The Book Of Jude

Chapter Twenty: So Far Down

'I'm looking down, now that it's over, reflecting on all of my mistakes.

I thought I found a road to somewhere...

Somewhere in His grace.

I cried out "Heaven, save me!"

But I'm down to one last breath,

And with it let me say...

Hold me now, I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking

Maybe six feet ain't so far down...'

Creed, One Last Breath

The storms had abated slightly--the thunder was but a distant rumbling now, almost lost behind the pounding of the rain against the roof and windows. The dark sky bore no signs of the dawn, which was still hours off. Professor Snape pushed back from the desk and rubbed his eyes. He'd been pouring over the thick, dusty volume for hours, yet time had not made the words clearer. There was still much work to do on it, but the progress would not be pushed and prodded along. He sighed and leaned back in the chair.

He heard a knock. Was it a knock? Listening for the sound to repeat itself, he wondered where the disturbance could be coming from. Again it sounded. Certainly not at the front door, he thought. Who would be knocking on his door at such an hour? Then the noise ceased as quickly as it had begun.

Turning back to work on the tome in front of him, he looked up in agitation as the sound resumed. A knock at the front door. Where were the bloody house elves?

Rising from his chair, he stomped out of the study and into the main hall. The dark corridors were empty and the sound of his ill-tempered footsteps and the incessant knocking echoed admirably. Reaching the front door, he pulled it open in a manner that would leave the disturber in no doubt of his displeasure.

Behind the heavy, oak door stood a small figure soaked through with rain. Although the person had their back turned to the door as he first opened it, he had no doubt of whom it was. And as the door creaked loudly, causing the figure to jump and spin to face it, his guess was confirmed. It was Jude. And by her side was a bedraggled and miserable-looking dog. They both looked distraught.

"Jude. What on earth are you doing here at this time of morning?" He didn't mean to sound so harsh, but such an unexpected surprise had put him off.

"I'm sorry, Professor. But I...well, I came here..." she stammered. She really had no clue as to why she was there.

Regaining possession of his wits, he ushered her into the entry and out of the rain. "I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were in Cambridge. What happened?" Although he was extremely curious as to why she was standing there, dripping, in his doorway, he immediately felt a pang of remorse at his last question, seeing her shoulders slump and her expression fall in defeat and utter despair.

Looking down at her feet, she muttered distractedly. "I'm making a mess." She glanced around her and Darcy shook her thick coat next to her, blanketing the area with sprinkles of rainwater. Jude snapped her fingers absently and the dog was dry once again and happily combing her new surroundings. "I'm sorry, I really shouldn't have come here. I'll leave if you want me to." She began to turn toward the door.

The professor reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her retreat. "Don't be silly, why would I want you to go?" She appeared destroyed, but thankful for the invitation nonetheless.

"I don't want to be any trouble but I didn't know where else to go."

"You're always trouble," he replied, trying to elicit even the smallest of smiles from her. It didn't work. It was alarming--he'd only seen her this broken and helpless once before and the memory was not comforting in the least. "Well, there's a fire in the study. Why don't you come and sit down. You can tell me what's wrong," but a stony glance from Jude told him she'd rather not discuss this at the moment. "Or we can just ignore each other."

She found herself seated in front of the fire, a warm towel entwined absently around her hands, supporting her chin, elbows propped on her knees. Exhaustion enveloped her--she was more tired than she had been in as long as she could remember. It must be the booze, she thought as she stared into the angry orange flames. But she couldn't sleep--she didn't know if she would ever be able to again.

Professor Snape had returned to his dusty volume a few minutes before after a failed attempt to extract information from Jude. He'd gathered that the problem had its origins in the chap from the letter, which she'd confirmed only to bar further questions. So he came back to the tedious translations, finding them less torturous than watching Jude beat herself up. He expected to be shut out--she, like himself, never excepted help with much grace. But the look on her face worried him.

***

Her thoughts paralyzed her--she could neither move forward nor backward. She simply thought on those last ten minutes or so when Rhys had finally learned the truth and had seen her for what she was--the last thing he would ever see her as. A better torture could never be contrived.

