Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Seventeen

If the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of

adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this be-

patched youth. I almost envied him the possession of this

modest and clear flame. It seemed to have consumed all

thought of self so completely ...

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Someone was knocking on her door. Ron's door. Well ... it was her door for the moment. Even though Ron hadn't let her pay ... a gift door. Wondering briefly what part of a gift door one should not examine, Hermione moved toward the noise, shaking her head at her own inanity.

"Erm ..." Albus Dumbledore said from the other side of the door, clearly perplexed to see her standing there. "Miss Granger?"

"Professor," she replied, nodding shortly. "Ron's not here. I presume that's why you're here."

His shrug was oddly eloquent, telling her simultaneously that, indeed, he had been searching for Ron, but she would be sufficient to speak with in any case. "As I've said, Hermione, please call me Albus."

She tried to remember if she'd ever given him permission to address her informally but soon decided that it did not matter anyhow. "He was here," she said in an attempt to be helpful. "But that Auror, Shackleford --"

"That would be Kingsley Shacklebolt," he supplied.

"Right," she confirmed, not skipping a beat. "That one. He Flooed this afternoon right after we'd finished up luncheon. We were planning on a ride or something into the country for a few hours -- Françoise was taking the kids somewhere and Ron didn't want to be bouncing around alone. But that Shackle -- Shacklebolt called him in to work. There's been another murder, you see."

Dumbledore -- Albus -- finally allowed a look of curiosity to cross his face, as if he'd known about all of the previous events she'd mentioned. "Another murder?"

Her voice hitched in her throat for a moment. "Like -- like Harry's. Same circumstances, I guess. They didn't talk about it, but Shacklebolt was pretty insistent about Ron's going in."

"Hrm ..." He was quiet for a little while, hovering in Ron's -- her -- doorway.

"Um ..." she found herself saying anxiously. "Would you ... like to come in, sir?"

The solemnity melted from his expression as his eyes met her own. "I would be delighted to, Miss Granger. Truth be told, I would like a word with you, although your guess was correct. I was here looking for young Weasley. When I went over to the house, François said she hadn't seen him since breakfast, and I thought he might have come over here to pick up a few things. I didn't expect to find you, though."

She moved away from the jamb, allowing him to step past her and into the living area. "Ron's letting me stay here while I'm in the country. He said it was ludicrous, me spending money on a hotel room. And it made sense, really, what with him all but living with --" Catching herself, her cheeks spread with a blush. "I ... that is to say ..." she stuttered.

With a dry chuckle that reminded her suddenly of Severus Snape, Albus made himself comfortable in the lone armchair occupying the room, stuffing escaping one of its arms and a hasty mismatched patch fixed onto the seat cushion with a Binding Charm. "I know of some of the circumstances surrounding Ron and Françoise," he said. "At least, I know as much about it as they do. As for the rest ... well, I have my suspicions, but I feel as if I ought to keep them to myself."

Settling on the only other piece of furniture in the room -- a moth-eaten old sofa that she dimly remembered from Ron's mother's parlor many years ago -- Hermione grimaced, wondering how many of his suspicions Ginny Weasley shared. "What did you need Ron for?" she asked awkwardly in a desperate attempt to direct the conversation elsewhere.

"Just a few minor points," he said, putting on his best 'twinkly old man' manner. She rather believed Françoise was correct about Albus Dumbledore -- he played the benign elderly fellow only when he knew it would be most unsettling. "Nothing that can't wait. Although you've given me more purpose, my dear, now that you've brought his new assignment to light. I confess, I'm surprised that Kingsley would bring Ron in. He's been adamant about keeping him off Harry's case."

"Ron has given me the impression that he's one of the more knowledgeable Aurors in the area of recent Death Eater activity," she said. "I expect that your Mr. Shacklebolt needs as much help as he can get."

Albus shook his head and Hermione caught a glimpse of a sad cast to his eyes before the twinkle was firmly back in place. "There's a reason that Kingsley Shacklebolt is the youngest person ever to head up the Aurory, Hermione. He's no fool -- for the past couple of months, Ron Weasley hasn't even been able to help himself. He would be of no use in such an investigation -- a liability, really, once he found a target for his anger. My question is, why now? What has changed that Kingsley wants Ron?"

