Augury & Ardor

Severus stood in the bathroom doorway, his hand clenching the frame. Hermione’s indistinct shape moved behind the smoked glass of the shower, his gaze following it as if bound to her. He’d thought his desire would wane as she grew large with child, but the hunger to feel her under his hands – against his body – had instead grown along with the swell of his son inside her.


She’d bloomed over the last six months. Her hair, while still unruly, gleamed. The pale cream of her skin and the deep brown of her eyes glowed with health. She was lush. Succulent.


His nails dug into his palm and he swallowed a groan as her hands ran over her distended belly. They began at the slope below her breasts down each side to meet underneath in a cradling gesture. On the doorframe, the knuckles of his other hand went white with the effort to remain still. He could see himself crossing the small space - throwing open the glass door to step inside the confined space with her - dropping to his knees to press his mouth where her hands had been. Then, she began to softly hum the melody he’d long since memorized, and he stepped back from the portal, unable to stand the agony any longer.


The crackling of the fire covered the sounds of the shower, but did nothing to still his restless thoughts. Slumped in a chair, he gazed into the flames and brooded. Six months he’d waited for another word from Albus and Minerva. Six months he’d suffered tormented nights sleeping next to a woman who’d invaded his veins like the most potent potion. Nothing had come. No note. No summons. No solution to his agony.


It was no longer a question of his sanity that made it necessary she be gone from Voldemort’s compound, however. She was days -- perhaps hours -- from delivering. The baby had dropped in her womb, and she’d soon go into labor. Once she gave birth, her life was worth nothing.


Despite Voldemort speaking as though Hermione would care for the child, Severus instinctively knew that would not be the case. The child would be weaned, from his first moments, on venom and cruelty. A Mudblood mother would be an intolerable caretaker of a child so important, especially a woman who had allied herself with Harry Potter. No, once he’d slipped from her body and the cord was cut, Hermione would not hold her son. What her fate might be once she was no longer useful was uncertain, but his imagination had supplied all sorts of disturbing scenarios.


He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the Dark Lord suspected his intent. Voldemort’s red eyes had become watchful when they rested on him lately. There was no more time to wait. No more time to lay his hand on Hermione’s stomach while she slept, to feel the restless movement of his son against his palm. No more time to listen to the soft melody she hummed to their baby and feel its loving intent vibrating through the same air he breathed.


The shower cut off and he blinked. There was no time left now, except to act.


He removed the small, leather-bound book from his pocket, tapped his wand to it and set it on the table. Brushing his hair from his face, he stood, walked to the fire and set the cauldron down in its flames.


He felt her presence in the room rather than saw her enter. Regardless of the fact he knew she was there, he glanced back, needing to see her. She was at the table with a melon wedge in her hand. She’d made short work of it and was licking the juice from the fingertips of her other hand with relish. A punch of desire replaced the empty gnawing in his stomach, and perhaps because of the inappropriateness of the moment, a small, sardonic smile curved his lips.


“Have you found a way to thin it out without making it taste like sea water?” she asked, reminding him he was supposed to be making her prenatal potion.


“Perhaps,” he replied, turning back to the cauldron. With the deep breath of one expecting to soon drown, he reached out a blind hand to her. “Hand me that book from the table.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Hermione bent at what used to be her waist and vomited the melon she’d just eaten. Her head still spun, and the ground beneath her threatened to leap up and topple her. Stumbling a little, she felt bark beneath her hand and gripped a tree for support as the world slowly righted itself. She was standing in a thicket awash with sunlight and filled with birdsong.


Turning to look around, she froze in unison with a black squirrel halfway through its ascent up the tree she was clutching. It unfroze a moment later to scamper up into some higher limbs, where it chattered at her impertinently. “Where am I?” she asked, only to be scolded by the squirrel for her curiosity.


A vice clamped down on her abdomen and she released a huff of surprise, forgetting the squirrel and her confusion as she rode out the brief contraction. When the pressure released, she straightened and looked around again. Beyond the thicket of bushes and small trees, she thought she saw an alley. As if to confirm her findings, a car sped past with its windows down and music drifting from it. She was near Muggles.


She lifted a hand to wipe the back of her mouth and realized she was still clutching the Portkey that had brought her there. Uncurling her fingers, she looked down at the black, leather-bound book. It was no more than five inches by three and about a half inch thick. She opened its cover and leaned more heavily against the tree at the sight of Severus’ handwriting.


