| A Woman's Weapon Chapter 10 It was raining when they apparated back to Hogwarts, a hard sleeting rain that soaked through the hood of the Cloak to stream down her face. By the time Snape pushed her into the study, allowing her to finally throw it off, she was soaked to the skin and numb with cold. Standing close to the fire – which leaped from reddish coals to a golden sheet of flame at her approach – was such a glorious relief that she just stood there steaming. The quiet misery of trivial discomfort had temporarily distracted her from the night's events, and for a short while, soaking up the heat did the same thing. After that she had to hold herself carefully together, lest she come apart. Stabbing pains from her abused wrists contrasted with the dull ache of the bruises down her back – all of which was secondary to, even a relief from, what her mind was subjecting her to: a badly edited film of the worse moments of the past few hours, both real and imagined, which lurched horribly from fast forward to slow motion and back again. Her attempts to make it stop only redirected it to the future and its own horrible unknowns. Realizing that she was shaking uncontrollably, she stumbled into an armchair and curled her legs tight into her chest. She managed to get her arms round her knees and lock them tightly. You're just going into shock, she explained firmly to herself, against her chattering teeth. It's perfectly natural, it's happened before, and you'll feel much better in the morning. It helped a little. If she blinked hard enough she could even see the fire through her tears. “Arefacio!” Snape's spell was followed by the sound of exploding steam from behind her. It drew her far enough out of her funk to scrub at her eyes and peer round the side of the chair. He sat at the desk, writing furiously. She gritted her teeth against the urge to hunch further into a fetal position and forced herself to concentrate. If she weakened now events would slip through her fingers. The urge to let them go, just for a little while, was almost overwhelming – she was so tired – but she quelled it as firmly as she could. Unfortunately, before she could do anything else, she had to talk to Snape. The prospect was so unpleasant that even as she rose, on the point of opening her mouth, she turned away. Instead, she walked to the Potions cupboard. From amid its massed ranks of phials she selected a painkiller and a tin of Quik-Heal ointment for her bruises. Pocketing them both, she turned back to him, steadier but still gripped by that terrible indecision she couldn't seem to shake. “Um – Professor –” “If you've finished stealing from me, again, Miss Granger, you should feel free to go to bed,” he said without looking round. “You no longer need to be here.” The calculated rudeness stung her enough to reply in kind. “I was just recovering myself, Professor.” She forced sharp irony into the words until – not quite deliberately – her voice cracked. “I don't feel very well.” Which was true on a number of levels – physically and mentally – and she felt sure that Snape caught them all. If he did, he declined to acknowledge them. “Where?” His voice made it clear that if she couldn't indicate a specific and non-minor injury immediately, the consequences would be most unpleasant. “My wrist. I think I twisted it when I tried to escape.” This was an understatement; her wrist was braceleted by a livid bruise in the shape of a hand, overlaid with burns and blisters from the spell. His long fingers probed hard, surprising a gasp of pain from her. “Sprained, not broken,” he dismissed, but selected another phial anyway and poured it over her wrist, which absorbed the cold syrup like a sponge. After it had all vanished the coolness lingered, soothing her pain and sending up the faint aroma of menthol. She held out her other arm for similar treatment. “Anything else?” When she shook her head, he turned back to his letter. She stood there, still trying to think of something to say that didn't fall into the category of either begging or demanding, half-aware that by remaining there she offered up a silent reproach that fell somewhere between the two. Apparently silent reproach wasn't an effective tactic where Snape was concerned. It figured. She closed her eyes briefly in the hope that doing so would reduce the intensity of her headache. It didn't, and the trivial disappointment propelled her forward. “I think I've got a right to know what you're going to do.” Something subtle changed in the set of his shoulders, enough to indicate that he'd heard her, but nothing more. He stopped writing. “I don't care what game you're playing with Narcissa,” she lied “But you nearly got me killed tonight. And I don't see how you're any closer to helping me. I want to know—” He stood up, chair scraping, and the look on his face stopped her in mid-flow. She felt a sudden, ridiculous urge to take a step back. “I intend to meet the murderer, whomever they are. If there is a suitable opportunity, I will disable or perhaps even kill them. If there is not, I will receive the orders they bring and hope I can learn enough to recover the situation before I have to carry them out – and before someone else dies.” His teeth were