to see anyone, simply don't come in the room."

Snape sighed and placed both his hands on the tabletop, palms facing downward. "I am not afforded such a choice," he stated coldly. "Although it would be my preference. But the doctors are under the delusion that visitors 'cheer me up.'" This was said in a falsely cheerful, mocking sort of voice. "And so here I sit, unable to do otherwise. You, however, being in full possession of your mental faculties, are permitted freewill and yet here you sit as well. Thus, Miss Granger, it is your position that is questionable -- not mine."

"I thought I made it clear last time that I would not answer such questions," she replied, giving him her best glare. "We appear to be revisiting old ground, Snape."

"I have nothing but old ground," he said witheringly. "It is simply a matter of choosing the thorniest patches."

Finally beginning to wonder why she thought it would be a good idea to visit Snape on today of all days, she decided to give him an easy way to drive her out. "Would you like me to leave, then? Allow you your peace?"

"Feel free to exercise the luxury of choice," he drawled. "Stay or leave, Granger, it makes no difference to me."

"I never thought I would say this," she replied, suddenly tired of him. "But you, Snape, are a liar."

He blinked slowly, cat-like, and his expression did not change. "I am many things," he conceded after a pause. "But never a liar. I always tell the truth." Here, he smiled ferally. "Although it may, at times, require a certain perspective to discern that fact."

Hermione had to think about it for a few quiet moments, but eventually she had to concede that she'd never heard an outright lie, or even a half-truth, cross the man's lips before.

The smile widened. "You see?"

She wanted to hex him. Hit him. See that smile disappear. She hated him.

It widened impossibly further -- she'd never seen such an expression on Snape's face before. "Oh, it's not me that you hate, Miss Granger," he said lazily, leaving her gasping with his perception. "Rather, you hate that you're wrong. Or, you fear it, perhaps. You used to, at least."

Frowning, Hermione opened her mouth to object. "I did not. I knew --"

He seesawed a hand back and forth through the air. "Fear of being wrong, fear of inadequacy, it's all the same thing, Granger. And what compounds it all is that, in most ways -- in the important ways -- your fears were completely founded. You are wrong, girl."

"What?" she gasped, mouth flapping open uncharacteristically. "You can't --"

"The fundamental question one always asks oneself, Granger, is, Who am I? What is my purpose? It is rarely a conscious phenomenon, but it is simply an inevitability of life. You, Miss Granger, decided many years ago that you were a hero. Destined for greatness. Your mind would be pitted against the one you saw to be your only possible intellectual rival -- Voldemort. Feel free to deny me if I speak falsely, Miss Granger."

Unable to reply, although exactly why, she was unsure, Hermione just scowled at him.

"But you were wrong, weren't you?" he asked, a manic spark of glee dancing in his eyes -- it took her a moment to realize it for what it was. "You were wrong. Tell me, Granger, did you hate Harry Potter when he stole it from you? When he dragged Voldemort's body through the hall, did you want to hurt him?"

She breathed in sharply, a physical pain shooting through her belly. Why was he doing this to her?

Snape's eyes continued to twinkle hatefully. "I confess, I cannot blame you if you did. Everyone knew that when Voldemort fell, it would be your doing, despite the fact that it would, by necessity, be by Harry Potter's hand. Imagine our collective surprise, then, when the little swot managed it on his own."

A tear fell into her lap. "Stop it," she said dully. He wanted to hurt her because he could and now he was enjoying her pain.

Of course he did not stop. "Not even Albus thought Potter had it in him to do it without your coaching. And I will admit, Potter handled it poorly, rubbing your nose in it like that. Of course, he does have that air about him. Always. Even as an adult, functionless in every possible way in life, he is nothing but --"

She closed her eyes and Harry's dead eyes flashed sickeningly through her mind yet again. "Stop it!" she cried again, louder now. "Don't you dare speak of him like that. Not now!"

"And why not now, Miss Granger?" he asked softly, acidly. "Don't tell me you're in love with him. Is that why you returned to England? I'm afraid to inform you that Potter is happily --"

Interrupting him again, she was now crying freely. "Harry is dead, you horrible bastard," she spat. "Murdered in his own home and I won't let you talk about him in that way. Not when he can't defend himself."

Snape blinked again and the manic glee was gone. "Dead?" he echoed flatly. "Potter is dead? How?"

"Murder," she repeated. "I cannot believe that you did not know about it."

"Sorry," he said, only a trace of bitterness in his tone. "My subscription to the Daily Prophet has been revoked recently."