She lay on the sofa in the study for as long as she could bear to stay still, consumed by memories. After a while, though, she couldn't fight the impulse to move--to simply become too busy to think. Climbing the dark stairs to the room she used to occupy most summers as a child, she opened the heavy door. The smell of frozen time hung heavy in the air. This room held the feeling of sameness, of permanence, and of stability. Here, things didn't change.

But everything had changed. She was no longer a schoolgirl dealing with bullies. She was an adult with bigger problems than hateful children and unfair rules. A promise she had made to herself all those years ago had been broken. She'd killed another. Even though she had no intention of harming him, she'd killed him just the same. If she had said nothing, just swallowed her fears and kept quiet, he'd still be here. But because of her, he was dead.

It might not have hurt so much if it had been a stranger. But it was Rhys she had lead to his death, the person she loved more than anything else in her miserable existence. Fairness had never been a promise made to her, but Rhys deserved much more. It wasn't fair for him. If God supposedly watched out for His children, why wasn't he watching out for Rhys? Why did He allow him to meet her in the first place? Maybe it was punishment for her to be handed everything she'd ever wanted only to snatch it away. But Rhys was innocent, so why did he ever have to suffer?

It was her fault. She could pass the blame to anyone and everyone else--God, Fate, whatever. But the glaring reality was that she was to blame. She should have just stayed here, she shouldn't have taken that other road--she shouldn't have invited change in to wreck everything.

Walking to the wardrobe, she flung the doors open wide. Change had left this place untouched, but she wouldn't. It was mocking her. This is the decision you should have made, and you fucked that up didn't you, Jude?

Well, she would silence that snide voice. Neatly hung uniforms and robes, tidy stacks of books, and orderly rows of other miscellaneous objects were soon reduced to satisfying heaps of debris. The room was remade into the landscape of some recent catastrophe. Finally assuaged when the last item had been misplaced and the last knick-knack had been reduced to several glimmering shards on the rug, she turned to the large mirror over the chest of drawers. She looked frantically for a heavy object that had not already been destroyed. The glass revealed to her a murderer, and the price for that sin was death. A shoe was as good as a guillotine and she picked it up, the weight in her hand was reassuring, the release was euphoric, and the sound of the polished surface shattering was bliss.

But as fleeting as the sound of crashing glass was that feeling and as she opened her eyes, the murderer stared back at her, only now she was skewed by a thousand tiny cracks. She sank onto the rubble of her war on the room, defeated. Her wandering gaze was caught momentarily by something that had previously escaped her notice. It was a piece of parchment that she did not remember leaving there the last time she left this place. Stumbling over books and snagging her feet on disheveled curtains, she finally managed to grasp the object in her hands, poised to tear it into a thousand stamp-sized pieces.

The writing, however, had kept her attention long enough for her to realize what she was holding. Rhys' letter to her when she was at Hogwarts.

Blindly making her way across the room, nothing significant enough to take her eyes away from the paper she was holding in shaking hands, she somehow managed to find the bed before her knees gave out from under her. He said he loved her--but which 'her'? He'd looked at her for the last time as if he had never seen her before, but there was still that something in his eyes that reassured her that because he still loved her, he was able to feel such pain.

It didn't matter, she reasoned as she curled up with the letter on the bare mattress, the bed not having survived her rage. He was dead and debating whether he hated her now or not was a moot point. He wouldn't be coming back to confirm or deny the fact. This letter was all that was left.

***

Two days had passed and Jude had barely moved an inch from where she lay on the bed in the midst of the catastrophe that used to be her ordered and unchanging room. The house elves, namely Fritzy, came in periodically to check on her, never succeeding, however, in eliciting any response from her beyond a blank stare. Professor Snape had even tried a few times himself. But the expression--or lack of--on Jude's face was clear--she wanted no help; she wanted to remain drowning in her own misery; she had given up.