bared in a sneer; his voice grew louder as he continued. “Is that acceptable to you, Miss Granger? Does that meet with your approval?” Louder still, almost shouting. “Or do you think you have a better course of action to suggest?” Her desire to take a step back seemed less foolish now, but she refused to back down. If she could stand up without shaking, he could damn well find some other way of burning off stress. Instead of moving back, she walked forward, three quick steps, until she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. “Nothing about this is acceptable.” Her voice had cracked again. “But whatever you may think of me, I'm not stupid enough to imagine that I can change that – nor am I under any delusions that I can dissuade you from doing whatever you choose to do. I just want to know about it beforehand, because it affects me, and I'm the one who's going to have to live with the consequences.” “You are being melodramatic – and impertinent.” He'd retreated back into his classroom persona, less threatening than his barely controlled anger, but also less revealing. “I think I have a right to know.” As soon as she said it she realized that he couldn't care less, that he was about to throw her out. “And you need to tell me where you're going at least. In case ... in case some thing goes wrong.” For a moment they both froze, then his face seemed to collapse in on itself. Without anger or personality to animate them, his eyes were dull and his features drawn. It was almost a shock to realize how exhausted he was; one didn't think of Snape as quite human in such things. Her surge of pity died quickly; it lasted until he spoke again. “If things go wrong, Miss Granger, you will be entombed here until the Headmaster can break the wards.” She felt her eyes widen against her will, but she managed to hold his gaze. “Which admittedly might not take more than a few weeks. Unless the Aurors get to you first.” He closed his eyes briefly – perhaps to regain control, probably not to savor the image, but she couldn't be sure. “Your point, however, is a valid one. The meeting will take place at midnight, in a concealed passageway in the cellars of the North Tower.” “Thank you.” His back was already turned, but she felt sure that his expression was sneering. She backed away a few paces before turning to walk – careful to keep her pace slow – back to her room. ************ Dear Harry and Ron, Snape is meeting the killer in the tunnels beneath Hogwarts this evening. There is a secret passage at the foot of the North tower. I'm convinced that Snape is on our side, but I'm not sure what he intends to do. I don't think he'll attempt to capture the murderer, for fear of revealing his loyalties. And with Dumbledore away I don't think he'll try to get anyone else to help. I know I can't tell you this without you acting on it. I almost didn't tell you at all. I feel very worried about putting you both in danger when I can't be there as well. Please, please, please, don't do anything foolish. Just try to find out who it is if you must. And if you do do something more dramatic, be very, very, careful. I wish I could be with you, Good luck, Hermione ************ She checked her watch again: five minutes to eleven. Then she watched the second hand make another quarter circle. After that she went back to pacing, an activity she'd done a lot of in the last hour. She'd also drunk several cups of coffee, considered trying to get Slytherin House to give her some Scotch, and taken a long hot shower. The coffee she'd barely tasted, and had just made her more jittery. The Scotch had appeared, a wide crystal tumbler and dust encrusted bottle on a silver tray. She'd looked at it sternly until it went away. The shower had been the most successful distraction, but there was a limit to how long one could stay under a waterfall, even a warm one which parted to let one breathe. It took another two circuits of the study before she admitted that she wasn't fooling herself. Five minutes later she'd changed clothes. Another five minutes were spent stuffing the pockets of the coat with Potion vials before she stood in the centre of the study, Crookshanks looking on. “Showtime,” she said aloud, then winced; even her lowered voice sounded wrong in the empty room. She'd hoped to draw resolve from empty posturing, but it didn't really work. Pursuing a course she knew to be foolish at best meant that she couldn't rely on logic to stiffen her courage. It was a significant disadvantage. She took a firmer grip on her wand. “Here goes.” The sensation was rather like being folded up into a very small place, while simultaneously being stretched out on a rack. Except it wasn't at all like that at all; it was indescribable, except in the most banal, incoherent terms. There was quite a bit of pain, and the rest of the sensations came through as a bewildering, nonsensical welter of g-forces, muscle spasms and electric shocks. When it ended she stretched out, relieved to find all her limbs still attached and working. As she did so her spine extended and bent in a way that wouldn't have been possible a moment ago, but felt natural now. Even the tail didn't seem so strange. It was the seventh time she'd managed a complete