The Bloody Stare of Mars

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The Bloody Stare of Mars
By Yahtzee
[email protected]

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Chapter Four

VII.

"Alone tonight, I see," Hermione said, to have something to say.

Remus paused from studying her — which was clearly what he was doing — and nodded. "Firenze has some important things to attend to. Besides, I think I benefit more from your visits than he does."

What was there for Firenze to do within Tartrosgate? Hermione couldn't imagine what went on inside its gates, what stratagems and hierarchies the prisoners employed to distract themselves from starvation and death. She said only, "I benefit from seeing you more than seeing Firenze. So this is — it's fine."

"Your being here means a lot to me, Hermione," Remus said. Something about his tone of voice suggested that he didn't quite mean it — or rather, that he meant something else, besides.

Hermione was past caring what he meant. It seemed like a century since she'd been able to keep down what she ate, or since she'd been able to sleep.

(Since I was in my own bed, a bed that belonged to me, and that I slept in alone every night, instead of —)

She shook off her gloom and managed to smile at him. "I want to see you as often as I can," she said. "I know it's hard for you, Remus. I can't help any other way, but I can do this."

"I appreciate that." Remus studied her carefully, his gray hair soft in the moonlight.

Quite a lot of moonlight, at that. Hermione stared up at the near-full moon in the sky. "One more night?"

Remus shook his head. "Two."

"What do they do, when you change?"

His face was hard. "The guards? Absolutely nothing. They wouldn't care if a werewolf ran amok in Tartrosgate, killing prisoners right and left. I suspect they'd be glad to save the money on feeding them, if you can call the slop we get food." Then his expression softened, perhaps in reaction to the horror Hermione knew she was showing. "Firenze tethers me, before I can transform into a wolf. Stands guard over me all night, just in case; he's strong enough to hold me in check if need be. Before he arrived, the wizards here just had to do their best. They — they didn't always do very well."

He didn't need to say any more; Hermione could see the rest, ghostly reflections in his eyes. For the first time, it struck her how uniquely cruel Remus' affliction was. Lycanthropy did more than weaken him, stigmatize him and age him before his time. It forced him to be violent, even homicidal, and now at last she understood how ironic and terrible that was for such a gentle person.

Gentle. She never used to think of people that way. She never used to realize how much gentleness mattered —

Hermione's eyes filled with tears before she could prevent it. Even as her vision blurred, her eyes going hot and moist, she saw Remus' eyes go wide. "Hermione? What's the matter?"

"I hate to think of you in here," she choked out. Tucking her legs up to her chest, she rested her head on her knees, trying to gain a moment's composure. But curling into a fetal position only seemed to make her cry harder.

Remus waited a few moments to speak; when he did, his voice was softer than she'd ever heard it. "I know that you care about me as a friend," he said. "You've proved that beyond any doubt. But, forgive me — I don't think that's why you're crying."

Shame gripped her in its sweaty fist, making her body shake as she began to cry even harder. Every thought she had — (you're only making it worse for Remus, you're making him upset, and what's so bad about your life, compared to what he has to go through?) — betrayed her as the cheap, worthless soul she'd come to realize she truly was, underneath. Remus kept calling to her, trying to get her to answer her, but she was too overcome.

Finally, when the worst of it had flowed through her, and her turmoil began turning into exhaustion, Hermione was able to lift her head enough to rest her chin on her knees. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For God's sake, Hermione, what's wrong? Please tell me." Remus said. His hands were now knotted in the ragged hem of his robes. 'You're not — not ill, or anything?"

"No," she managed to say, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand. "It's just — well — are you sure the guards don't eavesdrop on us here?"

"Absolutely sure." Remus' face was as serious as she had ever seen it. "There's no doubt about that. You can tell me anything. From the looks of it, there's a lot you need to get off your chest."

The thought of speaking it aloud shamed Hermione almost past the bearing of it. But then, she'd been enduring it in silence for almost three weeks now, and the silence seemed to be burning her alive. Was Remus the right person to tell? No point in wondering. There wasn't really anyone else left.

Hermione blurted it out as quickly as she could, "I'm Snape's mistress."