Still angry, she would not back down. "And you receive no other visitors?"

He scowled darkly. "Any other visitors I receive would know better than to mention that name in my presence." His expression became more thoughtful and his hands relaxed on the tabletop. "Murdered?" he asked again. "To what purpose, I wonder."

"They don't know," she replied. "Ron told me they think Death Eaters ..."

He waved his hand at her, cutting her off. "Death Eaters," he mimicked nastily. "All Death Eaters fit nicely into three categories. One -- irretrievably dead. Two -- imprisoned in Azkaban under the Dementor's Kiss. Three -- clinically insane." He paused to give her an ironic smile. "None of these include a condition in which committing murder is actually possible. No ... your Potter was no longer a Death Eater target."

"Well then, who could have done it?" she asked impatiently, momentarily putting their previous conversation out of her mind.

"That would depend, Miss Granger," he said with a smirk, "on the nature of his death. Was there, perhaps, a note?"

She gave him a look full of hatred. "He was a loving father of two who was, by all accounts, absolutely besotted with his wife. He enjoyed his job and had a healthy social life. Suicide is at least as illogical as the murder itself."

Studying her with an air of clinical detachment, his voice lacked its prior venom as he spoke. "Even the most mundane of existences, Granger, usually has an underbelly. But I will accept your assessment for the moment. What makes you so sure, then, that it was murder?"

"Why do you care all of a sudden?" she shot back, unwilling to share the details.

An eyebrow lifted. "Mere curiosity, I assure you. 'Care' is an awfully strong word."

Hermione wondered impassively for a minute if the details could possibly shock him. If the horror she experienced could conceivably affect him. Maybe she could hurt him after all. Maybe his own apparent lack of compassion could bother him. "He was slaughtered, Ron said," she said as coldly and objectively as she could. "Split open and bled to death. Like an animal."

Her stomach turned as Snape actually perked with interest. "I wonder ..." he mused, apparently forgetting her presence momentarily. "No," he finally said. "Not a Death Eater."

Again, she was defiant. "Why not?"

"The only one capable of such a thing would have been Rodolphus Lestrange. He always had a bizarre fondness for knives. But the man's dead, Granger. Died ten years ago."

"How can you be so sure?" she asked, crossing her arms across her chest.

He rolled his eyes at her. "I witnessed it, Miss Granger. He slit his own throat in order to evade capture." She winced and he continued. "Curious, though. He was alive when whoever did this, you say?"

Her throat was dry as she swallowed. "According to Ron," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. "He said the look in his eyes ..."

Snape was quiet, permitting her grief with an air of indifference.

The moment passed and she felt her tears abate. "Yes," she repeated. "Yes, that's what he said."

"Impossible," he grunted.

Hermione blinked, unbelieving.

Voice sharpening, Snape gave her a contemptuous look. "There is not a spell in existence that could do such a thing, Granger."

"The Dark Arts ..." she began.

His look intensified. "Miss Granger, do I need to remind you exactly whom you are speaking to?"

She fell silent and waited, hoping against hope that he would continue.

"To my knowledge, then," he amended fiercely. "There is no such spell. Which means that it is an impossible way for Potter to die. Was he bound?"

"I don't know," she said lamely. "But it's not impossible," she continued. "He could have been --"

Again, he cut her off. "Are you suggesting what I think you are?"

Her gaze did not waver. "Muggles kill each other with knives every day, Snape."

Snape laughed sharply, cynically. "You are a stupid little fool, aren't you?" he asked her rhetorically. "Think, Granger. How do children become aware of their magical abilities?"

His smirk taunted her, spurned her. "Trauma," she replied shortly. "Well, usually. Heightened emotional states bring out inherent magical abilities."

"Wandless," he added. "And completely unrestrained. I am certain that you yourself experienced such childhood events. Consider further, Miss Granger -- what is the usual outcome of these incidents?"

She was confused. "What do you mean?" she asked, feeling rather stupid. "They become aware of their magical talents, of course."

He cocked his head, studying her. "More basic, Granger. If you drop a Muggle child off the top of a ten story building, it will, generally, not survive. However, if you do the same to a wizard child ...?"

"It survives," she breathed. "Usually completely unscathed. When I was four, I fell out of the apple tree in our backyard and landed on my head. My neck should have snapped instantly, but I was fine ..."

"You illustrate my point, then," he said with a short nod. "And you understand why Potter's death is impossible."

