Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not

see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace

the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the

hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up -- he

had judged. 'The horror!'

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Severus almost felt guilty as he crouched in the bushes, squinting off into the distance, trying to determine whether or not the woman who'd been out in her backyard two hours ago hanging wet laundry would be back any time soon.

It barely mattered, though. His clearly hospital-issue scrubs were doubly cursed, being both incredibly incriminating and not nearly enough clothing for the chilly weather.

He'd spent the night mostly walking, keeping as far away from the roads as he dared. The absolute thrill of freedom had overridden his discomfort, but as the night waned and day broke, Severus realized he was infernally cold and wet and hungry.

The hunger he could do little about until he found Granger -- he had no money and he wasn't about to go begging. But cold and wet he could fix.

And that was why he'd spent the better part of the morning hiding out in what was looking more and more like a Muggle neighborhood, watching a woman do her laundry and trying to find some suitable clothing.

Unable to bear it any longer, Severus broke cover and dashed into the yard, snatching a pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt made of some light, fleecy sort of material he'd never seen before. He paused long enough to give a pair of boxer shorts hanging on the line a longing look but decided in the end that he didn't think he could bear the idea of wearing underclothing that had once belonged to someone else. This was as much as he dared to take from a single clothesline anyway -- Severus ran as fast as he could, back into a more secluded, woodsy area.

He tossed the scrub bottoms away with relish as he changed his clothes, although the denim that the Muggle dungarees were made from was rather rough as he pulled the trousers over his legs and up his hips. But they fit very loosely, so he didn't give it much thought.

On an impulse, he saved the shirt he'd been wearing, though, choosing to simply put the fleecy shirt on over his scrub top. While his trousers had gotten quite mud covered through the night of wandering, his shirt had remained fairly clean and Severus figured that he could use the extra layer of warmth.

But his toes were still suspiciously numb. Every now and again, through the night, he would stop to examine his feet closely -- he was unsure how cold he had to get before frostbite set in, although he was beginning to suspect it was not nearly cold enough yet, only being November and all.

A few backyards away from the one he'd just liberated an outfit from, Severus spied a muddied pair of boots lying haphazardly on the patio. He watched the windows for a good half-an-hour, eventually deciding that the house was unoccupied. Two minutes and a fast dash later, he was shoving his feet into slightly-too-large boots and lacing them tightly about his ankles. His toes tingled as warmth slowly returned.

Fairly certain that he now more closely resembled a relatively harmless eccentric wanderer than an escaped mental patient, Severus began walking down the road itself, keeping his expression neutral as he headed further into town. He needed directions.

Granger had mentioned that the latest murder -- what had the victims' name been? -- had been somewhere in Yorkshire, although she hadn't specified the exact name of the town. But Severus figured that, with one of the victims being a Muggle, news would have spread a bit. After all, it wasn't every day that a young man and his wife were murdered in their own home. There would have been some mention of it in the Muggle papers, at the very least.

He saw a pub a few hundred meters away, slightly dingy and worn looking, and decided that it would be as good a place to start as any. He quickened his pace.

Bridell, he thought suddenly. That was what Granger had said their name was. Bridell.

Repeating it over and over in his mind, holding on to it like a lifeline as he mentally rehearsed what he would say, Severus pushed open the pub door and stepped inside, welcoming the rush of warm air that hit his face.

The barman quirked an eyebrow at his admittedly probably haggard appearance. "Can I help you, mate?" he asked, a note of suspicion in his carefully cheerful voice.

Severus coughed slightly and tried to look apologetic. "I ... erm, yes. I confess I'm rather lost. I Portke -- uh, I drove down here to meet a friend. We're consulting on a murder case, you see. The Bridell case. And I'm afraid that I misplaced the address. Do you ...?"

He noticed that several heads in the bar whirled around to stare at him when he said Bridell. One in particular, belonging to an unkempt man with scraggly, long hair wearing a gaudy plaid shirt, caught his attention.

"Bridell?" the barkeep repeated slowly. "Sounds kinda familiar. Oi, James, didn't your cousin Eleanor marry a fellow named Bridell all those years back?"

The man in plaid nodded, still shooting Severus a wary look. "She did. Mum got a call yesterday -- both she and her husband were found dead. Murdered, like. You say you're here to investigate?" he asked Severus skeptically. "You don't look much like a policeman to me."

"Oh, I'm not," he replied smoothly, having already anticipated this question. "A private consultant, more like. My friend and I were called in to take a look at the case. But as I've said, I've forgotten just where --"

James, plaid-clad cousin to the late Eleanor Bridell, cut him off with a laugh. "You're a good bit off the mark, mate. Eleanor and her husband lived down in Sheffield. That's a good sixty kilometers southwest of here, at least."