Remus, to his credit, didn't betray what had to be the severity of his shock. He said, very slowly. "Oh. I hadn't — oh."

"The spell I've been working on for him — it's a locator spell, enormously powerful, at least in theory. And so I've got to stop him from finishing it, you see? Or at least slow him down as much as I possibly can. To do that, I have to have his complete trust. So — so when I realized that he wanted, well, wanted me, I couldn't push him away." Hermione pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her warm, tear-streaked face. "I couldn't say no."

"I understand," Remus said, as if he did. "Hermione, I'm so sorry."

"It's stupid, really — complaining about something like this to you, with all you have to endure —"

"This prison hasn't taken away my ability to care about other people, all right?" Remus said. "I'm still allowed to worry about you. So stop blaming yourself."

The simple kindness almost undid her again; she would have started crying all over again, if she had any tears left in her. Somehow, she managed to smile weakly at him. "Thank you. You've no idea how much it helps, just having someone be sympathetic."

"I didn't realize," Remus said. "I could tell something had been troubling you, but I never thought of this. I wouldn't have expected it of Severus."

Hermione thought sourly that she now knew Snape far better than Remus ever had, but she was gulping back the last of her crying jag, unable to speak.

Remus continued, "He's not — unkind to you? If he's hurting you —" The warning went unspoken, but the buried rage in Remus' voice warmed and gratified her.

"No, no, it's not that." Hermione went through her memories in as much detail as she could stand. "He's not cruel, or violent, or any of the other things I was afraid he would be. He — he lets me pretend that it's mutual, what happens between us. Or maybe he pretends it is. So he would never strike me, or force me to do something I — well, he wouldn't. He's even set me up as mistress of his household. So now I can order around the house-elf, if I lose the very last of my pride." She ran one hand through her hair, trying to calm herself. "All he asks is to come to my bed every night. That's all."

They were quiet together for a while, and Hermione was surprised how comforting the silence was. She hadn't realized how much of the burden she carried was the secrecy; with Remus there to know, and to share the weight, she felt restored, at least in part. Instead of speaking, or even worrying, she let herself relax and consider the night around them: owls hooting, the soft spring leaves whirring in the breeze, the soft cooing of the newborn baby a few feet away, being shown to its papa for the very first time.

Finally, Remus said, "I trust you to know what you have to do and what you don't. But whatever you choose — don't let it destroy you, Hermione."

"How do I do that?" Her words were faint, even to her ears.

Remus, however, became even more intent. "You remind yourself that you are fighting a battle worth fighting. That you're fighting it with every weapon you have, with everything that you are. That you're going to make a difference."

Hermione nodded tiredly. "I wish I could believe that."

"Believe it."

Remus' voice was so strong, so bold, that it made her sit upright and stare at him. Despite his haggard appearance, at that moment he no longer looked like a wasting prisoner of Tartrosgate. He looked like the professor and authority figure he had been — no, not even that, she decided. Remus looked once again like a warrior of the Order of the Phoenix. The gleam in his eyes, the sinews in his fist, the proud lift of his chin —

She whispered, "What aren't you telling me?"

He hesitated, then said, "I'm keeping my silence for a reason, Hermione. I must ask you to trust me."

Hermione stamped her feet on the ground, all her own troubles forgotten in the wild rush of curiosity. "You said they weren't listening to us!"

"They aren't eavesdropping, no. But they have other ways of spying, and if you know too much, and you're in the wrong place —" He trailed off, but she could fill in the rest. A good Legilemens could pry open her mind without a second thought. Remus continued, "More goes on within Tartrosgate than Voldemort's people would like to think. And soon, that may be true outside Tartrosgate as well."

She asked the only question she could think of. "Are you — is this something to do with Luna's group? The Neville faction?"

If there was a pitying gleam in his eye, Remus concealed it quickly. "No. It's nothing to do with them, and I'd prefer you didn't mention it in their presence."

"Of course not." Hermione took a deep breath, astonished how much better she felt already. Remus had done more than hear her sorrows; he had made her feel strong again, even powerful. Something not unlike her old self-confidence flickered at the edges of her mind. "Thank you for hearing me."