animagus transformation, and the first time she'd done it without Professor McGonagall's supervision. The first time, she'd transformed back almost immediately, panicked by the sudden switch into black and white vision and the alien nature of her changed body. The second time she hadn't wanted to change back. Transformed she was a cat: a svelte chocolate point Siamese. She'd been delighted with that when she first transformed and still found it flattering in some silly, irrational way. As if it revealed some moral virtue, being a sleek feline of aristocratic breed rather than a scaly iguana or a many-legged spider. More to the point, she'd managed her solo transformation without Splinching. Pulling back from her stretch, she gathered her legs under her again and looked around for Crookshanks. He crouched, ready to spring again, on the back of one of the chairs – halfway across the room from where he'd been before she transformed. He rather pointedly refused to look shocked. She tried to raise an eyebrow at him, before being forced to conclude that it was another of her human expressions which didn't work as a cat. Talking wouldn't work either; she'd been disappointed to learn from her preliminary reading that Animagus status didn't come with any instinctive knowledge of the animal's language. Or anything else for that matter. One of the strict rules for the beginner was to avoid contact with natural creatures of similar species. The consequences of bad communication could be uncomfortable, embarrassing, and occasionally lethal. Not that she worried that Crookshanks would attack or attempt to ravish her, but she wasn't at all sure that she could explain to him that she needed him to show her the way out. ************ There was a phone ringing somewhere very far away. Which didn't make sense because she was at Hogwarts, where there were no phones. Irene raised her head cautiously off the desk, disgusted that she'd managed to fall to sleep in the first place – hardly suitable behavior for an Auror. At least, a cautious glance assured her, it had apparently happened after everyone else had gone. She used the desk to push herself to her feet, hugging herself against the cold of the empty room. The ringing – actually more of an oscillating hum now she'd made it to half-awake – was coming from the sand pit. She stumbled over to it, still trying to get both hair and sleep out of her eyes, to find nothing there but the sand castle version of Hogwarts. If it hadn't been making noise, she'd never have noticed anything had changed. She dug her hands into the sand, pulling the model apart so that she could watch it reform, then did that twice more before she noted the slight distortion moving away from Slytherin house towards the North Tower. It was so slight as to be little more than a ripple, just a shadow in the sand. But when she slipped her finger into it she could feel the sand ghosting past. Something was definitely there. The problem was that at Hogwarts 'something' meant 'anything' – from prank-playing students to ancient and unspeakable magicks. It had been an almost insurmountable challenge to make the sand box work here, and so far its most notable achievements were to cause three knock-down drag-out fights among its operators over what the hell the readings from Slytherin house meant, inspire one technically-minded Auror to start a long monograph on the arithmetical dimensions of the Chamber of Secrets, and catch a number of trysting couples who'd been using magic to conceal their activities – one couple not being made up solely of students. So sounding the alarm – and waking up Simmons – wasn't necessarily the smart thing to do. Not for the very junior person who was already in trouble for making what she'd thought were the most discrete, subtle waves such a person could make. On the other hand, trotting off into the unknown by herself didn't feel very sensible either. ************ It was a cold, dark room, and his nerves were beginning to show. At least to him, they were; he doubted if anyone else could have detected them through his rigid stance. He stood beside one of the doorways, on the opposite side to its swing, where he could see the other door clearly. He had decided that this was the last night he could sensibly do this. It had been thirty hours since he last slept, and while that wasn't unusual it had been a hectic thirty hours – hectic enough that he could be confident of sleep when it was over, despite the host of new problems disguised as opportunities, and those which went undisguised. Whomever he was meeting was prompt, at least; at precisely midnight the door next to him creaked open. For the briefest of moments he considered attack, then dismissed it. Instead, he used the time that he remained unobserved in observation of his own. It was a frustrating exercise. The figure was cloaked and hooded, and even the mask was barely visible. He could only ascertain the vaguest of physical outlines – short and slight – and that still left thousands of possibilities for magical disguise. “You're late.” If he'd hoped to startle him he was disappointed. The figure didn't jump at all, only turned slowly to regard him. “Don't whine, Snape.” He registered the