Hermione,

I have spelled this journal to act as a Portkey, as you undoubtedly have realized. It is crucial you follow my instructions immediately and to the letter. Trust me that you are not yet safe. You are two blocks from the Order’s headquarters. Enter the lane in front of you and turn right. Walk quickly, but don’t run -


Another contraction squeezed her abdomen and left her panting. It released a minute later and she dabbed the sweat from her upper lip before turning her attention back to the book.


Walk quickly, but don’t run, she reread, you don’t want to call attention to yourself in case Voldemort’s spies are about. Do not Apparate or use any other non-verbal magic; they will be on alert for it. Use your innate Muggle knowledge to blend in.


A stronger contraction gripped her and she gasped at its strength. This one seemed to last longer, releasing her from its grip almost reluctantly. If this is what the preliminary stages of labor feel like, I’ll be begging to be Stunned by the end, she thought wildly.


Knock on the door and you’ll be admitted. Help is close at hand.

I suspect Voldemort has begun to realize my loyalties are divided. He may be expecting this attempt to free you. He will certainly know you are gone once the Portkey is activated.

Do not hesitate. Go now and keep safe.

-Severus


Before another contraction could grip her, she closed the book and quickly picked her way through the shrubs to the pavement beyond. Another car zipped past and she flinched at its unexpected appearance. She’d been cut off from the world for nearly a year, and the Muggle world, with all its flash and clamor, was all the more startling for it.


Her hands convulsed over the book and she made the three minute walk to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, trying to appear unhurried. She paused occasionally to lean on a pole or bench and rode out increasingly lengthy contractions. After what seemed hours rather than minutes, she reached her destination. A worn and weathered door appeared between number eleven and number thirteen, Grimmauld Place. She carefully ascended the steps and lifted the knocker. On the third strike, her water broke, the door swung open, and she was suddenly surrounded by a swell of concerned voices.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


At three a.m. the following morning, Hermione was exhausted but still awake despite having given birth at midnight. The baby slept soundly in a cradle beside the bed, but his mother lay on her side, her reddened eyes fixed and unblinking on the wall.

“You should be sleeping.”


“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her whispered words were no less harsh for their lack of volume.


“It will not help him if you exhaust yourself.”


“Do you think I could sleep now, even if I wanted to?” She rolled onto her back and looked at the man sitting next to the cradle. Of all the emotions she’d feel at seeing Albus Dumbledore again, she never would have guessed one would be anger, but there it was. “Merlin knows what’s happening to him.”


“We have our best witches and wizards working on this.”


“They’re sure they had the right place?” she asked with the force of one whose desperate hope refuses to recognize the truth.


“Yes.” Dumbledore sighed, gazing back down at the newborn with a look of sadness. “The location Severus gave us was abandoned.”


“And they searched for him there, in case he was left behind?” she asked, not for the first time.


“No one remained,” Dumbledore assured her. “The castle and its grounds were completely uninhabited.”


“No…no bodies?”


“Nothing,” Dumbledore repeated patiently. He watched as the young witch rolled back to face the wall, then let his eyes fall back to the infant. “We can only conclude that Voldemort had intercepted the messages we sent these past few weeks. He would have suspected we not only knew the location of his headquarters, but that we planned on raiding them once we received a message in return.”


“Did it occur to anyone that something was wrong when you didn’t receive a message in reply?” Her voice, while still soft in deference to the sleeping infant, throbbed with resentment.


“Of course it did.” She heard the rustle of Dumbledore’s robes as he shifted in his chair. “You must understand, Hermione, the delicate situation we were in. We thought we had more time. To act without word from Severus was to put you both in danger.”


“So instead, when time ran out, he sent me away and heaped all the repercussions on his shoulders alone,” she ground out.


“Yes.”


Hermione struggled to hold on to the anger. It was easier to be angry; it gave her strength. Dumbledore’s soft, sad word of agreement, however, punctured the cocoon of rage and resentment in which she’d wrapped herself. Despairing tears came through. “Why didn’t he just come with me?” she whispered brokenly to the wall.


“Because, my dear, he knew you had a better chance of reaching safety alone.”


Dumbledore paused a moment as if to say something more, but rose and left the room. He quietly pulled the door shut behind him, but paused to lean against it for a moment as if to gain strength. The quiet sound of Hermione’s tears bowed his shoulders and he blinked his own damp eyes. He’d witnessed so much suffering these past years; it weighed like a stone on his heart. The burden was doubly difficult when having to witness it in ones so young. He was tired beyond measure, but he straightened and descended the steps to speak to those in the Order who had returned to rest in between scouting missions.