It soon became apparent to Jude after several hours of observance that Fritzy was on a schedule. She should have guessed. The elf was meticulous in every activity she performed. And even though it seemed Jude was oblivious to the world around her, nothing much passed in that room without her noticing it. For those two days, Jude had not slept at all, for fear of the dreams that may come. Her waking visions of what had happened were vivid enough without having to clarify everything with unconsciousness.

But after forty-eight hours of this excruciating torture, she'd had enough. She deserved this misery, but she couldn't stand the looks on the faces of those who worried for her. As soon as Fritzy had left, leaving Darcy curled up at Jude's feet, hoping that the dog would bring some comfort to her mistress, Jude picked her head up off of the bare mattress. She looked around the dark room, guessing that it was now sometime after one in the morning. As she got to her feet to find a safe path from where she stood to the door, Darcy jumped off the bed and to her side, eager to follow Jude to wherever it was she was going.

The door opened onto the hallway without a sound, and Jude slipped out and down the silent corridor, unseen. Carefully, she crept to a door opening onto the grounds behind the house.

Opening the door, she silently passed through, entreating Darcy not to follow her further. "You can't come where I am going, dearest." She patted the dog on the head, vainly trying to quiet her whining. "Stay here, you'll be safe and taken care of." And she closed the door quietly, leaving the dog to beg at the window, watching her follow the path down the sloping grounds leading to the cliffs.

The path was rocky and her bare feet fought for purchase at every step, but she found her spot with little difficulty. It was a stony outcrop a little higher than the fairly flat lip of the cliff. The drop was steep and the distant crash of the waves at the base only punctuated the distance between where she stood atop the rocks to the raging sea below.

The cold, pale light from the nearly full moon glinted off of the glassy waves like starlight on cool steel. It was beautiful. Or it would have been beautiful, if she allowed herself to be deluded by this world any longer. The truth was that life wasn't beautiful--it was cold and cruel. Her senses had lied to her: the world was not made of energy and delight, but of foulness, betrayal, and despair. She felt a melancholy weariness more profound than at any other point in her life; it was so profound that it consumed her and placed all other feeling but utter defeat and despair out of reach. Like Tantalus, happiness was just as far from her grasp. Living was hateful, endless pain, but would death be any better?

It couldn't possibly be any worse. Life was a hideous and sickening despair, and from end to end of the universe this was the first and last and only truth.*

***

Another late night in the study, yet the work he was bent over provided little distraction. The professor's mind wandered, despite concentrated efforts, to Jude. She hadn't eaten or slept in days, and he was still haunted by that look in her eyes, one of morose defeat--she had given up whatever fight she had been struggling with. What could possibly have caused her to concede everything, to let go of all that she had wanted? Something devastating must have happened to bar her from her life at Cambridge forever. And the reason was becoming clearer to him as he thought on it.

Those thoughts, however, were interrupted as the dog, Jude's companion, ran in, tail wagging. What was the story behind the dog anyway? He was never told anything about it, not even its name. But it seemed that this dog was important to Jude, so he would tolerate its curious presence. The dog stood in the doorway, whining. Not very familiar with animals beyond their various uses in potions, he had no clue what the dog wanted. He rose from his chair, frustrated with the annoying hound. The dog excitedly wagged her tail and ran from the room, but when he didn't follow, she ran back in and looked at him, questioningly. Was she trying to tell him something? It was an utterly ridiculous notion, but still he found himself being led to a door at the back of the manor by the dog.

"You want to go out?" The dog wagged her tail and clawed impatiently at the door. He opened it and the dog, not waiting for the opening to widen much, pressed through and ran out into the moonlight. Before shutting the door behind the curious hound, he looked out over the grounds. The dog was running out onto the cliff's edge. And what he saw then made him freeze instantly. It was Jude, perched on the cliff precariously, looking down at the raging ocean.

***

Before taking his seat at the head table, the professor made the customary sweep of his house's students. Everyone was seated at the Slytherin table, awaiting the start of the feast. Everyone except Jude. It was no surprise to him, however. In the past five years, he'd learned that questioning Jude about her whereabouts and imposing silly rules were dead ends--she just ignored them.