insult as a clue even as his jaw clenched. He'd spent a long time reducing the number of people who dared to speak to him like that to a bare minimum. “My lord is not pleased with you in this matter. Where is the girl?” The voice sounded gravelly and harsh – probably magically disguised. “I have no idea. That is hardly my area of expertise, any more than Potions is apparently yours.” “I'd watch your mouth if I were you, Snape.” The threat had the casual conviction that suggested that it wasn't entirely idle, without the force that would make it imminent. He dismissed it. “I've got instructions for you – orders.” “Then I suggest you deliver them, so that we can both leave.” “Snape, Snape, Snape.” The figure seemed to be attempting to force his horse tones into something approaching friendly banter. It was repellent. “Anyone would believe that you had something better to do. You should thank me for bringing some excitement to your dull and dreary life here. Nothing like a little death and destruction to keep us young.” At the beginning, before he had his series of painful epiphanies, this kind of conversation would have made him feel uncomfortable – what they did might be necessary, but it was nothing to take joy in. Later it would have made him feel sick. Now he felt only irritation – finally a safe emotion to reveal. His sneer had little effect, however, it only seemed to relax his companion further. He grinned – an expression sensed rather than seen, although he caught a momentary glimpse of dark eyes bright with humour. Reluctantly he discarded those plans which required his counterpart to be more than a madman. Which left him two choices: violent action immediately, or violent action later. On the whole he preferred later, after he'd learnt what orders were to be relayed. He was about to try to force the conversation past the point of posturing and insults when some errant instinct for self preservation caused him to pause, listening. Before the instinct could form itself into anything so substantial as a suspicion, the door behind him exploded inwards. He turned in time to see it pin-wheel some way into the room, shedding into pieces as it went. Spells reached out in the door's wake reaching, not for him, for the wall to his right. It exploded as well, a barrage of fragments he was forced to deal with. His wand snapped up, without the sliver of warning given by the shouted words he would have been knocked to the floor, unconscious and bleeding – if not dead. Even so he was uncertain of what he'd done until the storm of moths swept over him. For a moment he lost sight of the door as he struggled free, beating them away with his arms. The distraction gave three figures enough time to make it though the door frame. Two of the peeled off to the left, towards his colleague. He had no time to look. The third ran straight towards him, hurling stunning spells as he came. Snape ducked under the first one, straightening up as his arm extended, not bothering to put his simple, brutal intentions into words. The resulting wave of magic gathered the rest of the incoming attacks in its wake as it swept towards his opponent. He flicked his eyes to the side just long enough to register the three way duel on the other side of the room, and the impression that the participants were of a height. His head was already snapping back when the implications hit him – along with the details he'd missed in the first rush of action. “Potter!” The little git threw himself flat, scrabbling away from the flood of magic which came within inches of his back. Before Potter could get back to his feet Snape cast again. The first spell narrowly missed when Potter aborted his rise to roll away. He got most of the way to his feet before he countered. It was a simple paralysing curse, which Snape should have simply deflected with a twist of his wrist. He caught it easily, but instead of being cast aside the magic arced up his wand into his arm. The left side of body went numb as he crashed to the floor. Part of his mind must have continued to work – because he managed to transfer his wand to his right hand – most of it was lost to rage and humiliation. It wasn't until his arm was extended, until most of the word had left his lips that he realised what he was doing. By then it was too late to do anything but jerk his hand away. There was still enough in the only half abandoned intention to power the spell. Most of it hit the wall. Without a focused exercise of will it cut only a few inches deep into the stone. A jagged scar in the rock. But some hit Potter in the shoulder, opening him clean to the bone. Blood hit the wall as well, a dull contrast with the dirty stone. Potter collapsed back, trying to raise his wand with an arm which no longer worked properly. Blood soaked though his clothing. Snape felt only exhilarated triumph, the sweet knowledge that he'd won. Until he saw the shock on Potter's face, and the pain that followed it. He lost a vital second, stuffing the guilty, hateful pleasure back into its proper box. Another past as he rode out the wave of disgust that chased it down. Then he was able to move again, the last threads of the paralysing spell unravelling quickly. “Conglacio!” Ice