The Bloody Stare of Mars

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The Bloody Stare of Mars
By Yahtzee
[email protected]

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Chapter 5

IX.

That bastard, she fumed. That utter and complete bastard.

Hermione stripped off her clothing angrily, throwing each garment to the floor, not minding where it fell. As she tugged the bands from her hair, she caught of glimpse of her face in the mirror; even in the soft light, she looked harsh. Older.

Her anger wasn't just directed at Snape, but at herself. How could she have had such a stupid bit of luck? She was the one who'd finished that potion, not Snape. If she hadn't had the good sense to deliberately pollute the potion, she might have at least remembered to check on her own work. If only she had checked, she'd have known the correct ratio instantly. Who knows how much time she could have bought, if only she'd been able to conceal this knowledge from him?

If only, if only. Hermione was sick unto death of "if only."

Soon Snape would come upstairs, crawl into her bed and expect her obedience. Never had she hated the idea of making love to him more strongly. Her skin was flushing hot and cold at the thought of it, her stomach churning —

Well, then, she thought, in a sudden burst of calm — why not leave?

She had done what she'd done for a purpose: to delay the completion of the potion. Although she'd done her best, she could do no more. Her role as Snape's mistress was no longer necessary. So why not walk out the door? For all his possessiveness, Hermione did not believe Snape would stop her, not if she really meant to go.

No sooner had she imagined that departure than her mind crowded full of reasons against it. Snape had said that they might still have to refine the potion, hadn't he? Even if she could only buy the resistance another few days, those might be days they could use — to come up with a counter-spell, maybe —

Yes! A counter-spell! Relief washed over her, warm and blissfully sweet. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Nobody else in the world, save for Snape himself, knew the potion's properties as she did. With a little work, some study, some thought, Hermione could devise a way of confusing the spell's workings. It might not work — but it might. It might.

Skin tingling with anticipation, her mind alive with thought, Hermione slipped between the sheets almost without noticing what she was doing, or how cool the cotton was against her bare skin. Ingredients flashed in her memory, each a kind of beacon. Her lips moved in a silent litany: Topaz occludes onyx. Cinnabar negates bat's wing. Water for clarity. Blood for strength.

She was almost startled with Snape entered the room. When their eyes met, rage flared inside her anew. Oh, of course, she thought. He's here to tell me what to do. Bastard.

But her anger mingled curiously with her excitement about the counter-spell, creating a strange, flickering heat in her mind. Hermione had never watched Snape undress before — she preferred to busy herself with something, pretend a distraction — but she watched him now.

We do what we can, she thought abstractly, with what we're given.

The energy inside her sparked and took on an existence of its own, creating a will inside her that seemed to respond independently of her mind. When his hands touched her, for the first time she took them, guided them where she wanted him to go. Hermione heard her voice speaking — giving orders, even, making commands — as if it belonged to someone else. "Slower," she said. "And here — right here —"

He obeyed her. Her mind was not her own, nor her voice, nor her will — but the sensations she felt, the wildly building pleasure of it, that belonged to her -- to her and to no one else.

Desire shot through her, this way and that, careening off her skin, against her bone, vibrating down to her marrow, up to her skull. As if at a great distance, she could hear Snape; he was enjoying this too, and she didn't care. All that mattered was her own quickening heartbeat, her own pleasure cascading through her. When at last she came, crying out so that it echoed in their bedchamber, Hermione felt as though the rest of the world had gone black and faded away.

Afterwards, Snape lay next to her, stroking her hair, gazing at her as though he had never seen her before. Hermione barely noticed him; her body was sinking deeply into the warmth of spent passion, letting it enfold and soothe her.

"Not so shy anymore," Snape said.

"No. Not anymore." Had he really thought her shy, all this time? She felt only a dim sense of gratitude that he made so many of her explanations for her.

He brushed a fingertip against her cheek. "You make me feel young."

"You make me feel wise," she said, without ever considering that it was true. She was asleep almost before the words were spoken.

**

The next week was a blur of activity — working with Snape to refine the potion by day, grabbing whatever moments of privacy she had to work on a counter-spell, along with an obscuring potion. Knowing as little of the locator spell as she did, this was difficult and uncertain work, but Hermione kept after it. She was driven by an unquenchable energy, by a sense of purpose she hadn't known since Harry was still alive.

She could think that — think those words, "since Harry was alive" — without it hurting any longer. Hermione had never thought that day would come.