She shrugged.

Slowly, his posture shifted, straightening from that careful slouch to something far more purposeful. "It is fruitless for us to discuss it further," he concluded decisively. "Since neither of us knows enough about the situation to make proper conjectures."

Hermione was rather gratified at the us but remained silent, knowing he had more to say.

Indeed, Albus continued to speak. "I will then ask you a fairly pointed question, Miss Granger. How is Severus doing?"

Blinking, she found herself pondering what the nature of her response should be. "I have not been to see him this week," she said carefully. "But last week, he seemed to be in high spirits. Well, at least as high as he ever gets, I think."

His smile was grim.

"He told me ... about his childhood," she continued in that same cautious tone, trying to gauge his response.

To his credit, Albus did not appear to be overly taken aback. "He did?" he asked. "Well, then. So you know ..."

She wanted to hear confirmation from his own lips. "Know what?"

"You know about my connection to Severus," he said blandly. "And you must have some inkling as to why he is the way he is, if you're as intelligent as Minerva used to claim."

Her eyes widened -- that almost sounded like sarcasm. From Albus Dumbledore himself. "I know he's depressed," she said. "But I doubt that's what you mean, except in the most roundabout of ways. I expect you're referring to the allusion he made to your guilt."

Albus let out a bark of laughter. "Guilt? Is that what Severus said? I would have thought his phrasing would have been more along the lines of 'taking responsibility.' Guilt somehow implies innocence in my mind and I do not doubt that he blames me nearly as much as I blame myself."

She remained silent, hoping he would elaborate.

"I am not surprised that Severus told you," he said, folding his fingers together in some intricate fashion that allowed him to twiddle many of them at once. "After all, I forbade him to tell anyone when he was young. I'm sure he took great delight in finally defying my order after all these years."

Hermione tore her gaze away from his hands -- they were making her dizzy -- and met his blue eyes, free of any sort of sparkle for once.

"I am not a man who generally makes mistakes, Miss Granger," he said candidly, an arrogance in his features that she hadn't noticed before. "But when I do, I most often wind up hurting that boy. The first time I ever laid eyes on him was at his mother's funeral." His voice became introspective, losing its sharp edge. "The skinniest little drowned rat of a boy you've ever seen, with patched robes and big black eyes. I swore to myself as I watched him standing beside his mother's grave with nary a tear to shed for her that I would never let any harm come to him. And you see, Miss Granger -- you see how I've failed him?"

"But you took him in," she argued -- but it was weak. "You took him in to raise when no one else would."

"I didn't have the heart to take him to an orphanage," he replied. "But I might have, if Aberforth hadn't been so adamant about not taking him. Severus will tell you, Hermione," and here his eyes regained a bit of their usual mischievous guise, "my brother and I generally do not see eye-to-eye."

"He hinted toward that," she said dryly.

Chuckling, Albus finally allowed his posture to relax once again, leaning back in the chair and hands going to the arms. "I can imagine. In many ways, Severus reminds me a great deal of my recalcitrant brother. Most of those ways, though, are ones in which my brother reminds me of myself."

Hermione's expression must have betrayed her confusion and disbelief -- he laughed merrily at her.

"Oh, Miss Granger!" he cried. "I can tell by your face that you thought Severus to be all Snape. No, my dear," he said, still smiling broadly, "the Snapes are a rather dour bunch, to be sure, but, as a rule, Snapes are dreadfully dull. Between Severus' two Snape uncles, I'd say there's not an ounce of wit. Oh, Tertius is a decent enough fellow, but I can promise you that Severus is the first non-traditional Snape in generations. He's a Dumbledore, through and through."

"He looks nothing like you," she said in a small voice, though she was not sure why.

"He's got the Snape coloring, I'll grant you," he agreed, "but a temper to rival Aberforth's on the worst of days. I like to think that he inherited my sense of humor," he said airily, smiling at her frown, "but Severus' wit is truly rapier-sharp. I'm afraid mine is but a broadsword's edge."

Hermione was absolutely flabbergasted. She'd never heard Albus speak so. "Françoise is right, then," she said, having no better response.

"Of course she is, my dear," he said. "She's quite a perceptive girl, when she puts her mind to it. Shame her father sent her Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts -- it would have been interesting to see her Sorted. A wonderful match for young Harry."