She forgot that she was sitting there, enduring what amounted to an interrogation from awful old Snape. She was too wrapped up in the knowing, in the rightness. "His wandless magic," she said, wonder in her voice. "It should have saved him. The sort of sheer terror that would have produced should have brought out his latent power. It's happened before with Harry, too."

Snape nodded again. "Less common with adults, of course. Takes much more to frighten them. It also has to be a significant enough period of time to register. Wizards can be killed in, well, automobile accidents, for example. Not enough time for wandless magic to kick in. But I imagine it would take a considerable amount of time and inspire a fair amount of terror to saw Potter in two -- more than enough for his magic to throw off anyone who was intent enough to try. Kill them, if necessary." And he folded his hands neatly on the table, giving her a look that reeked of superiority.

The anger was back. How dare he speak so callously about Harry's death?

"A pretty puzzle, Miss Granger. It does make an odd sort of sense, though. Only Harry Potter would be bothersome enough to die in an impossible fashion like that."

"Shut up," she growled, gritting her teeth. "Leave him alone."

"Have no fear," he said. "I have no intention of wasting another iota of my time on Potter's shade. Let him haunt your mind -- I am well rid of him." He was quiet, ostensibly gauging her reaction to his words. "Well, little girl, was this visit as pleasant as your last? Did you find it as enjoyable as your academic posturing from before?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I hate you." Fiercely, matter-of-factly, not a shred of deceit in her tone.

He nodded solemnly, accepting the sentiment. "I expect you do," he agreed.

She left him like that, carefully watching her as she deliberately stood and walked out of the room. He did not speak, but she felt his eyes on her back until she closed the door.

As she leaned against it, breathing deeply, trying to regain her control, she saw a shadow on the floor that did not match her own. Hermione looked up. Cuthrell.

"Good morning, Hermione," he said warmly. "Just been visiting with Severus, have we?"

"Go away," she said in a tired voice.

He smiled at her. It was just as charming as it had been before. Knowing what he intended from her, however, made it far more repulsive. "I can tell you've been speaking with Severus," he teased.

Not smiling, she looked into his mirthless eyes calmly. "I do not pretend to understand your meaning, doctor."

"He does have that effect on people, doesn't he?" he asked, still affecting cheer. "Pity that all the visiting rooms are warded with Silencing Charms. The head of the hospital thinks it's a good way to gain patient trust, despite the fact that it interferes with treatment."

"I do not want to talk to you," she replied.

"I'm not asking," he said, voice only holding a shadow of a warning. "You spoke with him for well over an hour. He answered you, and not just one-word retorts, either. Tell me what you spoke of, Hermione."

"Nothing of any significance to you," she said, looking away. "Or to him, either."

Suddenly, Cuthrell grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his unexpectedly shrewd gaze. "I looked you up, Hermione Granger. I was curious to see what it was about you that made Severus break his self-imposed silence. I am still curious, to be sure. There appears to be no discernable relationship between you two. You were his student while you were at Hogwarts. There is no other connection."

"Fascinating, I am sure," she spat. "Let me go!"

"Why are you visiting him, Hermione?" he asked, releasing her.

She ran a hand over her face, trying to clean the feel of him off of it. "That is none of your concern. Ask him for all I care."

He smiled again and it was decidedly less charming. "Do you love him, then? Some silly little schoolgirl crush? Unbelievable, but then again, stranger things have happened. Maybe he even loves you in return. Is that it, Hermione? Are you letting him fu --"

She slapped him then, of course.

To his credit, Cuthrell barely paused as he switched gears. "I wonder, Hermione, does Albus Dumbledore really know you're here?"

"Don't be a fool," she berated, stepping away from him.

But he pushed forward, both physically and psychologically, stepping toward her again as he spoke . "Dumbledore takes a great interest in Severus' treatment here. He is the next of kin, after all. I would think he would be very put out to find out about anything ... untoward going on."

"I agree," she said, moving down the hallway and praying he would not follow. "It is a very good thing, then, that no such thing is going on, isn't it, doctor?"

-- -- -- -- --

Cuthrell did not follow.

Hermione was grateful for it as she collected her belongings from the friendly receptionist and bid her farewell. In fact, she managed to stay fairly composed until she reached her hotel room.

There, sitting on her bed, her bag in one hand and an apple in the other, was Ron Weasley. He offered her a cautious smile. "Thought I'd surprise you. It's my lunch hour."

Startled, drained, and emotionally charged, she burst into abrupt tears. Dropping to her knees there in the doorway, she buried her head in her hands and damn near howled out her anger and frustration and pain.

