Iridescent Snow

Chapter Eight: Perurere

Hermione stood to one side of Neville's bed as mayhem erupted around her. Mere moments after Professor Snape had ordered the headmaster and Malfoy notified, Professor McGonagall had arrived in the hospital wing, five students in tow. Harry and Ron were in the midst of frenzied conversation, talking over one another, and she supposed she was participating, too, because at random intervals, she was nodding absently to them.

But they might as well have been discussing the weather; she felt like she had been hit in the head with a bludger. People rushed past her, students groaned in pain, potions vials clanked, but her world had come to a screeching halt.

That had been Neville's wand that had regurgitated the Perurere when Snape had performed Priori Incantatem. Neville was the reason that she had almost destroyed her magical core?

Try as she might to mold her mind around such an absurd turn of events, all Hermione could do was stare in stunned silence at her friend still flailing against his restraints, inhuman sounds emanating from him.

Madam Pomfrey rushed up and down the aisle of the hospital wing, attending to her many charges. Hermione narrowly avoided having a tray of Skele-Gro spilled upon her as she hovered awkwardly in the midst of the foot traffic. Someone herded her out of the way, into a corner.

"Do strive to avoid getting yourself killed, Granger," a low voice said softly in her ear.

She looked up with a start, but Snape had already turned away to rejoin McGonagall. Unthinkingly, Hermione's fingers flew to the pocket of her skirt, where the primrose he had pressed into her hand still rested. Thoughts about Neville were momentarily displaced as she was reminded of the meeting in the woods. Her palm tingled, as if remembering the feel of his grip. It had been the briefest and most unobtrusive of touches, yet her breath had quickened like it was a sensual caress. He had looked at her as if reading her very soul, whereas she could barely glean anything from those restless and tumultuous eyes. What kind of thoughts dwelt within such a heavily fortified, fiercely defended mind?

She watched him now conferring with Professor McGonagall, their exchange inaudible to her, and felt thrillingly voyeuristic. He had graceful brewer's hands that tapped agitatedly when he crossed his arms, a slightly aristocratic carriage that she suspected was mostly for effect, and an underemphasized physical appeal that she couldn't quite put to words.

The arrival of Harry and Ron, who had finally wandered over to her corner of the room, put an end to her clandestine observations. They all slumped against the wall wearily.

"I still don't believe it," Harry declared glumly. "Neville wouldn't hurt a fly. I'm positive he was placed under Imperio."

Hermione shook her head unhappily. "A person who is Imperius-ed carries magic that can be traced back to the caster. Remember Madam Pomfrey said she couldn't find any magic on Neville, except for his own?" She furrowed her brows in thought. "But," she began again slowly, feeling her mind start working again, "Perurere is a very Dark curse. Where on earth would Neville have learned how to cast that? I think it's clear enough that he didn't do it of his own will!"

"Although it would certainly be rich if Malfoy not only owed you a wizard's debt, but also was bested by Neville, of all people!" Ron said a little too dreamily.

Hermione threw him a withering look. "Yes, except for the part where I almost became a Squib because of him?"

Ron smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, not so much that part," he conceded.

The appearance of Dumbledore and Malfoy at the entrance of the hospital wing prompted them to push themselves up again. The Slytherin boy's face was uncharacteristically blank as he followed the headmaster into the room. He did not even spare Hermione and her friends an unfriendly look as he passed them. His lips were set in a grim line, even as Hermione perceived a slight limp in his step.

"Poppy," Dumbledore greeted the Mediwitch. Snape and McGonagall ceased conversing to join the headmaster, and all gathered around Neville's bed. Malfoy took one look at the crazed Neville and recoiled, blanching.

Dumbledore gazed sadly upon the boy in the bed, and said to Snape, "You are certain, Severus?"

Snape nodded once. "The spell does not lie, Albus. I am sure you will wish to examine it for yourself."

"Minerva?"

"I would it not be true, but you see how he is now, Headmaster. He got to be very violent, absolutely beyond control. I brought in these five children after wading through scores of other more minorly injured students. There are still many left in the Common Room waiting for me to put them to rights again!"

The headmaster turned now to Malfoy, whose presence no one had acknowledged yet. "Mr. Malfoy, this is a very grave charge we are bringing against Mr. Longbottom. Since it concerns you, your presence was requested, but what I will do now may prove to be very disturbing and it would be understandable if you preferred not to watch."

"I'll stay," Malfoy said tightly. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted from one foot to the other.