Severus' heart faltered at the prospect of walking sixty kilometers. Maybe he could take a Portkey -- he knew there was an official site not too far away from York. But he smiled thinly anyway. "Thank you very much," he told a still dubious James before turning to the barkeep yet again. "And if you wouldn't mind, I'd very much like to wash up. Where are ...?"

"Down that hallway, next to the back exit," he said briskly, wiping a mug off with a white rag.

Nodding in gratitude, Severus walked down the hallway to the men's lavatory, eager to wash off the grime from his night wanderings.

As he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he realized he looked far better than he had a right to. His hair looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in a week at least, and he had a smudge of dirt on his left cheek, but otherwise Severus looked fairly respectable. He ran the water hot, lathering up his grubby hands with something very like elation.

He was so intent on his hands, in fact, that he didn't see the man sneaking up behind him until it was too late. One flash of an enormous reflection in the mirror, and Severus felt something heavy slam into the back of his head, right before everything went black.

-- -- -- -- --

As Severus swam toward consciousness, his only thought was that somehow the orderlies from Perkins had caught up with him. They'd found him and taken him back and that was why he couldn't move his arms or legs -- he was Bound to his bed.

He groaned and gave his restraints a tug, feeling rope rasp roughly against his bare wrists and ankles. Possibly not the hospital, then.

"Ah ..." an amused voice said. "You're awake, then."

His eyes shot open -- that didn't sound like any orderly he recognized. This was definitely not the hospital.

A huge bear of a man smiled serenely down on him -- he had to be six-foot-five if he was an inch. Severus felt very small in his presence. Very small and very fragile.

"I'm rather sorry about having to hit you back in the bar there," the man continued, still sounding as if he was inwardly laughing at some joke that Severus didn't understand. "But I didn't think I could convince you to come along with me voluntarily." He pushed a long strand of blond hair that had escaped his ponytail out of his eyes.

Severus stared up at his captor in horrified fascination. There was ... something glinting out of his light eyes. Something off-kilter somehow. Something that made Severus' gut clench. "Who're ...?" he asked faintly, feeling his breath hitch in his throat.

Again, the man smiled -- only this time, it had a decidedly sinister cast, his teeth flashing in the artificial light of the room. Severus wondered where they were. "My name is Stan," he said placidly. "And you are ...?"

"Where am I?" he asked, throat dry at the thought of being held prisoner by this too-calm man.

The man -- Stan -- sighed and Severus detected a hint of impatience. "My flat," he answered after a slight pause. "I've only had it for a few months, so I'm afraid it's still rather impersonal looking. You'll forgive me if I don't offer you the grand tour."

"Why did you bring me here?" The feeling of wrongness only increased as Stan spoke.

"All in good time, my new friend," Stan chuckled. "All in good time. First, I have a few questions I need you to answer."

Some of Severus' fear was slowly turning to confusion. "Will you untie me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

"Later," Stan said firmly.

His mind whirled. "I won't answer your questions unless you untie me first," he argued.

"You will answer my questions," countered Stan in that same mild voice. "Or I'll have to hurt you. And don't think for a moment that I won't."

Severus did not speak, anxiety rising again.

"Right," Stan said, sitting down in a chair beside the bed Severus was tied to. "First question. You said in the bar that you were consulting on the Bridell murder. Tell me, my new friend, do you work with Scotland Yard?"

Deciding that honesty would not get him into any worse trouble than he was already in, he spoke as freely as he dared to this smiling man with the disconcerting eyes. "No. I'm not affiliated with any Mug -- with any official agency."

Stan's smile now had a shark-like quality to it. "That word, the one that you cut off. It wouldn't happen to be Muggle, would it?"

Inwardly, he swore, keeping silent and daring his captor with his eyes to follow through on his threat.

"My, my," he chuckled. "Have I caught myself an Auror?"

"No!" Severus protested quickly, wondering how this ... this Muggle knew the word. "I'm no Auror."

"Then tell me," Stan said, voice dripping kindness like honey. "Tell me, my new friend, why on Earth are you here in Yorkshire asking about a dead wizard and his dead wife? Interest, perhaps?"

Wizard, he heard echo through his head.

This Stan was no Muggle.

And it fell into place.

Severus' eyes widened. "You!" he cried, struggling against his bonds anew. "You're him!"

The smile was gone. "I'm who?" Stan asked, voice chilling.

"You killed them," he breathed. "Harry Potter, Alistair Bones, Marcus Desmond, the Bridells. You're the killer!"

Stan was on him in an instant, hovering so closely Severus could smell his acrid breath. Something sharp poked into his Adam's apple. "I wish you hadn't said that, my friend," he said sadly, eyes still flat and disconcerting. "Although you may be of some use yet."