And, at long last, her situation did not seem so terrible to her. When she tried to find an analogy for it, Hermione decided that it was not unlike a child who stares at a picture of a vase, only to realize that it also reveals two faces. The more desperate side of her place in Snape Manor seemed to have faded into the background, while the benefits stood out in sharper relief. She realized, as she hadn't before, how much she enjoyed her work — if nothing else, she'd at least been able to use her mind again, a pleasure that had been denied her for too long.

Finally, it was amazing what you could put up with when you weren't hungry all the time. As spying missions went, Hermione thought, she hadn't done so badly.

So it was with a light heart that she set out for Gladrags one afternoon, to finally get herself some new robes. Snape had asked her yet again, and they did have that performance of "The Tales of Hoffman" coming up; she felt comfortable wearing her old things to a play, but somehow, an opera seemed so much more grand.

After everything she'd done and been through, didn't she deserve new robes at least?

Hermione saw the ones she wanted immediately, but knew just by the cut of the garment, the sheen of the silk, that the price was expensive. Be sensible, she thought. You only need to look presentable, not — not stunning or anything.

But they were so beautiful — with embroidery at the sleeves and hem, in that soft cornflower blue — and it wasn't as if it came out of her wages. Snape had said to put it to his account, hadn't he?

You oughtn't to take advantage of him, she scolded herself. Then the absurdity of those words hit her; giggling, Hermione grabbed the robes and darted into the changing room.

Just the act of slipping the robes over her body felt different from anything Hermione had ever known before; the seams seemed to have been shaped to her body, and the silk was impossibly soft. The robes settled around her like a cool cloud, outlining her perfectly. Nothing — not the harsh light of the changing room, not the shrill grousing of another shopper nearby, not her own mussed hair and bare feet — could disguise the fact that these were beautiful robes. Or that she was beautiful in them.

Hermione walked from the changing room to the larger mirrors, arced in a semi-circle at the far end of the store. One of them said, "That blue is just perfect for your eyes!" The others murmured agreement. Even though Hermione was well aware of the Flattery Charms put on such things, she couldn't help smiling. One hand came up, twirled in a loose lock of hair.

Who are you flirting with? she thought, gazing at her pretty reflection. She didn't need an answer.

The too-friendly saleswitch bustled up to her. "Will you be taking that one, dear? It's quite right for you, you know."

"Yes," Hermione said. How bold it felt, yet how refreshing, just to say it: "I'll have this one. Put it down to Severus Snape." As the witch hurried off to do that, Hermione took a few more minutes to turn back and forth, unable to look away from her own lovely reflection.

"This," a male voice drawled, "beats everything I've ever dreamt of."

Hermione whirled around, and her blood turned icy as she saw Draco Malfoy smirking at her. She'd been so engrossed in her appearance that she hadn't even noticed him walking up behind.

"I did think today would be a bore, having to go on yet another shopping trip with Pansy," Draco continued, pacing slowly around her. Too late, Hermione remembered the shrill voice she'd overhead in the dressing room but failed to recognize. "Been trying to amuse myself picking out cloak pins in the menswear area, which of course lasted all of about four minutes. But then whom should I see but you? Granger, I must tell you, this makes my day. My month. My year."

She found her tongue. "If you're so desperate for amusement that you get it visiting with someone who loathes you, then you're to be pitied, Malfoy."

Draco smirked even more. "You're hardly one to talk about being pitied anymore. Or about desperation, I'd say." He arched one platinum eyebrow. "Really, Granger. Severus Snape?"

Her stomach twisted. Her cheeks burned. Hermione wanted to duck her head or look away, but that would be admitting defeat. She just kept staring at Draco Malfoy's smug face, watching his grin, unable to speak a word.

"I would've thought you'd starve first," he said. "No matter how obnoxious and pretentious you were, I always thought that at least you had some pride in yourself. Suppose I was wrong on that score."

The potion, she reminded herself. The mission. You're doing what you're doing for a reason, a better reason than Draco's ever had for anything he's done. As calmly as she could manage, Hermione said, "I'm happy where I am."

"Happy? With SNAPE?" Draco cackled with glee. "What is it about him that drives you wild, then? The greasy hair? The hook nose? The pleasant personality? Oh, no doubt he's swept you right off your feet."

Hermione longed to shout the truth at Draco, but she wasn't angry enough to make such a disastrous slip. For some reason, just the knowledge of her true purpose wasn't enough to sustain her; she still felt hot and weak and sick. She forced out a retort: "I'd have him before I'd have you any day."

"It's not a choice you'd ever be called upon to make, Granger," Draco replied smoothly. "You see, I don't keep a mistress. It's — common."

"Draco?" Pansy whined from within the dressing rooms. "Are you out there? Find that stupid saleswoman and get her to help me."