A few more minutes passed before Dumbledore finally ambled through the door and took his chair, signaling the feast to begin, as usual. But just as soon as the Headmaster had settled into his seat, the door to the Great Hall was flung open, admitting a pale, frantic student. It was a girl with dark hair running between the rows of tables toward the head table, toward him. As she came closer, he recognized her in an instant--it was Marah Talbot, a sixth year student from his own house. Why had he not realized before that she was missing? Looking now at the table, he could clearly see that she was not in her customary spot next to Sabine and Adalaide--all Jude's roommates and her most avid tormentors.

"Professor," the girl called, sliding to a halt in front of him. "You have to come...it's...you have to come now." She took only a few moments to catch her breath and assure herself that her words were being heeded, then raced once again through the doors with Professor Snape close at her heels.

As she bounded up a flight of stairs, he tried to drag more information from the girl. "Miss Talbot, what is going on?"

But the girl did not answer. She slowed only little to wave him on further. He realized that she was heading in the direction of the Slytherin common room. Stepping into the common room, he was even more puzzled by the student's behavior. She raced through the empty space, dodging chairs and tables, reaching a series of dark corridors. She took the one on the right at top speed and finally stopped by an open door. Pointing frantically into the room, she indicated that this was their destination--the girls' washroom?

He paused in front of her, giving her a cold stare, waiting for some sort of explanation. But the frightened, pale expression on her face as she looked past him caused him to forget his annoyance and follow her horrified stare through the door. A mirror was shattered, shards glinting in the low light of the room, scattered over the white floor. A figure, clad in a white bath-robe was sitting on the floor beneath a white porcelain sink, knees drawn in on itself and head resting against the corner where two walls met. Red blood stood out vividly among the bland shades of white.

Pulling himself free of the spot where he stood, rooted to the ground, he quickly reached the figure he instantly recognized as Jude. A shard of mirrored glass glinted beneath a slack hand, duller than the other shards, for it was covered in a thick glistening coat of deep red. Her left arm lay cradled in her lap, covered in the same dark shade. A ragged gash began at her small wrist and chased its way up her arm, stopping finally at her elbow. The chasm in the skin was narrow at the start but widened and deepened considerably as it passed along the skin on which the Dark Mark was branded. Crimson blood ran like a swollen river breeching its banks and overflowed onto the white robe, saturating the cloth with the thick, sticky, burgundy liquid.

Her other arm lay by her side on the cool tiles of the floor, just next to her weapon of choice--the crimson-stained blade of mirrored glass. The slash creeping up this arm was considerably smaller--she must have become too weak already, after having done such an efficient job on her left arm, to cause any serious damage to the right. Still, the blood trickled down in tiny creeks and rivers from the pale skin of that arm and onto the white tiles, forming a modest pool.

Spinning on his heels in the middle of the chaos that used to be an orderly washroom, he faced the raven-haired girl, who stood gaping at the figure on the floor with both fists to her mouth. "Talbot," he shouted at her, "fetch Madam Pomfrey." Marah stood, stock still, not hearing a word that was spoken to her. "Now!" he bellowed, shaking the girl from her frightened daze. She immediately turned and fled the room, hopefully to do as she was ordered.

As Marah ran out, the professor turned and knelt next to the crumpled figure of Jude. He touched her face. It was icy and pale--the light gray tone of a black and white film. There was still a faint pulse: she was still alive, but she probably wouldn't last another few minutes. Folding both scarlet wrists onto her chest, he drew her into his arms, cradling her head, like a father with a sleeping child. Her hair was wet and clung to her dry face, her lips parched and pale. There didn't seem to be much left to save.

This was his fault. He knew she'd been upset since Dumbledore had asked to speak with her in his office. He thought she would be pleased to know that she had earned the position of Head Girl for the upcoming year--her final year. At first, she simply, and politely turned down the offer. But, as there was only little competition--only a handful of Ravenclaws, a few Hufflepuffs and one other Slytherin were even close enough to be considered and none in the same league as Jude--there would have to be a marked decline in her grades and one of the other girls would have to out perform her academically for her to lose the position. After a long discussion with her, he thought she had become reconciled to the fact that she'd earned this and was deserving of the honor. Still, she was wary of how much unwanted attention this would bring on her and her suspicions were confirmed when the rumor was spread among the students. More fellow classmates took up their favorite pastime of taunting Jude, with the occasional outcome of a fight in which she was always the inevitable loser.