Remus smiled. "Thank you for being here."

**

VIII.

"I won't be long," Hermione had said.

Severus had opened his mouth to tell her not to go — it rankled, the very idea of her making visits to see Remus Lupin. What on earth did she care about a monster who had risked her life and others to play at being a schoolteacher for a year?

But she looked so serious, so intent. Severus meant for her to know the new parameters of her life at Snape Manor — the new responsibilities, he meant, of the mistress of the house -- but he suspected this was not the moment to make a point.

"Very well," he replied easily, enjoying her ill-concealed surprise. "Binks will have dinner ready for you."

Hermione actually smiled at him for a moment at that, which made Severus think the concession might well have been worth it. Besides, he told himself as she drew on her cloak and went out the door, her absence gave him time for some overdue exploration.

After the door shut behind her, Severus continued reading for ten minutes, scanning the Daily Prophet with as much attention as he ever gave it, sipping his port. But when the grandfather clock's brass hands finally slid into position, he rose and went upstairs into Hermione's room.

He'd designated one of the guest rooms as hers; just as well, as he never had guests. Severus thought it might put her more at ease. Although he visited her there nearly every night, he often went back to his own chamber to sleep. This had given him little chance to — as he thought of it — exercise some level of security.

A convenient lie, of course. He suspected Hermione no longer, and might have as easily accused Lucius Malfoy of being one of the hapless followers of Neville Longbottom. The truth Severus knew, and refused to fully acknowledge, was he wanted to know Hermione more deeply — to know the parts of herself that she still kept hidden. For a man who kept so many secrets of his own, Severus still had little patience with the secrecy of others.

He sat on the bed in her room and slowly slid open the drawer of the bedside table. She owned so few things — a scarf and gloves that looked (badly) handmade, a few knutstore novels that couldn't possibly challenge her mind, and — ah. Pictures, framed for display, but hidden in a drawer.

The first photograph was no more or less than Severus might have expecting: snickering schoolchildren, as if he hadn't seen enough of those in his lifetime already. It did jar him that one of them was Harry Potter; he sat for a few moments studying the boy, watching him tease a redheaded girl almost past her endurance.

Just like your father, Severus thought, his lip curling as he stared at the spectacled boy. Always impatient. Always so sure you knew best. If you'd listened to anyone, anyone at all, for ten minutes together in your short life —

Severus set the picture down. He didn't let himself wonder what would have been. It was the only way to remain sane.

The next picture, however, nearly undid whatever sanity he had remaining: Hermione stood in another man's embrace — no, a boy's. One of those Weasley brats — Ron, was it? Yes, that was the boy. No talent for potions whatsoever.

Hermione looked up at Ron with a light in her eyes that Severus had never seen. She is beautiful, he thought abstractly, trying to ignore the heat of envy flaring inside him. In the photo, she was still a girl, but old enough that she looked like herself.

Only healthier, and happy, and glowing with love. Just as Ron Weasley was himself.

Jealousy knotted itself more and more tightly in Severus' heart — then relaxed instantly. Ron Weasley was dead. Come to think of it, none of the Weasleys had survived the war, save for that bootlicker Percy.

The boy belonged to Before. He was no more Severus' concern than anything else of the life he'd left behind. In time, Hermione would see that Ron was no longer her concern, either.

Severus became more sure of his conviction once Hermione returned home.

He was back downstairs, secure in the knowledge that all her possessions were precisely as she'd left them, enjoying a second glass of port. Hermione hurried through the door — bounded, more like, a spring in her step and a flush in her cheeks that seemed to belong to more than the night air. "H'lo," she said, smiling at him easily. "See? I wasn't late."

"No," Severus said, observing carefully the changes in her. She looked happier than she had in a long time — since before he'd brought her to live with him, he was forced to admit. "Made it well before curfew. You must've run the whole way."

"Don't know WHY they restrict broomstick travel; it's silly to do it for everyone everywhere." Hermione plopped down into the chair next to his, somehow managing to help herself to a slice of cheese and begin wriggling out of her cloak all at once. "You'd think they'd shut down the Floo Network before taking away everyone's broomsticks."