Rolling his eyes, Draco said, "Duty calls. Do excuse me."

"Gladly," Hermione said, starting toward the dressing rooms. But Draco was still staring at her, and she narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"I was just thinking — you really do look ravishing in those robes." Draco cocked his head, mock-wistfully. "If only Weasley could see you now."

She could still hear Draco's laughter long after she'd shut the dressing-room door.

**

"Are you mad?" Luna whispered, crouching behind the shrubs. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here because it's your house," Hermione replied, trying her best to remain calm. "Because it's your house, you don't look suspicious UNLESS you go hiding behind the hedge. Just stand up, all right?"

Luna looked quickly around her large, well-kept garden, as if expecting Voldemort's minions to drop from the larches. Finally, she breathed out and relaxed. "Why did you come here? Is it an emergency?"

"Very near one, yes." Hermione folded her arms, trying very hard to ignore the crackle of her shopping bag, with the now-hated blue robes — the symbol of her servitude — folded within. "Snape has — Snape and I have completed the spell. There's nothing but the final touches, now. I believe Snape's presenting it to Voldemort soon."

When Luna gasped, Hermione felt some grim satisfaction that the severity of the situation was getting through. "It's ready," Luna whispered. "I guess I thought this day wouldn't really come, but it has."

"Don't panic," Hermione said. She held on ever more tightly to her shaken sense of purpose; now she needed it more than ever, and now was just the time to put it into more active effect. "I've been working on a counter-spell — a specific spell would be hard for me to come up with, but something very general ought to work if I have the perfect counteracting potion, and I think I'm fairly close to that."

"Counteracting potion?" Luna smiled. "Good idea. That way we can stop Voldemort from using it, but still use it ourselves. You're brilliant, Hermione!"

The praise was warming, but Hermione kept herself focused. "You mean — your group wants to try and use the spell after all?"

Luna nodded, her wispy blonde hair drifting in the afternoon breeze. "We always knew we couldn't leave Neville in Voldemort's hands forever. He is the True Son of the Prophecy. He is our reason for hope."

Hermione had no use for the dogma of the converted, nor for the unfocused gleam in Luna's eyes. She tried to pull Luna back to hard realities: "I thought you'd decided a rescue mission was too risky."

"Just running in unprepared would have been too risky," Luna admitted. "But even Voldemort's defenses aren't perfect. We just need to be prepared. Once we discover the location of Azkaban, we'll be able to evaluate the situation better. Form a real plan of attack."

Preparation. Evaluation. These were concepts Hermione found soothingly familiar, if somewhat unexpected coming from Luna Lovegood. She took a deep breath and felt some of the clawed pain of shame fade from her for the first time since she'd seen Draco Malfoy at Gladrags. "I can bring you a sample of the potion for the locator spell and instructions for recreating it very soon. It shouldn't take me more than a day or so to get the opportunity to put that together."

Luna beamed. "Wonderful! I'll tell the others. That way we can get started on planning our trip to Greenland."

Hermione knew, very surely, that she shouldn't ask. That everything would seem so much better if she just didn't ask. But she heard herself saying, slowly, "Greenland?"

"That's the latest reported location of the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks," Luna replied. After a few moments of silence, Luna cocked her head and said, "Don't tell me you still don't believe in them?"

"You — still do believe in them?" Hermione was trying to smile politely, but she had a feeling that the look on her face was anything but pleasant.

Luna rolled her eyes. "There's been another wave of sightings reported in the Quibbler just this last month! If one-tenth of what legends say about their powers is true, well, we won't have any trouble getting past the Azkaban guards. Not with Snorkacks on our side."

Slapping Luna would not be enough. No, Hermione wanted to scratch her eyes out, hurt her, even kill her, and she'd never wanted to kill anyone or anything besides Lord Voldemort in her life. But as soon as the rage was on her, it dissolved into something smaller and sadder and gray.

The people Hermione had called her allies were fools. The mission she'd invented for herself was an illusion. Everything she'd done — everything she'd become — was for nothing. Nothing at all.

"Hermione? Are you all right?"

Hermione stared down at her useless hands. She had only one thing to show for the past three months of her life — a blue silk robe that she now hated. Nothing else. "I'm fine," she said quietly. "I'm absolutely fine."

**

X.

The Ministry of Magic did not hide behind false storefronts any longer.

Severus considered that only appropriate; he'd always despised the trickery necessary to avoid troubling the mental repose of Muggles. But he would never have wanted the replacement to be something so grossly grandiose: obsidian steps; high columns carved with runic symbols of power and death; the jeweled statue of the serpent that crowned the edifice, its ruby eyes staring out across Voldemort's London.