wrapped itself around the troublesome brat, halting the bleeding, and holding him in place. Snape turned to take in the rest of the room. Ron Weasley and Longbottom, both breathing hard, but apparently uninjured, had driven their opponent to the other door. Together they unleashed a barrage of stunning spells which were only occasionally replied to – although the reply was always a particularly nasty piece of magic. Somehow both of them always managed to dodge aside. The temptation to leave them all to it was there, but as the initial shock of the original attack faded Snape's mind was starting to work again. And this was too good an opportunity to pass up. “Stupefy!” Longbottom folded into a crumpled pile on the floor. The sudden attack from behind brought Weasley round, wand raised. In his shock he was completely open to the masked figure who's malevolence Snape was acutely concious of. It was almost a physical thing, reaching through the thick robes, through the mask, and across the length of the room to chill him. “Don't be a fool. Leave him to me. The Aurors will be here any second” The figure dropped his wand slowly back into his pocket. “Fair enough I suppose. I trust that you will deal with him in the manner I would – that our Lord – would expect?” His hand was already reaching for the door knob as he spoke. Soon the whole sorry mess would be over. “You can count on that.” Suddenly – fingers only inches from the door – the figure turned back. “The normal rules apply to Potter. It doesn't matter that you took a chunk out of him. That can be overlooked, but see that he survives. It'll be on your head if he doesn't. I don't care how you explain it, but make sure that he lives.” “I obey.” He mouthed the empty platitude automatically. The figure nodded, and opened the door. It was old, and he had to take a firm grip on the iron knob to force it open. As he did so Snape's expression twisted in triumph. “One, two, three...” He counted slowly under his breath. As he watched the cloaked figure took one stiff step before tumbling to the floor. The moment of triumph lasted until he realised that Weasley had taken advantage of his distraction. With youth's arrogant daring he'd flung himself to the side, bringing his wand to bear as he fell. There was a flash of light, and another brief moment of incandescent anger, before he lost conciousness. ************ She'd known that something had gone badly wrong when she saw what remained of the door. Inside, her first coherent thought was that sometimes seeing in monochrome could be great advantage. Her second was that the scene in front of her was still nothing less than horrific. Ron was the only person left standing. He looked awful, stumbling towards Harry. Who, wrapped in thawing ice, blood mixing with the melt, looked worse. Then there were the three bodies on the floor, either unconscious or dead. The realisation that the vivid copper scent/taste was Harry's blood shocked her into a too rapid transformation. It was easier going back, the pain reduced to a welcome distraction. The room was worse seen in colour, and the shadow of the taste lingered in her mind until she couldn't tell what she was still smelling. Bile rose until she was almost choked by it and she felt her knees start to buckle. The urge to scream or break down sobbing was too strong. If there had been anyone there to take the responsibility she'd have given in to it. It was still an effort to focus on only the most immediate problems, shoving the rest into a deep dark hole not to looked at. First, I must stop the situation getting worse. Her first glance had taken in Ron and Harry. Then she identified Neville. Despite his being crumpled into heap with head head covered by his robes, a familiar pair of blue and yellow socks were visible. Snape, hair and clothing too distinctive to be anyone else, was even easier. That left one unknown figure, who's prone form was wrapped in robes darker than any at Hogwarts. She raised her wand and brought it to bear. “Stupefy!” Second, I must check that Harry is still alive. She ran to his side, slipping to her knees in the sludge. Stealing herself for an instance she put her hand to his throat, searching for the carotid pulse. His skin was clammy and frozen, but the pulse was there. It should have made her feel better, relieved. Instead the frail movement under her fingers prompted another rush of horror. Third, I must find out how badly he is hurt and give first aid. The melting ice had exposed the wound. It seemed to be seeping rather than gushing. She had no idea whether that was a good thing or not. Her resolve wavered for a second, but there was no other choice. “Dilabor.” What was left of the ice streamed away. Without the support Harry slumped against wall before she could catch him. Ron was suddenly there – or might have been there for a while – putting an arm round his shoulders help her to ease him to the floor. “Aresco.” The water disappeared as well. She was suddenly aware of her trousers being dry, without having realised they were wet. “Hermione!” Ron's voice was panicked and angry, horse with strain. She didn't know how long he'd been shouting at her. It was too much to answer him, but she managed to grip his