"I'm glad," she said, meaning it. "Harry always deserved to be happy."

"He did," Albus agreed. "Although I'm afraid I didn't particularly assist him there. Another victim of one of my mistakes. Possibly more than one, but I do not care to think on it."

"I doubt he saw it that way," she said staunchly.

Albus sighed, and it was unhappy. "I know he did," he said. "At least once, that is. But I think, at the end of it all, he understood. He understood what needed to be done and why I needed him to do it. I only wish ..." His voice was wistful and had a disturbingly despondent note in it. "I only wish I could somehow make Severus understand as well."

She regarded him with furrowed brow. "Understand what?"

His laugh was bitter. "You saw less than I'd suspected, Miss Granger. Tell me -- why do you think that Severus hated -- hates -- Harry Potter like he does?"

Silent as she mulled his question over in her mind, Hermione chose her response carefully. "There was bad blood between Professor Snape and Harry's father. I know that. And he always said that Harry reminded him ..."

"Even Severus Snape is not so churlish as to condemn a child for actions his parent committed before his own conception," Albus retorted sharply. "No, Hermione, Harry earned Severus' bad blood on his own account."

She was lost in thought for a while but eventually came up empty-handed. "I don't know," she admitted, exasperated with both the topic and with Dumbledore himself.

"Miss Granger," he began in a thoughtful sort of voice. "From the moment Sirius Black and James Potter set foot on Hogwarts grounds, they were beloved. Teachers, students, even the headmaster himself turned a blind eye to most of their rambunctious behavior. I even had James made Head Boy his final year in a hope that he would calm down. And so, when Severus came to me one night during his sixth year spouting some nonsense about Sirius sending him to his death at the hands of a mad werewolf, I couldn't bring myself to believe it. I loved Sirius Black and James Potter so completely that I could not think them capable of such a thing. And so, I turned Severus away.

"He went to Voldemort, eventually," he said. "Severus sees many things in terms of black-and-white only -- a surprising number, really, for a Slytherin -- and so he managed to interpret my behavior through the years as the actions of a man who did not love him instead of what was closer to the truth -- the actions of a man who did not know what to do with the love he had. Sirius and James, you see, were very easy to love. Severus is not."

She remained tactfully silent, trying to imagine exactly how one would go about loving Snape.

"But I did not learn my lesson, Miss Granger. When I learned that the Potter family was one of Voldemort's targets, I protected them with every resource at my command. To be honest, I protected baby Harry. I knew the prophecy, you see, and I would have done anything to prevent that sweet little boy from being saddled with such a thing. And then, when they were ... when they died, I committed another fatal error. I left Severus to see to Harry. And that, Miss Granger, was when the Aurors descended upon the Order headquarters and threw him into Azkaban."

Her face went white with shock.

"I can see that he didn't tell you," he said, acknowledging her surprise with a short jerk of the head. "Yes ... Severus spent nearly three days in the hands of the dementors before I could get him out. And he suspects -- as I actually know -- that it would never have happened if I hadn't left him alone. Or at least taken him with me."

"So he thinks that you chose Harry Potter's well-being over his own," she said, puzzle pieces finally fitting together.

His voice was mild. "Oh, I did choose Harry's well-being over Severus'. At the time, I justified it to myself -- Harry was just a baby, after all, and recently orphaned. It never occurred to me that Severus would see it as yet more proof of my disregard for him. And through the years, it happened again and again. As Harry proved increasingly difficult to keep out of trouble, I had to intervene more and more often. Like rubbing salt into an open wound. Thus, Miss Granger, while Harry was hated through no fault of his own, it certainly was on his own account. And so I say again, I wish I could make Severus understand. I wish I could take away even some small part of the hurt that I've inflicted on him again and again."

"It's not your fault," she said gently.

"It's no more his," he replied. "And therein lies the impasse."

"I am sorry," Hermione told him in a low voice. "I am sorry for what everyone has been through. You, and Harry, and perhaps Severus most of all."

Severus? she thought to herself. What made me say that?

The only sound in the flat was the ticking of Ron's lone clock, attached to the wall over Albus' head. She watched the second hand circle the clock's face over and over, losing count of the minutes.