"The Floo Network can be monitored, and its pathways are defined," Severus said, watching Hermione as he spoke. She looked so much more at ease, so unworried — the way he'd wanted her to look. "Broomsticks offer complete freedom of movement, and that is a thing of the past."

Hermione made a face, then nodded as Severus gestured to the port bottle. While he poured, she said, "But then at least people could play Quidditch, and people being what they are, they'd probably forget everything else if they had some sport again."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "You think they would forget the Dark Lord's rule if they could play Quidditch?"

"Remind me to tell you something a famous Muggle once said about the opiate of the masses." As the house-elf scurried up for the cloak, Hermione instantly brightened. "Why, thank you, Binks! How has your day been?"

While Binks made awkward conversation, Severus breathed in deeply, allowed himself a slight smile. He liked Hermione better this way: at ease, chatting happily, speaking with him as — as a peer, he thought. She wasn't like him, he realized; the same connections to the past that devastated him seemed to nourish her. For the time being, she still needed them, and he would do best not to interfere. When they were alone again, he handed her some port and said, "Why not tell me now? About this Muggle you spoke of."

"You want me to tell you about Karl Marx?" Hermione said. When he nodded, she began to laugh. Severus didn't know why, but he liked it.

**

Their worlds came together only very slowly. Severus decided he liked it best that way — it added a kind of suspense. He never knew what Hermione would tell him next, or what she would ask. The only constants were that she brightened after her Tartrosgate visits, and that she smiled where she had frowned, ate better, slept more soundly at his side.

Curiosity was their one shared virtue, and he learned quickly that it was by far the best way to lower Hermione's guard. Although her work on the locator potion was still maddeningly slow, it was thorough; introducing her to new ideas and ingredients was a particular delight. Sometimes, her questions so distracted them that they would end up spending hours working on another potion altogether. Severus knew that he was destined to serve the Dark Lord until the end of his days, but he didn't mind making Voldemort wait.

More surprising was his own curiosity about the Muggle world; while it had existed, Severus had had no use for it whatsoever, but now that it was only a part of history, he found himself intrigued by Hermione's tales of where and how she had grown up.

"So they understood all along that the Queen was their ruler in name only?" he said to her one night during dinner. "It was common knowledge that she was only a figurehead?"

"You make it sound so sinister," Hermione replied. "Honestly, it wasn't news to anyone, not since Queen Victoria, anyway, and that was a hundred years back."

"Her face was on all the Muggle money in Britain," Severus said. He'd had to travel on Muggle transport occasionally, during his days as a spy. "Every coin, every bill. You don't think that was an attempt at deception?"

"The Queen — she held a symbolic — the nation --" Hermione shook her head. "It all sounds so much more mad when I try to explain it out loud."

"Muggles always do."

"Right, then." She mock-scowled at him. "I'll concede that the Muggle world is more insane — I mean, was more insane — if you can explain one thing to me."

Severus gestured expansively. "Anything at all, my dear."

If she noticed the endearment, she gave no sign. "The money. What counting system could wizards possibly have used when they designed your monetary system? It's all irregular, and it makes the math nearly impossible."

"It makes perfect sense," he scoffed.

"Twenty-nine knuts to a sickle? Seventeen sickles to a galleon?" Hermione's smile was becoming even broader. "Come on, then. If it makes such perfect sense, explain it."

Sometimes Hermione made him look at his own world differently, but he didn't enjoy that nearly so much.

No, his principal pleasure was in watching Hermione unfold, relax, blossom back slowly into life. She had a vitality now that went deeper than her improved health and status, a luster that Severus knew arose from her time with him. Her evident satisfaction made him feel generous, and filled him with pride.

Not since the unfortunate purchase of his home had he used Voldemort's gold for anything but necessities. Now, spending it was a pleasure. Hermione never asked for anything, which added to his enjoyment because he was able to surprise her. Severus was not indiscriminate with his gifts — that was vulgar, not to mention thoughtless. But from time to time he would come home with books, or good wine, or sweets. She was always profusely thankful, but she resisted some of his other offers; as yet, she'd still declined to go and purchase new robes.