"Use?" Severus repeated, resisting the urge to swallow against the sharp edge jabbing into his throat with all his might.

"You are a wizard, aren't you?" Stan asked. "You must be," he answered himself. "The only ones to get into the Muggle papers were the Bridells. So you must be. Tell me!" The point prodding his throat dug in more deeply.

He did not speak, eyes wide with absolute terror. Even Voldemort, crazed with power and Dark magic, had never scared him to this point.

"I will kill you either way," Stan said matter-of-factly.

Severus tried to draw away, tried to press his body down into the hard mattress as far as he could. There was a brief flash of pain in his throat and he knew that Stan's knife had pierced the skin.

The smile was back, feral and hungry. "So be it."

He bit back a scream as the knife dug into his throat yet again, dragging downward in an agonizingly slow fashion.

He had endured the Cruciatus curse at the hands of Voldemort himself. He had pulled ten men out of a burning house as his own robes charred and smoldered about his shoulders.

He would not scream.

He did not want to die this way, he realized as silent tears ran down his cheeks.

The knife continued, pulling at his skin gradually. Severus felt the hot blood running down his chest and tried to hold on to consciousness.

"You aren't like the others," Stan muttered as he went about his work. "But you'll do fine, I think. In fact --"

The knife came to an abrupt halt as a loud knocking sound echoed through the room. Severus and Stan stared at each other, caught in a bizarre tableau.

Swiftly, not speaking, Stan stood and walked out of the room, carefully sitting his knife on the bureau beside the doorway.

Severus felt unconsciousness looming on the edges of his vision, the blackness a welcome void, free of the numbing fire blossoming in his chest.

Blood pooled in the hollow of his throat as he strained to stay away, to listen to the conversation he heard in the other room.

A door opened. "Yes?" Stan asked cautiously.

"Hallo?" a female asked hesitantly. "Stan Walker?"

"Good afternoon." Pleasant, calm, as if he hadn't just been in his bedroom, sticking a knife into someone. "What can I do for you?"

"I got your name from a friend," she replied. "Françoise Potter. You did some woodwork for her about a year ago?"

"Potter ..." he repeated thoughtfully. "The name is familiar. I seem to recall ..."

"A particularly lovely chair rail," the woman prompted. "Hand carved." Her voice sounded suspiciously familiar to Severus.

"Ah, yes," Stan said. "I remember now. One of my better efforts."

"And you also did some work for several of my other friends. Alisander Weaver, Marcus Desmond, Romulus Cooke."

His voice was suspicious now. "Yes."

"I wanted to speak with you about it." Severus did know that voice. "It's strange, you see, but they're all --"

Stan sounded distinctly nervous as he interrupted the woman. "Won't you please come in to discuss this, Ms --?"

"Granger," she supplied.

Granger! Severus heard the door close and several footsteps. His breathing, already labored, threatened to stop entirely.

"Would you like some tea, Ms. Granger?" Stan asked politely amidst the small scuffling noises. Severus bit back hysterical laughter -- tea, indeed.

The footsteps ceased. "Oh, no, thank you," she said, sounding almost startled. "I won't take up much of your time."

He tried to make a sound. A shout, a cough, anything to alert Granger as to his presence.

And her danger.

"Tell me, Mr. Walker," she continued, "have you been in contact with the Potters lately? Within the last, oh, I don't know, four months or so?"

Severus could hear the smile in his voice. "Now that I think about it, I was in their area a couple of months back," Stan said in an innocent tone that raised hairs on the back of Severus' neck. "I like to make follow-up calls, to make sure my work has been satisfactory."

I'll bet you do, Severus thought, giving the ropes another agonizing wrench in a futile effort to free himself. He could feel the skin at his wrists tearing.

"Did you speak with them?" she pressed. "The Potters, I mean."

"Are you certain I can't offer you anything, Ms. Granger?" he countered.

A feminine clearing of the throat and a nearly inaudible rustle. Severus hoped Stan wasn't picking up on Granger's impatience as easily as he himself was. Damn her, he thought as his throat worked to produce some sort of alert. As easy to read as a sodding Quidditch magazine -- the little fool was going to get herself killed. "I'm fine, thank you," she replied. "And what about the Weavers? I spoke with Mrs. -- with Livia," she corrected herself -- Severus wondered if Stan caught it. "And she was telling me about some lovely detailing you added when you put in her kitchen cabinetry a few months ago."

"I haven't had a chance to get back up to Edinburgh," he said smoothly, probably lying. If Granger was name-dropping, she could only be dropping victims' names. Again, Severus found himself cursing her blatantly, stupidly obvious maneuvering.