Hermione didn't think she could bear to see the Priori Incantatem again, and she had half a mind to leave herself. But she stayed, watching with renewed horror as the image of Malfoy emerged from the end of Neville's wand.

His eyes wide and his face pale as parchment, Malfoy beheld his spell counterpart. When the Malfoy from the wand began to scream, he staggered backwards, breathing heavily. Snape caught him by the arm and gave him an upwards tug, preventing him from falling.

When the spell ended, Malfoy was looking down at his feet, his shoulders rising and falling visibly from labored breaths. He looked back up, eyes wild. "Longbottom did this to me? Longbottom, who can't even manage a tickling hex?" he said hoarsely. "This pathetic excuse of a wizard caused me to be in the debt of a Mud--"

"Mr. Malfoy!" McGonagall cut in, warningly. "Do you forget to whom you speak?"

Hermione assumed her Head of House meant the headmaster and not her. Strangely, the intended slur didn't offend her nearly as much as it ought to. She was much too caught up in Neville's plight, and she itched for an opportunity to speak her mind; plus, Malfoy was babbling almost as much as Neville, and it came across as pitiful rather than malicious.

Dumbledore patted Malfoy's shoulders kindly in a way that Hermione suspected the Slytherin boy did not appreciate. "Let us not lose our heads just yet, dear boy."

The old wizard bent his tall, wiry frame over Neville's bed and said in a clear, steady voice, "Neville, do you remember what happened to you three nights ago? Do you have any explanation of how Mr. Malfoy came to be cursed by your wand?"

They all craned their necks to watch, wondering if Neville would somehow react differently to the authority of the headmaster. But he merely carried on with his mad man's behavior, moving his head continuously in circles and displaying no signs of having heard Dumbledore's inquiries.

McGonagall shook her head, murmuring, "Poor, poor Alice and Frank..."

Dumbledore sighed, his fingers combing through his long beard. "May we not extract some sort of confession from him? Perhaps a memory? Perhaps..." The headmaster trailed off, thoughtful.

Snape immediately stiffened. "Legilimency on a boy that is a raving lunatic, Albus?"

"It cannot be helped," the headmaster replied with uncharacteristic force. "There were no witnesses and this is the only hope that remains for the boy to acquit himself." With that, Dumbledore took Neville's chin in his hand, forcing the boy's head to still. He gazed intently, skilled enough not to require a spoken incantation. Neville's eyes dilated under the powerful mental incursion of the headmaster.

After a few moments of suspenseful silence, Dumbledore looked up again, disturbed disappointment evident on his face. "Alas, I am drawing a complete blank. His mind is damaged too completely. For now, we must assume--"

"I do not agree to this," Malfoy snapped, the patrician accents of his upbringing becoming more pronounced in anger. "It is obvious that you have the wrong person, Headmaster. I will require a more thorough inquest to uncover the true identity of my assailant."

Dumbledore was unfazed by Malfoy's blustering. "I am afraid that is not for you to decide, my boy. Presented with evidence such as this, we are left no choice but to treat Mr. Longbottom as a suspect."

"Wait!" Hermione exclaimed. She, Harry, and Ron had inched their way into the circle. "Sir, what about 'innocent until proven guilty?' Even Malfoy doesn't believe that Neville did this! How can you justify punishing him if the victim refuses to recognize him as the perpetrator?"

"Granger, be quiet!" Snape said threateningly. "This is not the occasion for you to argue your point."

She looked at her Potions professor defiantly, meeting his glittering dark eyes without fear. "Professor, think! Neville had no motivation, and most likely, he didn't have the requisite knowledge to cast that kind of spell! Who's to say that his wand wasn't simply taken from him and used by someone else? You must see that this is completely outrageous!"

There was a collective intake of breath after her tirade. Snape's face was overlaid with rage, but Dumbledore held up a wizened hand, preventing either of them from furthering the exchange.

"Quite right, Miss Granger. Unfortunately, this incident continues to burgeon in complexity every time I turn my eyes to it. I had no intention of disbursing punishment. I go only as far as suggesting that Mr. Longbottom must be presumed a danger, both to the school and to himself, until this matter is straightened out." The headmaster exhaled resignedly, looking at Neville with pity. "It is necessary to remove Mr. Longbottom to St. Mungo's. Perhaps he will also have hope of a cure there."

"Oh, uh, all right," Hermione said idiotically. She tried to think of something intelligent to add but found that she was overcome by a feeling of foolishness.

Across from Neville's bed, Snape glared at her in disdain.