Suddenly, he coughed. "Well, Hermione, I'm afraid I've stayed far longer than I'd intended. Really, I must get back to Hogwarts. Would you tell Ron that I dropped by?"

"Of course." And she was on her feet, moving to the door to escort him out. "It was ... enlightening to speak with you, Professor. Albus, I mean."

"A pleasure, Miss Granger," he said politely, slipping out the open door and nodding at her. "As always. Until we meet again."

"Yes," she replied, watching him walk away. "Until then."

-- -- -- -- --

It was late. As she struggled through the miasma of sleep, that was the only concrete thing Hermione could lock her mind on.

It was late and someone was knocking on the door.

Loudly, unless she missed her guess.

Now alert enough to actually attempt to struggle to her feet, Hermione realized with a start that she was lying on the couch out in the sitting room. She must have fallen asleep while reading. Indeed, a dog-eared book whose title she could not recall she'd snagged from Ron's bookshelves was sitting on the floor.

The knocking continued as she shuffled her way to the door.

"Hey, Hermione," Ron said cheerfully as she opened it. "I was wondering if I could crash here tonight. I didn't want to disturb the kids by barging in at this hour."

Bleary and unable to formulate a reply, she just blinked at him.

"I can see, though, that I managed to disturb you," he continued. "Too much sleep is bad for you, you know."

She rolled her eyes. "What time is it, anyway?"

"'Bout two in the morning. So ... can I come in?"

"It is your flat, after all," she said, letting him past her with an indifferent shrug. "Although I'm going to consign you to the sofa for your cheek."

Ron did not look perturbed in the slightest. "It's a comfortable sofa. But I confess, I'm far too wired to sleep for a bit. Fancy a cuppa?"

"I thought you said it was two in the morning," she replied with a stifled yawn. "You want tea?" Her tone bordered on horrified.

"I can never sleep properly when I'm working on a case," he said, striding toward the kitchen. "You can go to bed if you'd like. I won't be offended."

Well aware of the fact that Ron knew he was feeding her curiosity, Hermione conceded defeat and followed him. "So you're on the case, then?"

"We haven't got much to go off of," he replied, shuffling around in the cabinets. "Do I own a teakettle?"

"Beside the stove," she said. "So, what do you think about everything so far?"

He shrugged, pulling out the kettle and walking over to the sink to fill it with water. "I can't decide whether or not it's nothing more than a curious coincidence. We never published any details on Harry's death, so I'm just not sure ..." Turning on the burner, he shot her an indefinable sort of look. "I keep hoping that if I can do this -- if I can find out what happened to Harry -- that the nightmares will stop. It's like his ghost has taken up residence in my brain."

"I can state beyond any doubt that's medically impossible, Ron," she said in an attempt to cheer him up.

His expression remained glum. "Bones -- that's the other victim, Alistair Bones -- had a son. Kid just turned ten, according to his mother, who I spent the afternoon interviewing. I hope he didn't ..."

"I'm sure he didn't," she replied swiftly.

"Nicholas did." Ron's tone was dark.

She had nothing to say to that and so did not speak as Ron fiddled with a teapot and cups. The water was soon boiling and he went about preparing the tea, using a potholder to carry it over to the table. "Best let it steep for at least ten minutes," he said.

"You always did prefer your tea bitter," she said. "I always thought your tea tasted like what I suspected boiled bark would."

"You never said anything," he accused.

Grinning at him, she poked at the sugar bowl. "Did you never notice that I took nearly five sugars whenever you made tea and only one when anyone else did?"

"It's been a very long time since I made you tea," Ron said.

With a suppressed sigh, she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the table.

"Hermione ..."

"Ron, it's two in the morning," she said, frustrated. "It's not the time ..."

He exploded. "It's never bloody time, is it, Hermione? What, d'you expect to show up after being gone for thirteen damned years without so much as a 'how've you been?' You left without saying a word!"

"I left a note," she protested weakly.

His laugh was reproachful. "Yes, you left a note," he said. "I carried that goddamn note in my pocket for years -- until it fell apart, as a matter of fact. Dear Ron, I have to go away for a bit. I can't tell you why, but I didn't want you or Harry to worry about me. Don't write to me, Ron -- I won't reply if you do. Take care of yourself, and Harry too, although he doesn't think he needs it. Love, Hermione. Do you know how many times I read that letter?"