He had trouble walking through the heavy oak doors — and he was welcome there. But that was as close as Severus came to imagining the feelings of the thousands who had been dragged through on their way to quick, predetermined trials. Such speculation had lost its ability to torment him years before.

As he walked through the corridors, most of those there — from high-ranking officials to the lowliest guard — recognized him. Some acknowledged him with a nod or even a slight bow. Others, mostly those of lower rank, held themselves up straighter, as if hoping to win his approval, or at least avoid his disapproval. Severus accepted it as his due, no more. After all his years of longing for the trappings of power, Severus had found that they palled in a fairly short period of time.

At least, they had for him. For others, apparently, they never lost value.

Even Severus Snape, hero of the realm, had to be searched before entering the Dark Lord's chambers. He stood before the golden doors, singularly unimpressed — gold was far too malleable to hold protective enchantments for long — as he answered the guards' questions and let their hands pat at his sleeves.

When the doors swung open, he stepped inside, bracing himself for whatever he might find inside. Sometimes he'd found prisoners after their interrogations had ended, or what remained of them. More terribly, once, he'd been expected to remain in the room while an interrogation ended. The Dark Lord had not noticed the Numbing Charm Severus had muttered beneath his breath, but such a risk could not be taken again.

This time, however, Severus found only the Dark Lord, seated at his desk, looking for all the world like a scholar at study.

"Severus Snape," Lord Voldemort said, rising as though Severus were an unexpected guest, not a servant duly summoned. The Dark Lord's face had grown more terrible during his years in power, not least because it looked more human. "I have long expected you."

"Forgive the delays, my Lord," Severus said silkily. "When you test the potion, I believe you will find the results well worth the time spent. We await only final refinements. The precision this potion will add should be accurate beyond any previous refinements."

The Dark Lord's white hand, his fingers still thin enough to show the bones, closed, spiderlike, around the vial of potion. He held the vial up to a nearby lamp and swirled it slowly, like a gourmet testing his wine. "This is not all, surely?"

"More is ready, and more can be made quickly. Only the derivation of the formula was time-consuming. The potion itself can be brewed in a day."

"Splendid." The Dark Lord smiled his ghastly smile. "You have served me well, Severus. More and more, it becomes clear to me how — meaningless — your lapse in solidarity truly was."

Severus remembered himself as a young man: sick with guilt, shaking with fear, choking out a confession that meant worse than death -- while waiting to see disgust in Albus Dumbledore's eyes. Instead he had seen only understanding, and in that moment he'd thought he had found not death but life. He had been very young. "Meaningless," Severus repeated.

Nodding, the Dark Lord took a seat in the high-backed, throne-like chair before his fireplace. Though it was a fine June afternoon, the room had a distinct chill, one the greenish flames did little to change. "After the incident at Godric's Hollow, the faith of my followers was shaken. They denied me, denied their own true selves. At the time it outraged me. But now that enough time has passed, I see the prudence of it."

This was beyond belief. Severus let no sign of fear or uncertainty show on his face, and began delving into the mental patterns that aided his Occlumency. For some unfathomable reason, the Dark Lord was suspicious — not of himself, Severus thought, so much as in general. Although Severus had very little to hide from Voldemort any longer, he did not mean to reveal anything unless and until he understood the Dark Lord's purpose.

"You are too forgiving, my Lord," Severus said. "We were weak. We did not yet understand your full glory, though we had been given reason to see. The only credit we deserve — and it is not much — is that of recognizing our own folly."

The Dark Lord did not turn to him, only continued to stare into the flames. "Your folly, you call it. Your belief that our cause to restore purity to the wizarding world was lost forever."

"You were our leader," Severus replied. "Without you, we were nothing."

"Any movement depends so much upon the man." The Dark Lord steepled his hands, frowning deeply. "You might have fought without me."

"We would have been doomed to fail."

"Yes," the Dark Lord replied easily. "Still — you could have fought on. A few did. But you would agree that our great cause fell and then rose on the life of just one man."

Severus kept trying to calculate what the Dark Lord could mean. It sounded, on one level, as though he were merely inveigling flattery, which the Dark Lord was not above. But Severus suspected something more significant — though he still could not determine what. "I do agree, my Lord. The cause returned to life and strength when you did."

"I am glad that you see it as I do." The Dark Lord appeared anything but glad; he was scowling now, even as he lifted the vial of potion. Severus could see the reflection of the flames in the glass, the fire rendered blue by the liquid within. "For it is you who have given me the power to stop history from repeating itself — and far more distastefully, this time."