888

After the long day and eventful night, Hermione finally lay in bed in Gryffindor Tower. Sleep evaded her, as it so often had in recent months. The girls' dormitory was quiet, especially since one of its most gossipy and giggly occupants, Lavender, was now in the hospital wing. But her thoughts, zooming through her head at breakneck speed, were creating pandemonium loud enough to wake the whole school.

Her Potions professor had worn the look of someone prepared to strangle her while they were in the hospital wing. It was an extreme overreaction to a student talking out of turn. Snape, whose mind brimmed with fearsome intelligence, surely recognized that the notion of Neville attacking Malfoy with a Perurere was preposterous! Perhaps he knew something else then? He had his own ideas for what had taken place? But more to the point, Hermione thought, who is he? He was surely more than a baritone voice, a protective cloak, and a set of hypnotic black eyes...

She turned to lie on her stomach, eyeing the snow globe that still sat next to her bed. Though Neville, Malfoy, and Snape had lately kept her far from the pursuit that was still closest to her heart, she had not forgotten. She closed her eyes, remembering the family trips to France and Australia, her father's unrelenting attempts at convincing her to use teeth whitener, and her mother's unrivaled chicken casserole dishes.

The counter to Avada Kedavra. The zany little idea that she had dreamed up all those nights ago in her parents' empty house. She had clung to it, like one cast out to sea would cling to a bit of insubstantial driftwood. But now that it was starting to become more than the half-baked scheme of her imagination, it was no longer merely the desperate hope of a grief-stricken young girl. It was now something she could build upon slowly but surely, something she could visit every day and come to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could go on living without breaking into a million pieces. Though the familiar burn behind her eyes was still there whenever she thought about her parents' senseless deaths, the belief that she would still make them proud ignited an even hotter flame inside her, which kept her warm day and night, as much sustenance to her as food and drink...

The next morning, on her way to her Charms class, Hermione spotted Malfoy walking alone a bit ahead of her in the corridor. She quickened her pace.

"Malfoy!" she called out.

The blond wizard stopped in his tracks. His hand fisted at his side, and without turning, he asked coldly, "What now, Granger?"

She caught up to him. "Yesterday, your reaction to Neville being the one who cursed you--was that just because you couldn't stand the idea that someone like Neville could bring you down or do you actually have reason to believe it was someone else?"

"Saving me wasn't enough? You seem to like meddling in my affairs a lot of late. Owing you my life doesn't mean we need to socialize," Malfoy said, still averting his eyes.

Hermione slowly let out a breath, trying for patience. "Well, you seem to believe that you're really important enough for me to waste thought on. Think what you like, whatever lets you sleep at night! What I'm after is Neville's welfare, of course. You saw him. I'd like to find out who did that to him...who knows, it could help you out too," she finished airily.

All she got in response was mulish silence. They plowed on, until they had turned a corner and were at the entrance to the Charms classroom, when he stopped so suddenly that Hermione almost slammed into him. He turned to face her. The presence of purplish bags under his eyes showed that he hadn't slept any more than she had. Staring fixedly at her, he said in a voice devoid of intonation, "I am sure you and your almighty brains have long figured out what kind of curse Perurere is. What you don't know, and what you won't find written in any blasted book inthis school, is that Perurere is a... family favorite. Mainly, my father's joyful pastime. So you decide if Longbottom was the one."

"Your father? But he's in jail!"

Malfoy looked incredulously at her, then threw his head back and laughed. "Oh yeah, Granger, forgotten all about that."

888

There were already four people in the parlor of Malfoy Manor when Severus arrived after Apparating to the edges of the property. He immediately sought out his usual place, a shadowed corner facing the windows and door. He had long learned that it paid to keep an eye on routes of entry and exit.

They were attired for the occasion, of course, their faces concealed behind their white masks. But he knew all their identities from height and build, which he could easily discern from the moonlight pouring into the room. There was Yaxley, tall, lumbering, and brutish, like a well-fed dog. And the one by the fireplace, pacing predatorily, as light-footed as a feline, that was Bellatrix. The quivering, squealing mass trailing Bella could be none other than Pettigrew. And alone by the window, slim and regal, her head held rigidly high, was Narcissa Malfoy, the mistress of the Manor, now without her husband. Severus' lips curled cynically behind his mask. Friends and colleagues, all.