There were more footsteps. He wondered who was standing.

"I have a list of names here," Granger said, a crumpling papery sort of sound in Severus' ears now. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to ..."

"Of course, Ms. Granger," Stan was saying, footsteps growing louder. He must be the one walking about. "I'll fetch my records from the back so that we can go over everything properly."

A hand reached into the room and Severus watched it wrap around the knife.

He tensed, gasping. It was now or never.

"Hermione!" he managed to shout, his ravaged throat protesting the movement strenuously.

"Severus?" he heard her ask dimly.

Stan's hand moved swiftly and the knife flashed in the light. There were loud scuffling noises.

"Stupefy," he heard Granger cry.

A loud thud.

A male shriek, then. Stan must have dodged the curse.

Granger shouted again, something unintelligible. And there was a thunderous crash.

Severus saw the knife skitter across the doorway, into the room he was currently in. Apparently, Granger had somehow gotten it away from Stan.

And here she came, crawling on all fours, hair wild and clothes torn. There was blood smeared on her face, but he couldn't tell if it was hers.

The blackness was threatening to take him.

Granger scooped up the knife, holding it in a trembling hand. If she noticed his presence, she didn't show it, attention completely focused on the doorway.

And then Stan was there, looming over her, dwarfing her entirely. Severus saw a wand in his hand and closed his eyes briefly, knowing it was all over.

In an unpracticed gesture, Stan brandished the wand at Granger. "Stupefy!" he shouted.

The wand emitted a few halfhearted, spluttering sparks and nothing else.

Granger's eyes widened.

Throwing the wand away, he simply launched himself bodily at her, hand wrapping around her wrist, twisting it.

With a cry of pain, Granger dropped the knife.

Spots danced across Severus' line of sight -- it would not be long now -- and the blood slid down his neck, wetting the back of his collar.

They rolled around beside the bed. Too weak to turn his head, Severus could not see them. But he heard Granger cry out more than once amid Stan's grunts.

The lamp fell over with a smashing noise as they knocked into it in their tussle. There was a whooshing sound and Stan groaned.

With the only significant source of light gone, Severus could barely see the pair as they continued to struggle. His eyes rolled briefly back into his head as he fought the looming unconsciousness.

A shadow stood and lurched across the room and Severus realized it was Stan, back on his feet. From the way he was moving, he rather thought Stan was looking for something.

The knife.

He longed to shout out to Granger, to try and warn her somehow, wherever she was. But his throat did not seem to work any more -- the only sound he could make was a gurgling sort of wheeze in the back of his mouth. Severus' hands worked uselessly at his restraints.

The room fell silent, the only sounds Severus' labored breathing and Stan's panting puffs of air as he scrambled about.

Where was Granger?

Where was Hermione?

It briefly flickered through Severus' mind that Stan had managed to take her out as well. That Hermione was lying on the floor under him, grievously injured, perhaps dead.

Stan continued to scrabble about, ostensibly in search of a weapon.

Severus was going to die. Alone and in the dark, with a cold knife pressed against his chest. He closed his eyes against the rising tears.

"Where are you?" he heard Stan whisper. "I know you're here, pretty little girl. Pretty little one who knows too much. And I won't let you leave. You're mine now ..."

There was a rustling noise -- cloth against cloth.

"Come on out," Stan continued hoarsely. "Come on, now ..."

Severus' eyes opened against his will, straining in the dim light. There was Stan, off to the right.

In a dark corner, a shadow moved.

Severus held his breath and waited.

Stan turned his back on the corner.

With a terrible scream, Granger launched herself out of the shadow, right hand raised in the air, swooping across the room like an avenging angel.

Severus watched in silent, gurgling horror as she leapt on Stan.

There was another shriek, distinctly male, as they clattered to the floor. An awful sort of sucking noise.

Silence.

The unconsciousness was stealing back over Severus when he felt a warm hand touch his cheek hesitantly. "Severus?" Hermione whispered.

He pulled against his ropes once again. "Hermione," he tried to say, but it came out rather garbled.

"Oh my God ..." she breathed, hand moving away from his face. He felt her tugging on his bonds. "You're ... you're ..."

The ropes loosened and one of her hands went cautiously to his throat, pressing something soft and warm against his wound, staunching the blood flow.

Only one of his hands was free, but he instinctively wrapped it around Hermione's shoulder, pulling her toward him in a crushing embrace. She went willingly, her free hand snaking into his hair comfortingly.

"You're alive," she murmured shakily into his shoulder, halfway draped across his torso. "You're alive and he's dead." Was she crying?

Alive, Severus thought, feeling Hermione's heart beat solidly above his own. Alive.

-- -- -- -- --