shoulder in acknowledgement. Her fingers dug into him, the human contact gave her enough strength to use his support to pull herself up. “Stand back.” Her voice was measured and calm. She could feel Ron relaxing under her fingers. She wished she had the vaguest idea what she was doing. “Do you know what you're doing?” His voice was calming. She could hear his faith in her, his willingness to be convinced. “Of course I do.” She listened to herself with a rising feeling of horror. She might be talking about a piece of homework rather than Harry's life. The small part of her which wasn't busy with other things twisted in self loathing. “He's going to be fine.” Ron's hand came up to cover hers for a moment. It was reassuring, despite everything. “Sanguineus!” Harry gasped. His eyelids rolled up, his eyes unfocused. The whites were flushed pink with livid capillaries. It might have been a good sign. She tried again.“Sanguineus!” Her vision dimmed briefly with the effort. Harry jerked again. Then went into spasm, straining against invisible constraints. Tendons stood out on his neck and Ron had to wrap his arms around him to prevent his head cracking against the wall. His face and hands had flushed a deep brick red and the cut was bleeding more freely. That, she thought, had to be a good sign. It took them another minute to stop the renewed bleeding. Their hands and wands slick with it by the end. But Harry was still flushed with blood when they did so. And if he was also shaking uncontrollably and not yet concious – then that was nothing new. She took several quick deep breaths, forcing oxygen into her lungs. She felt Ron's arm go round her and bring her to her feet. She got an arm round him, almost drew back when she realised that she was getting more blood on him, before his strength pulled her close. For a short time they leaned into each other. He was shaking, not as badly as Harry but badly enough. And he held on too tight, crushing their ribs together until she struggled to breath. It felt so good, so safe, that she had to remind herself that the safety was an illusion and shake herself back into action. When she pushed him away she turned to the side to hide her tears, before brushing them away with blood-soaked hands. Fourth, I must check on the others. “Snape stunned Neville.” Ron's voice was still shaky, and it stuck in his throat as often as not. Worse, high on adrenaline and sick with panic, his story was incoherent. “Just stunned him. Like that. That was after he did that to Harry.” She let him babble as they wrestled Neville into a sitting position. Several enervating spells had returned him to semi-conciousness, but failed to restore any motor control. His drooling onto her shoulder was annoying, more so because of its supreme unimportance. It was surprising how heavy he was, before she'd barely noticed Harry's weight. They finally got him propped against the wall. “Neville. Neville. You're going to be alright.” She shook him lightly, but his head still lolled to the side. “Blink if you can hear me, Neville.” The frenzied fluttering of his eyelashes suggested some deeply felt emotion, but his drawn out moans didn't provide the meaning. When they stopped there were only his eyes, stark with terror. “It's alright, Neville.” She had to cup his face in her hands to get eye contact. “You were just stunned. We had to wake you up early, that's all. It's just that the brain wakes up first.” She bit off further explanation. He might have found it calming to hear her familiar recitation of facts, or it might have made things worse. “The rest of you will catch up in a moment.” If it didn't, she thought, it would probably be kindest to stun him again. Despite her worries it was quickly clear that Neville was recovering. His moans coalesced into slurred speech – most of it a stream of obscenities which shocked her and which she pretended not to hear. When he ran down she patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, told him again that he'd be alright, and went to check on Snape. She'd ended up tuning out most of Ron's garbled explanations, which once started had poured out in a flood. Apart from the lack of time to decipher them, they had threatened to disturb her carefully maintained balance. As long as she kept moving, and focused only on the next few minutes... Well, she could keep moving, and avoid collapsing into a puddle of despairing panic. When she thought about what, between them, the boys and Snape had done to end up in a pitched battle, or what she was going to do after this rushed triage, she could feel herself unravelling. It had become a mantra, whispered under her breath when she was sure Ron wouldn't hear 'Don't panic. Just deal with the next minute. Surely even you can manage another minute. Don't panic.' It didn't help much, but it helped a little. Despite her inattention, she had gathered enough information to be sure that waking Snape up would be the stupidest thing she could possibly do. Instead, she checked his pulse and breathing before pushing him into the recovery position. Then she left him there, lying on the stone floor. Fifth, I must find out who the murderer is. Notes Anna, once again, has my greatest thanks for her beta. |