Faint pops sounded as more of the Dark Lord's servants appeared at the Apparition boundary and then streamed down the moonlit path toward the entrance like participants in a peculiar masked parade. Though the room was starting to fill, no one spoke. Roldolphus made a graceless appearance, tripping as he crossed the threshold, but the reaction from his peers was strangely subdued, with only one half-hearted snicker from the Carrow brother. The atmosphere was tense, and the fear among them was palpable.

Their Lord was enraged and they were all in disarray. It appeared that one from amongst them had taken action against the son of the Dark Lord's most high-ranking servant but the hit had been botched. The Malfoy boy had lived, a most unacceptable outcome. Severe punishment was forthcoming, of course.

Severus continued his sullen watch from the corner, his own anxiety manifesting through his placid stillness rather than in the nervous restlessness of his colleagues. Certainly, he would need to avoid any encounters with the Dark Lord's wand, just as he did for every other Meeting. He closed his eyes, erecting strategic blocks throughout his mind, an instinctive preliminary Occlusion. There would be no time to dwell on minutiae, no allowance for error.

The ambient temperature dropped slightly, and the hair on one's neck always stood before it happened. Right when the Dark Lord arrived, the Mark on his servants' arms burned, not steadily and insistently as it did during a Summons, but rather, with a burst of uncontained pain. Severus felt it now, and with composed steps, he emerged from the shadows and joined his peers in a circle at the middle of the room to prepare for the arrival of their Lord.

Pop.

As one, they all dropped to their knees, a sibilant chorus of "My Lord" rising up from them in greeting.

"Well, my snakes, what have you got to say for yourselvessssss?" the Dark Lord demanded in his reedy voice. Red eyes flitted dangerously, the only feature visible from inside the hood that hung over the reptilian body. "Do not all cower before me like stupid beasts! Or are you all simple?"

Bony, claw-like hands stroked a wand. Nagini, the Dark Lord's familiar, unwound herself from around her master's neck and slithered lazily to the ground, tongue darting in and out inquisitively. Pettigrew shrunk back and blubbered piteously, watery eyes bulging from behind his mask.

"Quiet, you useless creature!" the Dark Lord hissed, wand pointed at the trembling man. Pettigrew's moaning abruptly stopped, cut off by a choking sound. The man's silver hand scratched at his throat convulsively, futilely trying to find air. Severus could hear his lips smacking together in a frantic effort to beg for mercy.

"Now, tell me, who was the one audacious enough to make an attempt on the Malfoy brat's life? Narcissa? I assume it wasn't you, you'd still suckle him at your teats if you could." The Dark Lord let out a high-pitched laugh.

"My Lord..." Narcissa moaned, throwing herself at the Dark Lord's feet. "Please..."

With what passed for disdain on his emaciated features, he kicked the prostrate woman, sending her flying into a wall.

A sudden gasp sounded from among their ranks, followed by panicked wheezing, as Pettigrew was finally able to take in breaths again. None dared to pay the rat heed, however, as the Dark Lord had now taken to walking around in their circle, inspecting each bowed head in turn.

"Such an offering might have normally pleased me--I delight in a blood sacrifice and the Malfoy heir would certainly have been quite an offering from my lovely Narcissa, even if her gift to me were torn from her arms. I reward those with initiative, who are able to anticipate my heart's desires. But who was incompetent and careless enough to let him survive?"

Narcissa sobbed, on her hands and knees, groveling, grasping at the hem of her master's robes. "My Lord! He is just a boy!"

"And then allow him to be nursed back to life by a Mudblood?" the Dark Lord continued, deaf to Narcissa's pleas.

Mudblood. Granger. Suddenly, disorganized snippets of memories flashed rapid-fire like photographs, all the more vibrant against the stark backdrop of his heavily Occluded mind. Her unconscious form in the hospital wing. Her tilted head as she concentrated in thought. Her bluebell flame in the forest. A primrose... The images swirled, while his stomach plunged to his feet in fear. There was no time to consider how his thoughts of Granger could have breached his carefully forged defenses; Severus hurriedly flushed out the thoughts and tucked them deep within him, far from the reaches of his consciousness.

"Severus? Bellatrix? What do you know of this foolishness?" The Dark Lord was now putting the question to his next highest ranking lieutenants, after the now deposed Lucius. His master's voice sounded distant as Severus scrambled his way out of his foggy mindscape, perspiration soaking the base of his neck, in a rare instance of strained Occlumency.

Severus slammed on the mental blinders as he felt the Dark Lord's eyes alight upon him. "Would it not be possible, my Lord, that the Malfoy boy was attacked by one who does not serve you?" he offered carefully.