"My Lord?" Severus wished violently for any Legilemens ability. There were so many moments like this, when the Dark Lord's plans were beyond his reach.

"Return here three nights from now," the Dark Lord said, by way of answer. Severus calculated the timing: a new moon, a vital night for the performance of delicate spells. "I am gathering several wizards together to assist me. Only the most powerful and trusted."

By rote, Severus said, "Thank you, my Lord."

"We will try your new potion with my new spell. And then, if we are very fortunate, and if your potion works as brilliantly as you claim it will —"

The pause was Severus' cue; resisting the urge to grind his teeth, Severus asked, "Then what will happen?"

"So far as the rest of the world will ever know," Voldemort replied, "nothing at all. All will be as it was, and as it ever shall be."

**

As he made his way home, Severus replayed the conversation in his mind again and again, hoping to understand Voldemort more fully. Although no particulars made themselves clear, one fact stood out in greater relief the longer Severus considered it:

Voldemort believed that the potion and the locator spell would be of significant value, not just in hunting down his enemies but also in maintaining the strength of his rule.

This was almost more than Severus could believe. Voldemort's power over the world was now as close to absolute as even the Dark Lord's most ardent followers could ever have wished. After the terrible Battle of Samhain — supposedly celebrated now as the Victory of Samhain — the Death Eaters' grasp had been unshakeable.

Everything Severus had done since that day, he had done under the belief that Voldemort's victory had been complete and final from that moment. And now, Voldemort was suggesting that this was simply not true.

The potion, the locator spell — Severus had thought they would be used to find the last pitiful remnants of a resistance movement. Perhaps it would even result in the martyrdom of those pathetic wretches who worshipped Neville Longbottom and, in Severus' opinion, had clearly never met him. But now that he could see the lives that would be lost more vividly — now that Severus knew those who would die were those who might actually have the power to strike a real blow to Voldemort —

You must not think such things, he told himself. You know his power. You know the reality that governs the world now. You cannot afford to doubt that now.

And yet it was doubt that settled over him, heavier and heavier, slowing his steps as he walked home in the sunset.

Severus did not acknowledge Binks as she managed the door for him and took his cloak. He had developed a habit of talking with Hermione every evening before dinner, but he could not bear the idea of facing her now. He decided to go to the conservatory for the simple reason that he never went there, and believed Hermione didn't either. It would provide him with some silence, a chance to try and settle his volatile thoughts.

When he opened the door, however, he saw Hermione sitting on a bench, crying.

"Oh," she choked out, putting her handkerchief to her face. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'll go —"

"No, I — I should —" Severus' first urge was to flee both from her presence and her misery. She had showed him so little real emotion, and he had preferred it that way. But the memory of what she had shown him — her enthusiasm for a tricky mental problem, her delight at the theatre, her passion in bed — made him stay. Besides, in her own despair, she wouldn't notice his reaction. "What's wrong?"

Hermione sniffled and did a poor job of not looking surprised that he'd asked. "It's nothing. Nothing at all." Her own words made her face crumple in misery, but she did not sob again.

Carefully, Severus settled himself on the bench beside her. "You needn't tell me if you don't wish it."

"It's complicated," she began, then she laughed at herself as she dabbed at her cheeks. "No, it isn't, not really. I just —" Hermione looked very vulnerable, very young, as she finally whispered, "I miss Harry."

As though anyone could miss such a rude, arrogant, paranoid —

Severus quickly tempered his personal reaction. He did not think much of Hermione's choice of friends, but he suspected that she meant more than missing Harry Potter, the person. She meant the world before, a world that contained so many more people and choices, so much more hope.

She also meant a world that contained Ron Weasley, but Severus pushed his jealousy aside. Time to contemplate what that meant later. For now, he only took Hermione's hand in his own.

When she looked up at him, confused, he said only, "So much would be different."

She began sobbing once more, but she squeezed his hand and nodded. He'd understood her, then. Severus found that fact both exhilarating and somewhat frightening.

He drew her to his shoulder and put an arm around her; he was unused to holding her outside of the bedroom, or to giving comfort to anyone, and he knew that he was embracing her very awkwardly. It was a long time before she settled her head against his chest and began to relax.

After many minutes, she said, in a tear-thick voice, "I mustn't let myself do that."

"Do what?"

"Look back," she replied. Hermione sounded far older, less like the girl she had been than ever before. "Let myself wonder what would be."

"You'll learn how to stop," Severus said. "There are — walls you build, within the mind. They become stronger, in time."

Hermione murmured, "You'll teach me how."

"Yes." He cradled her head in his hands, willing his old resolve to flow back into him, and from him into her. "We won't look back."

**

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