Dark Gods In The Blood
Chapter Three
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A/N: And now, we
find out just where Snape’s been all these years. It’s going to take a bit to pry Hermione’s story out of her, as
she’s not been very forthcoming ;) Thanks for reading.
Summary: A wandering
student comes home, a broken man pays his penance, and a gruesome murder is
both more and less than it seems. Some
paths to self-discovery have more twists and turns than others.
Rating: R, for intermittent
dark themes, violence, and language
Disclaimer: Nothing
you read here (save the plot and bits of the text itself) belongs to me.
property of JK Rowling and Warner Bros. (and someone else, probably, but not
me). All chapter headings are properly
credited to their sources.
Dark Gods in the Blood
Hayseed (
Chapter Three
“I
don’t want to bother you much with what happened to me
the effect of it on
ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how
I went up
that river ...”
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
<
The house was
immaculate. Sparkling clean, the sun
glinted off the white countertops in the kitchen and shone on the polished
hardwood floors peeking out from under thick rugs. Harry Potter had lived here and, according to Ginny Weasley, he
had died here as well. Hermione
suppressed a shiver as the front door opened.
Françoise Potter
was, again, cold but polite, inviting Hermione in and offering her tea in a
monotone, accepting Ron’s perfunctory kiss on her cheek without
expression. “I am so glad you could
make it,” she told Hermione in a tone that suggested the exact opposite.
“Thank you for
inviting me here today,” Hermione replied, pasting on a fake smile and
accepting a teacup with good graces.
They sipped their
tea in silence, Ron looking back and forth between the two women as if he was
about to speak but deciding against it.
Oddly enough, it
was Françoise who broke the ice, setting her cup down on the tray with only a
small rattle. “So ...” she drawled,
tucking an errant lock of hair behind one ear, “did you have a pleasant trip,
Hermione? I can call you Hermione?”
“Oh, of course,”
she replied, disconcerted. “And I must
confess, my trip was somewhat lacking.
But that was my fault -- it was
into the country.”
“Really?” Françoise
asked perfunctorily.
Shrugging, Hermione
found herself telling this woman far more than she’d originally planned.
and they’ve apparently got a bit of a quarantine in certain parts right now, so
England was rather reluctant to let me in without complete documentation of my
whereabouts.”
“Russia?” she
echoed. “Where were you traveling
from?”
“Tibet,” she said,
hoping Françoise wouldn’t pry.
She didn’t.
blandly. “I’ve never been to Tibet
myself, but we were in Italy a couple of years ago. I’d always wanted to see Florence, you know, and ...”
her cheek as she collected herself.
“I’m sorry,”
Hermione said, not knowing exactly why she felt the need to apologize.
Françoise waved a
hand through her grief. “Everyone is,”
she said. “I am, too.”
Ron coughed into
the awkward silence, pouring himself some more tea. “How’re the kids?” he asked her quietly.
“Still sleeping,”
she said. “I heard some rustling from
Nicholas’ room this morning after you’d already gone in, but I didn’t want to
bother him. He hasn’t been sleeping
well. But Alice should be up before
much longer. She usually wakes up
around nine-thirty:p><:p>
“Late sleepers,
your kids,” Ron said, squeezing some lemon into his cup.
to wake us all up at the crack of dawn.
That’s an awful way to get up, you know -- some little brat jumping up
and down on your bed, shouting. She
still does it at Christmas.”
Hermione smiled at
her saucer. “I always thought she was
such a quiet thing when we were young.”
“Quiet?” Françoise
asked with a raised eyebrow. “Ginny
Weasley?”
“Well, she was
always so nervous,” she defended herself.
“Around ... Har -- Harry.” There
-- almost no stumbling over his name that time. “Took her years to loosen up around him.
hated that. Always wanted everyone to
treat him like a normal kid.”
Ron met her eyes
with a faint smile. “He did, didn’t
he?”
“Even though he
wasn’t,” she agreed, sipping at her tea.
Françoise regarded
their unfolding camaraderie with narrowed eyes, studying them intently,
emotionlessly.
All three adults
jumped, however, as an unmistakably young cry floated down the stairs.
standing hastily.
But Ron beat her to
it, already standing at the foot of the stairs. “I’ll get her,” he said.
“You two stay put.” An was was
gone. Leaving Hermione alone with her,
with Harry’s widow.