He felt the edges of his awareness prickle as the Dark Lord raked through his mind, plundering, scorching, and pillaging, giving no quarter in a battle of attrition between evenly matched adversaries. Severus let his shields yield in a convincing manner, presenting the Dark Lord with a plausible palette of thoughts to inspect. A resentful moment with Dumbledore, a stormy diatribe directed against some sixth year Gryffindors, a solitary period within his lab, brewing one of the Dark Lord's potions.

The foreign presence grazed along, then withdrew. "Nonsense! I know my wily serpents. There isn't one of you who wouldn't leap at the chance to destroy each other, let alone the heir to my dear old friend."

"It was Lucius!" insisted Bella, fretting. "It was Perurere, wasn't it? That was Lucius' signature, he practically invented the spell."

"No!"said Narcissa, her voice hitching. She had risen now, though her clothing was wrinkled and her blonde hair unkempt. "Lucius would never do such a thing. And--he is in Azkaban!"

"Grow up, sister! Do you still take your husband for the tender lad of your Hogwarts days? You don't really believe four walls and some Dementors could stop a man like him, do you? " Bella reproached sharply.

"It was not him," Narcissa persisted stubbornly.

"Silence, woman, I know it was not that inept husband of yours! He is much too cowardly to offer up a blood sacrifice." The Dark Lord smiled malevolently. "Though rest assured, my dear, had I ever commanded it of him, he would not have dared resisted."

Swallowing a wave of nausea, Severus listened to the madman's pronouncements, unwillingly reminded of a similar sacrifice his master had demanded of him more than two decades ago. The price of power, his Lord had explained. Show me that I am your greatest love.

Lucius' wife wisely said nothing, though Severus could make out the desperate terror in her eyes.

"Now then, who knows the truth? No one? Surely not," the Dark Lord purred in ominously soft tones. "I shall trust that this is merely an inconvenient time to speak up. I will simply mete out my pleasure at random."

The Dark Lord surveyed his servants as unbearably long seconds passed.

"Severus."

His heart pounded. "My Lord?"

"You have served me well, yet I find that I have been lax in my management of you lately. Am I to understand that you helped the Mudblood recover her full strength? This is the Potter whore, yes? The one whose parents I dispatched?"

"Yes, Lord," Severus said deferentially, falling once more on bended knee. "However, it was at Dumbeldore's directive. I could not risk losing our access to the old man by disobeying. And I hoped to position myself to gain the trust of the girl."

His master's unresponsiveness caused Severus' alarm to heighten.

At last, the Dark Lord spoke again, his usually shrill voice gently cloying. "This gathering today, with Bella's suggestions of Lucius' interest in securing my favor, it does bring back memories, dear boy. Tell me, did I also require of you a blood sacrifice before joining my ranks? It was your filthy mother, wasn't it? Married a Muggle?"

"Yes," Severus whispered, blood draining from his face.

"And again, tell me," the monster continued, leaning low to curl a cold finger beneath his chin, "Do you regret that?"

"No, my Lord," he replied, his voice shaking.

"There is that, at least. Crucio."

Immediately he crumpled to the ground, the excruciating pain wrenching scream after scream from him. Years of experience had not made enduring the Unforgivable any less painful, yet Severus had come to understand its purpose, its dark secret. As the agony engulfed him, wave upon wave, he recited all sins, past and present, because for him, there was no shortage. He reveled in the mind-numbing pain, lost himself in it. Yet, though Crucio was one of the few true opportunities for penance, he was no fool: there would be no restitution for the damned.

888

It was two hours past midnight when Severus at last Apparated back to the edges of the Hogwarts grounds. Weak from the aftereffects of the Crucio, he found that his fingers were bleeding from barely averted splinching. His mind exhaustedly blank and his legs feeling supportless beneath him, he made the lengthy journey back to his chambers. His body ached as he dragged himself through the corridors. He had no thoughts save for an overpowering desire to down his stock of healing potions and collapse into his bed like a dead man. It was his cursed luck that it was the middle of the week and classes were in session the next morning.

He hadn't the strength to reflect on the ill-fated meeting. There had been Bella, and Narcissa, and his uncharacteristically faulty Occlusion, and the fixation with blood sacrifices, and his mother...

He was thanking Merlin that he had finally rounded the last corner before his chambers, when he stopped short, tired and abused muscles protesting as he dug his heels into the ground.

She was there. Granger, of all people, was sitting outside his door, perusing a book, her school bag open beside her.