So in the past couple of days, she'd become even more withdrawn than usual--skipping meals in the Great Hall where too many hostile students were gathered, avoiding the corridors after classes and the like. But then he noticed that she had stopped doing the homework for most of her classes, she'd begun botching even the simplest of potions, and purposely answering questions incorrectly or not at all. It didn't take a genius to see where all of this was going. She was trying to fail enough of her classes to lose the position of Head Girl.

He, of course, had made sure that she understood what she was doing. "It's not like you have many options, Jude," he remembered himself say.

"I know," she replied. "I have a rap sheet longer than the roster for the House of Commons." It was a joke with no humor behind it. "I know that this would have been one more feather in my cap, another incentive for someone to give me a decent job when Dumbledore finally chucks me out." She stared at her feet. "I know I need to do the best I can here, while I have the chance...but you don't know what it's like...I can't take this anymore."

Her words haunted him now. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Her face alone these last few days betrayed how desperate she was. He'd noted the hollow, melancholy exhaustion and despair several times. How much stress she must have been under with the torment from her classmates forcing her to sacrifice any future just for a moment's peace? The strain must have been unbearable, and, even though she was one of the strongest persons he'd ever met, she'd finally cracked under the pressure. He should have said something, helped her somehow. But she'd had to deal all alone as usual.

If she didn't make it through this, it would be his fault and no one else's. She had to live because he would not be able to live with that sort of guilt. He hugged her closer to himself, hoping that his will for her to live was strong enough. Hers apparently was not sufficient.

A strong grip on his shoulder alerted him of the presence of others in the room. Looking up, he saw that the hand belonged to Professor McGonagall. Madam Pomfrey had already begun bustling around Jude as she lay, still and cold in his arms, whispering incantations and prodding the wounds. "She's going to be just fine, Severus." Madam Pomfrey's expression was hopeful as she set back to work on her patient.

Looking at the cold, pale face once more before being led out of the gradually crowding room by Professor McGonagall, he noted that for once in the last couple of days, Jude actually seemed peaceful, and it might be cruel to snatch her from her rest. But could he live, knowing that he'd missed that hopeless and despairing look, and just one notice might have made all of the difference?

***

She didn't slip away that time and he wouldn't let her get that close to death ever again under his watch. He'd learned from his mistake. That look that had haunted him ever since she'd appeared suddenly two nights ago on his doorstep would not go unheeded. He pulled away from his thoughts and ran out into the cool night air, the sloping ground caressed by ocean breeze and starlight. The dog bounded easily ahead of him and reached the rocky outcrop before he did. Clambering, trying to haul herself up the rough stone to reach Jude, the dog whined as she failed to climb up. She ignored the plaintive sounds of the dog and continued to stare out over the vast plain of water. For summer, it was a damn cold night. The wind off of the sea whipped around her, flinging her hair into her face and then off again, pushing her away from the precarious edge then tugging her closer. This is what she deserved: if there was any justice left in the world, nothing would hinder her from ending her life, not even the bothersome wind. One step closer, then another, until the only thing under the next step would be space. Would it hurt? She shook her head. It didn't really matter.

A voice. Was it a voice? The wind was trailing every sound away from her but the sound of the crashing waves. It was a voice, calling a name--her name. Without turning around she knew who it was.

"Go away." Her voice was hollow and bland. She didn't have to speak loudly to be heard, however, because the words were carried back on the breeze to the person behind her. She wanted to spare everyone the pain of seeing her do something like this--it was a mistake she'd made before when she tried to end her life back in her sixth year. She'd made it all too visible and she was sorry for it. The rumors it spurred among her classmates and the pain it must have caused her teachers who'd been there, she regretted it all. And this time she was hoping she could make a clean break. But, despite her best effort, he was standing behind her, anxiously watching every move she made. She felt horrible for what she was about to do to the person who'd looked out for her for the last ten years, but that guilt would not stop her from what she was about to do.