Many, obviously, she thought to herself, not speaking.

"I wrote you so many letters, Hermione," he continued, anger radiating from every pore in his body. "Please come home, or what did we do wrong. Tore every single one of them up. Do you know we even went to Albus looking for you?"

"I didn't want --"

"It doesn't matter, Hermione, what you didn't want. Did you honestly think we wouldn't worry about you? That we wouldn't go looking for you?"

"I --"

"So when I ask you where you've been," he said slowly, "I'm not asking out of curiosity or even genuine interest. I'm asking out of need. I'm asking because of all of our sleepless nights, all of our tears, all of our anger. Hermione, tell me!"

"When I left," she began hesitantly. "I didn't know where I wanted to go. All I had was a suitcase, a rather aggravated cat, and eighty Galleons. My first Portkey took me to France. Spain after that. I was so disoriented -- the only thing I knew was I didn't want to be anywhere I'd been before. My next Portkey, then, took me to America.

"But America was too loud -- too busy. Even in the quiet places. So I went down to Mexico, as I've said. I was there for the better part of three years, traveling around, not settling anywhere. My eighty Galleons were long gone, so I took odd jobs here and there, staying around just long enough to save enough money to travel somewhere else."

His gaze was still stony. "How did you wind up in Tibet?"

"By mistake, actually," she said, emitting a laugh that went unreturned. "I was trying to get to Peru but took a Portkey to Hong Kong by accident. I'd always wanted to see China, you know, so I just stayed, working my way further and further west. It took me many months, but I finally got to the Himalayas. I had no more money, no more food, nothing but the clothes in my pack, and I didn't know where to go next. I was even beginning to debate going home. But one day, stumbling around in the cold without so much as a cloak, I found it."

"The monastery," he supplied flatly.

"The monastery," she agreed. "The monks were kind and took me in without question. I later learned that they do that sort of thing a lot -- taking in weary travelers with nowhere else to go. The difference is, most of their visitors usually take refreshment and leave. I just sort of ... well, stayed. For ten years."

His face was disbelieving. "And what did you do in those ten years?"

"I helped Master Xi with the garden," she said, straight-faced. "And, in return, he taught me."

"About ...?"

"A little about everything. Nature, philosophy, some martial arts. Specifically, usually about the Way. The path to enlightenment. I'm afraid I am not his most attentive of pupils."

"I find that hard to believe," Ron replied, finally softening a bit.

Hermione laughed and, this time, he smiled faintly. "Do you know what the monks called me? They called me Butterfly because my attention wavered so quickly."

"You're the only person I know who read Hogwarts, A History in its entirety," he said dryly. "And that's more than two thousand pages. Your attention doesn't waver, Hermione."

"You're vastly overestimating my abilities," she said. "And possibly underestimating the monks' teachings. Possibly, I ought to say simply that my meditation skills are pitiable at best and Master Xi was appalled when I was unable to spend more than an hour in the rock garden. He himself can spend upwards of four days there without moving. And before you start your disparaging remarks, let me say that I've actually seen him do it."

Wisely, Ron returned to an earlier subject. "Butterfly," he mused. "You know ... I rather like that. The caterpillar emerging from its cocoon and all that. And what's more, butterflies flit in and out of your life without so much as a pause, but you're always glad to see one. I approve of your monks, Hermione. Or should I say Butterfly?"

"You will whether I give you leave or not," she said with only a small sigh.

"So that's all?" he asked. "You spent the last ten years camping out with secret monks, learning kung fu?"

"Not exactly," she replied. "Not kung fu. Although I am very glad of the blocking moves Master Shen taught me before I was introduced to Master Xi. You might say ... well, you might say that I've been learning how to be still."

Shaking his head, Ron drummed his fingers on the table. "It's just difficult to picture. You sitting still." His face returned to its earlier somber cast. "Hermione ..."

She hummed questioningly and poured herself a cup of tea, hoping against hope that it wasn't bitter beyond repair.

"Why?"

Taking a sip, she made a face and reached for the sugar bowl. "Truthfully?"