Inexplicably, his vision became hazed with red.

"GET OUT!" he shouted. He felt dangerously unstable, his mind and body taxed from the night.

With a yelp, she leapt up. "Professor Snape!"

"Out!" he sputtered, seeming incapable of saying anything else. He felt something unraveling in him, seeing her here. She was so confusedly bound up in every aspect of his life now, it made his head hurt to think about it.

"I had questions... but you're injured!" she gasped, staring at his bloody fingers and evidently impervious to his ire.

That, and her always meddlesome concern left him even more enraged. "Questions?" he spat, "You always have endless questions, don't you? One hundred points from Gryffindor! I have no tolerance for your foolish heroism!"

Of its own accord, his hand whipped out his wand, and he shot a blasting curse at her. His brain careened; she was the reason he had almost committed a catastrophic error during his audience with the Dark Lord today. If his master had seen those memories...

She screamed and ducked, her hand reaching for her own wand. Backing away, she said urgently, "Listen Professor, Neville didn't do it! Malfoy thinks so too!"

He chuckled derisively at her conviction. "So you trust Malfoy now, you ignorant child? Leave the Death Eater's son alone! You are barely able to guard your own worthless life!"

He was reminded of the night in the hospital wing, when she had arrogantly mouthed off at him, so utterly assured that she had everything all figured out. Never thought twice of running headlong into danger, did she?

Again, automatically, his wand rose. "Sectumsempra!"

"Repello!" she cried. The spell bounced off her hastily thrown barrier but carried enough force to knock her to the ground. She quickly flipped onto her torso, into a defensive position. "Expelliarimus!"

Dazed, he watched his wand twist forcefully out of his grip and clatter onto the ground.

She scuttled to her feet, wand still pointed at him, panting and eyes wide with fear. "Pr-Professor?"

He blinked, then sucked in a slow breath, the first one he remembered taking all night. He eyed his wand on the ground as if he had never seen it before.

Then the reality of what had just occurred fell upon him like a ton of bricks. He had attacked a student, he had attacked her.

What had he done?

"G-Granger--" he gasped. He saw her disheveled appearance, the tear in her shirt sleeve, a bruise slowly forming on one cheek.

He had hurt her.

His mind now overwhelmed by a different sort of haze, he took a step toward her. She quickly took two steps back, still brandishing her wand.

He had lost control.

Guilt mingled with regret, and self-loathing blossomed in him. "Forgive me," he said, anguish coloring his tones.

It was unforgivable.

She did not respond, but she lowered her wand a fraction of an inch.

He took another step toward her. "Forgive me," he repeated, much more quietly.

She did not back away from him this time, just stood there watching him warily.

There was a clenching feeling inside him so painful that he wondered if he was undergoing Cruciatus again. He, who prided himself on his self-mastery, had tried to cast Sectumsempra at a defenseless girl! His faculties, already raw and debilitated from his ordeal at Malfoy Manor, threatened to collapse completely.

"Please," he entreated bleakly, reaching his hands towards her, not knowing why.

At that, the brittle, frightened look left her eyes, replaced by something Severus didn't understand.

His hands first landed on her arms, where they squeezed uncertainly, and then shakily, they made their way to her shoulders.

"I-I...did not...I was not..." The words floundered then died. He shook his head, closing his eyes. After a moment, he opened them again, and saw that the new expression was still present.

Slowly, his hands crept to cup her face, turning it upwards. He stroked lightly across her jaw line, his fingertips still caked with blood. Her skin was smooth and warm and achingly delicate. The enticing gardenia scent wafted through his nostrils, like a balm for his ravaged nerves.

Primal need, untempered by his incapacitated brain, was coursing through him. He bent his head, lowering his mouth so that his lips hovered tantalizingly over hers. They remained that way, terrifyingly close, yet still apart. He could feel her breath brushing against his face, sense the invitation issuing from her moist lips, and he longed for nothing more than to seal the minuscule distance between them and ground his mouth hungrily against hers. But as their heated gazes met, he glimpsed the tender trust written in her eyes, and felt as if he had been doused by a bucket of cold water.

Not for him.

With an agonized groan, he tore his lips away, and crushed her body to his chest, his mouth blindly searching before finally burying itself into her hair.

Author's Notes:

As you all know, there is the canon version of a "blood sacrifice," with Lily and Harry. However, I've always found it implausible that Voldemort would have known nothing about the concept, even if he didn't understand the spirit. So I wanted to write in my own version of how I think he would have envisioned a blood sacrifice.

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