"Come down, Jude. It shouldn't be like this." He was now standing at the foot of the large rock, calming Darcy as she gave up the idea of scaling the height to be at Jude's side.

"You don't want to do this," he urged further, hoping that his words were not being ignored.

"How do you know?" she spat back with as much feeling as she could muster, but her voice still sounded dull and flat to her ears.

"Because you want what Rhys would have wanted. And I don't think he would have been pleased to know that you jumped off a cliff."

"Rhys," she said and her shoulders sagged as if under an invisible, yet enormous weight. "I killed him, you know."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did. I might not have pushed him out in front of that car, but I spoke the words that..." She trailed off, looking out beyond the cliffs but seeing nothing.

"It may seem like that, but..."

"But nothing, I killed him. I promised myself that I would never hurt another person as long as I lived and I broke that promise as easily as I made it. I am a murderer and I do not deserve any more nor any less than this." She moved with purpose toward the edge, shifting her weight forward.

"Yes, but don't you owe more to him?" He tried to remain calm, but it was difficult rationally talking to someone as dangerously willful and stubborn as Jude. He fought to control his temper. "How can you die tonight knowing that you didn't do everything in your power to make it right?"

"How can I make this right?" She turned to him, eyes flashing with hidden anger she didn't realize she still possessed. Every emotion, she thought, had been drained from her as she read that doctor's morose expression and knew her whole world was over. "This can never be fixed--he's dead!"

"Do you know why you didn't die that night, five years ago?"

"Yeah, that nosy bitch Marah fucked it all up." Contempt flitted across her face. Things would have been so much simpler if she'd just died that night. From then till now had been just a waste of time and a whole lot of unnecessary pain.

"No, because you still had a job to do. Like now." He had to string her along, keep her distracted long enough for her resolve to wear thin. But this was Jude--that could take the rest of the night and the whole of the next day. "You owe Rhys. I believe that you still have a part to play." And after a short pause, he added, "His parents...they were murdered by Voldemort, am I correct?"

"How did you...?"

"I did a little poking around, I found that letter of yours, you know."

"Yeah. I figured that.

"Well, do you think that you owe him vengeance?" She gave him a puzzled look before turning her head away. "He can no longer help to bring down the man responsible for his parents' deaths...but you can. You can make it up to him--keeping your past a secret from him. I think those who still fight the Dark Lord need you. You are not finished here." He was satisfied to see her sink into a few moments' thought.

"But that was the last chance I had..." she said, defeated. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Any chance I had to become something other than what Voldemort created me for is gone." Her blank, unfeeling eyes turned back to the sea. "The last bit of...humanity...happiness...joy...whatever, it died with Rhys. He was the last hope I had to change, to be anything but that cold, cruel, merciless shell that Voldemort had trained me to be." She leaned forward, looking down the steep drop. It didn't seem so far down now.

Her knees buckled. For a minute, she believed that she would finally do what she'd been building up the courage for. The professor stepped forward, knowing that he was powerless to stop her from falling. But instead, she sank to her feet, placing her hand on the rock to steady herself. She pressed her other hand to her forehead, her face dissolving from the hardened resolve of someone with nothing to lose into tears. "You're right," she finally conceded through bitter sobs.

The tears were as alarming as they were unexpected. He'd never seen Jude cry in the ten years he'd known her. Without a clue how to comfort her, he was at a loss for what to do next. But seeing her like that, bare feet tucked under her, hands pressed to her face, and falling apart was almost too much to bear. So, suffering all the awkwardness of one not used to dealing with emotional scenes--neither of them were, really, and it had to be just as humbling for Jude, he thought--he climbed the stony precipice and sat down on next to her. He wrapped one arm around her--a simple gesture, but it let her know she was not sitting there alone. She took her hands away from her tear-streaked face and buried herself in the comforting presence next to her. She would probably regret such a show of weakness later, but right now it felt oddly, refreshingly childlike to cry and she didn't mind.