"Truthfully," he echoed firmly, hands splayed out on the tabletop.

"When I walked out that door, I thought I'd only be gone for a week," she admitted with a rueful smile, stirring the contents of her cup. "I went to work that morning as usual -- in one of the Research departments over at the Ministry -- but my boss called me into her office. I can't even remember her name -- isn't that awful? Anyway, she called me in and fired me."

His mouth fell open. "Fired you? Fired Hermione Granger?"

She laughed at the look on his face. "Yes, Ron. Apparently their department needed to make some cutbacks and as the most junior staff member, I was cutback number one. I stood there -- it wasn't even nine in the morning yet -- with my last paycheck in my hand, not knowing what to do. So I went back to the flat, packed my bag, and decided I was going to take a vacation, figure out where to go from there."

"Helluva vacation, Hermione," he said with a sarcastic snort.

"I went to France, as I said. I was sitting at one of those nameless little cafes in the middle of Paris, having a coffee, and wondering how on Earth I could face my family with this news. Fired -- their perfect little daughter -- actually fired. And that was how I wound up in Spain."

"But I always thought your parents were quite --"

Flapping a hand, she cut him off expertly. "My parents are nice people, Ron. And they loved me very much, I'm sure. At least, they loved me when I was helping them fulfill their perfect dreams. It was all right, you see, when I had such problems in school when I was younger, because my grades were astronomical. As long as they had something to brag to their bridge group about, they could ignore the fact that I came home every day in tears or with a note because I'd accidentally set something on fire again."

"Why didn't you ever --?"

"Oh, I did," she said, anticipating his question. "I was eight or so. I deliberately flunked two-thirds of my subjects. Mum and Daddy slapped me into therapy before I could blink. I was so happy to go to Hogwarts -- not just because of the magic, but because it meant I had days where I didn't have to constantly worry about them. Do you know that when I left, Mum sent me exactly one letter asking me to come home? And I don't even think she wrote it. I think she had one of her receptionists draft it and just put her signature to it. I had to ..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I had to hear from one of my parents' old friends that I ran into in Hong Kong that my father had died."

He sighed. "You always seemed to get along so well ..."

"I saw them no more than twice a year," she said. "And if you recall, I never gave them a reason to be unhappy with me. Dumbledore never notified them about my injuries during the years, so they never realized what was really happening. Oh, they knew a bit about Voldemort, and enough of our escapades to know that I had friends for the first time in my life, but they never saw that I was in any sort of danger. Thankfully."

"So you left because of your parents?" His tone was doubtful.

"In part," Hermione told him. "But mostly because when I thought much about it, I realized I'd become the daughter my parents wanted -- dutiful, respectful, sensible. And I hated it. 'Good old Hermione, she'll know the answer,' everyone said. I just ... I wanted to go somewhere where they didn't want me to be perfect. Somewhere where I could just be ... well, just be, really."

Ron looked vaguely apologetic. "I didn't know we put so much pressure on you."

"You didn't, truly," she explained. "But I always had a function in everyone's mind. You and Harry, well, you two were just friends, no strings attached. But I -- I was your friend because of what we'd been through at Hogwarts. Admit it, Ron -- you never would have so much as sneered at me if we hadn't gotten into trouble together our first year."

He was uncharacteristically silent, not denying her assertion. After a long, sickening pause, he finally spoke. "It was Harry," he rasped. "Harry was afraid you'd be hurt. I didn't want to --"

"I know, Ron." Her voice was kind. "And that's fine. I understand. But do you see, then, what I mean? I felt that -- I felt that I had to make my friends like me. We weren't just friends for the sake of friendship. And it was so much work ..." Her tone sharpened slightly. "By the end of it all, I was just tired. And I knew, then, that if I continued along the same vein that I would wind up hateful, resenting all of you for making me work so hard. It was a slow poison, but poison nonetheless. So I stayed away. I stayed away, hoping that one day I could be happy enough with who I was that I could come back. But then ... then I couldn't stay away any more."

"Harry again," Ron sighed. "It was Harry who drove us together -- twice, now. I just wish that didn't mean ..."

Hermione laid a hand over his, fingernails rasping against the skin of his wrist. "I know, Ron. Me, too."

-- -- -- -- --