"What do I need those for?" she'd say. "It's just the three of us here, and you and Binks are used to me as I am, aren't you?"

Severus rather liked the idea of her wanting to remain in their home, all the time, but he knew that she was probably merely being modest. After their second month together, he therefore approached the matter from a different angle.

"Twelfth Night!" she'd squealed when he brought home the tickets. He thought she actually skipped a bit as she grabbed them in her hands. "I love Twelfth Night, even though I've never seen it performed, just the film back when they had films. And of course I've read it. I can't believe you like Shakespeare!"

"I prefer reading the plays to seeing them performed," Severus said. "But I thought it might make a change of pace."

Hermione was bouncing on her toes. "I thought you didn't know anything about Muggles."

"You honestly thought Shakespeare was a Muggle?"

She went to that play without getting new robes or, so far as he could tell, noticing that her old attire was dramatically out of step. But he had a feeling that, the next time he braced himself to endure a theatrical performance, he would be rewarded by the sight of Hermione in something brighter, newer, and more feminine.

Severus knew that she was so nearly his. But he did not forget that she did not belong to him entirely. Not yet. He was forcibly reminded of that the evening that they finally finished the locator potion.

He went into his workshop to check on that day's formulation, with low expectations. Hermione had introduced a radically different ratio of onyx to venom, and though he considered her theory sound, he thought it likely they would be refining that ratio for some time to come.

But when he held up the flask of translucent gray-blue fluid, Severus saw immediately that no crystals had formed, that the liquid was perfectly clear and unclouded. He tapped the glass experimentally; a soft shimmer of light played across the potion's surface, then faded.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Incendio." One of the burners sprang to life, and Severus held the flask over it. Exposed to heat, the potion turned deep metallic silver, then almost instantly reverted to its original color when he pulled it away.

Hermione put her head through the door. "Work's done for the day, you know."

"You are more correct than you know." Severus held up the potion. "Success."

"Success?" she stared at him, disbelieving, as well she might be.

"Your guess today has proved to be inspired," Severus said. "Of course, the potion's full efficacy can only be tested by the Dark Lord himself. But it is time to take it to him."

Her face was pale, and Severus could see her gripping the doorjamb with white-knuckled hands. "It's — it's done?"

"We may have a few refinements yet," he replied as he carefully set the potion down. "But I believe we can consider our collaboration near an end." She was so very still, and she stared at him with dark, wounded eyes. Severus reviewed what he had said. "I meant, of course, our collaboration on this potion. Your status here — that will not change."

Hermione did not appear to be relieved. "So we're handing it over, then," she said. "We're giving it to Voldemort."

"Certainly." Severus' eyes narrowed. "You have always known this."

"Yes. I've always known." Hermione was attempting to collect herself, but she did a poor job of it. The sight of her reluctance infuriated Severus beyond any reason.

"Do not even think that you have the right to claim surprise or even dismay." She jumped at the sound of his voice, which was harsh and cold even to his own ears, but he could not stop. "You were fully informed. You have made your own choices. Are you going to whine and cry about them now, like a child?"

She stammered, "I'm not — I mean, I wasn't —"

"There is no place — no place at all — in this world for regrets." Severus came closer to her, closed his hand tightly over her wrist. She winced as he leaned in and whispered, "You've always had a good memory. Don't let it be the death of you. Accept what we have done. What you have done."

Her face was stricken, and too late Severus realized how tightly he was clutching her arm. He released her and watched her stumble backwards into the dark of the hall. More steadily, he said, "Go upstairs. I'll join you later."

Hermione turned and hurried — almost ran — to the stairwell.

He looked back into his workshop. In the dim lights of the lamps, he could still see the locator-spell potion, one bottle among hundreds, one potion among dozens. The answer to Lord Voldemort's latest request, his newest desire.

What would he ask next?

No point in such questions. No point in asking about right or wrong. Severus dimmed the lamps and went upstairs to his mistress' bed, where she would be waiting, because he had commanded it.

**

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