"Hermione ..." He sounded puzzled. And then a hand on her hair. "Hermione?"

She allowed him to wrap his arms around her shoulders, hands moving up and down her back as she shook with the effort of her tears. "He was right," she wailed. "Damn him and he was right!"

"Shh ..." he clucked. "Who was right, love?"

"Snape," she moaned into his shoulder. "He said ... ooh, he said awful things. But they were true. Always true. He never lies."

"'Course he does," Ron whispered soothingly into her ear. "Snape lies all the time, I'm sure."

Lifting her head, she looked up at him with tear-stained eyes. "How do you know?"

He smiled in reply. "Well, he was a spy for Dumbledore for all that time, wasn't he? How was he going to fool a bunch of Death Eaters and one Dark Lord into believing his fidelity if he didn't lie once, at least?"

Giggling through her sobs, she was chagrined when they turned to hiccups. "Well," she began grudgingly, slowly, pausing to hiccup. "I suppose you're right."

"There, there," he said, giving her shoulder one last pat before releasing her. "We'll show that mean old Snape, won't we? We won't let him hurt us one bit. In fact, we might even have a little fun tonight, if we let ol' Ron have his way."

"Fu -- hic -- un?" she echoed, hiccupping in the middle of the word. "Wha -- hic -- at do you me -- hic -- ean? Da -- hic -- hamn it!"

Ron laughed heartily at her distress. "Hermione, I missed you far more than I'd realized."

She glared. "So -- hic -- hod off, Ron."

With a wide grin, he took her hands and helped her to her feet. "That's a fine way to treat the fellow who's showed up to take you away from all this," he said loftily, indicating her dingy hotel room.

"What?" she asked, sucking in a deep breath and holding it, mentally counting off the seconds. A hiccup escaped through her nose and she blew out, cursing as she did so.

He shook his head and picked up his apple, biting into it. "I never understood how you could hiccup while holding your breath. I've never met anyone else who could."

"I'm spe -- hic -- hecial," she said sarcastically.

Continuing to eat, he indicated her bag. "I've packed up everything I could see, but I'm sure I missed a few things. So you might want to give everything a last look-see."

"Wh -- hic -- here are we go -- hic -- hing?" she asked as she began opening and closing drawers, picking up the odd article and shoving it into the bag.

"I'm running away with you, of course," he said dramatically, taking another big bite. "Hermione, my ravishing loveliest love."

"You're an ih -- hic -- hidiot," she replied, ducking into the lavatory to scan its contents.

There was a loud slurping noise that she decided she didn't want to know about. "D'you want me to scare you?" he asked loudly.

She poked her head out into the bedroom, carrying her last few toiletries. "Knock yourself out," she said, suppressing a hiccup with little success.

"I know for a fact that Argus Filch likes to go up to the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts late at night and dance around naked with Mrs. Norris," he said with a straight face, cradling the apple core in his left hand.

Hermione made a face. "You're right. I'm sc -- hic -- hared. But not cured."

He shrugged. "I just want you to know you drove me to this, Hermione. Now ... hiccup!" he shouted.

"What?" she asked, startled.

"I want you to hiccup, Miss Granger, now!" he roared, in his best Snape voice. "Do it or I'll hex you from here to tomorrow!"

She blinked, actually trying to produce a hiccup in her confusion at his behavior.

Ron's voice shifted back to its usual friendly timbre. "There. All gone now?"

Zipping up her bag, she realized he had done it. "My hero," she sighed dramatically. "I think I'm ready for you to whisk me away now."

"Great," he said, tapping his apple core with his wand. "Just grab on, then." He held it out.

With a shudder, she shouldered her bag and laid a single finger on the skin of the apple core, trying not to come in contact with the parts he'd bitten around. "You're disgusting, Ron."

Before he could reply, she felt a little tug behind her navel and was jerked forward. As she fell, her eyes instinctively closed, so that when her feet hit the floor again, she realized she had no idea what floor they were standing on.

"Where are we?" she asked, eyes still not open.

"Your home away from home," he replied cheerily. "Mi casa es su casa, love."

Finally bringing herself to open her eyes, the first thing she saw was a huge mass of papers and what looked to be folders strewn across a room that might possibly hold a sofa. And a chair, perhaps. One piece of paper in particular wriggled at her. "Hey, Ron?"

He pitched the apple core into a nearby dustbin. "What?"

"Do you have ... a familiar?"

"No ..." Ron looked rather confused. "Why?"

Hermione sighed.

-- -- -- -- --