They watched each
other carefully, Hermione still sipping her now lukewarm tea, Françoise folding
and unfolding her hands in her lap, not seeming to know where to put them.
“Why did you leave,
Hermione?” Françoise asked abruptly, startling Hermione so that a fair amount
of tea sloshed over the rim of her cup and into her lap.
“What?”
pulling her punches.
She continued to
regard Hermione as if studying her under a microscope.
briskly. “The great unknown in the
equation, you see. The little girl standing
beside Ron and ... Harry,” she choked out, “in all the school photographs.
surprising Hermione with her sudden warmth.
“He told our son stories about you from school.
changing gears with an abruptness that left Hermione breathless.
“And I l him himshe she admitted. “But we were never in
love.”
“Of course not,”
Françoise said matter-of-factly.
Hermione let out a
breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding.
At least that
“But he loved you
and you left him,” she continued. “You
left him like so many other people he’d loved.
You see, Hermione, I always wondered.
I always wondered how you could do
Hermione didn’t think before she let a reply tumble over her lips.
“Then
“Why did you leave? Harry never
knew -- he never underst Her Hermione.”
Stop saying my name
on, wincing at the inadequacy of it.
“I hated you for it,rançrançoise said in a harsh voice. “I
hated you because he couldn’t. But now,
Hermione, now that I meet you and now that I can look in your eyes, I don’t
hate you.”
If she had known
this was the conversation she was to have this morning, Hermione would have
probably tried harder to sleep last night.
“Why are you ...?” she began, unwilling to finish the question.
Françoise laughed
shortly, a grim little smile flitting quickly across her lips.
of hurt in his eyes whenever he thought t yot you.”
clasclass=MsoNormal>Breathing in
sharply, Hermione was surprised at how that cut her. Eyes widening, she was certain Françoise could see the pain in
her expression.
And in that moment,
she knew. She knew what Françoise was
trying to do and she knew what she had done.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I am sorry
for the pain I caused him and,” she added after a slight pause, “I am sorry for
the pain that I caused you through him.
But I cannot be sorry for how I have lived my life.
far worse damage. I would have come to
resent everyone around me, hated them, even, for imprisoning me.
Françoise
sighed. “There are always two types of
sight. I can understand your meaning,
Hermione, but it will be a long time before I can bring myself to
Bowing her head,
Hermione accepted the closest thing to forgiveness she would be offered.
“Perhaps, Hermione,
we may someday be friends,” Françoise offered.
“You would be a
formidable ally,” she said with a hesitant smile. After a pause, Françoise returned it and Hermione allowed herself
to believe that they might be able to reach an understanding after all.
“She is,” Ron said
from the stairwell, “a formidable woman.
The only one I know, in fact, who successfully tells Harry what to do.”
“For-mud,” Alice
chirped in Ron’s arms. “Mummy for-mud.”
“That’s a bright
girl,” he told her, setting her on her unsteady feet. “As long as you keep that in mind, you and your mum will get
along just fine.”
Alice tugged
impatiently at the little dress Ron had put her in, lifting the hem as she
tottered toward Françoise. “Dress,” she
complained with a frown. “Itchy.”
“You look cute,
though,” Ron told her. “And you picked
it out your own self, young lady.”
“Itchy,” she
repeated, pulling harder. “Wuh!”
“Oh, all right,”
Françoise told her daughter, efficiently stripping off the dress and leaving
the toddler clothed only in a diaper.
“You little nudist,” she said fondly, watching Alice take off toward the
kitchen as fast as her feet could carry her.
“She hasn’t been wanting to wear clothes lately,” she told Hermione
apologetically.
“That will change
soon enough, I’m sure,” she replied.
To her surprise,
Françoise chuckled and then stood up to follow Alice, carrying the tea
tray. “I should fix her some
breakfast. And Nicholas will be down as
soon as he smells the bacon, I’m sure.”
“Do you need help?”
Ron offered.
“Since when have I
needed assistance with bacon and eggs?” she tossed back, disappearing through
the doorway.
“It’s nice to feel
needed,” he said, grinning as Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.
seriously, switching gears. “I heard
raised voices.”
“We had a
surprisingly frank discussion,” she said.
“I think it helped her.”
“Did it help you?”
“I’m fine,” she
lied, knowing he wot cot convinced. “I
will be,” she amended at his frown, more truthful this time.
“We can talk about
it later,” Ron said placatingly.
Hermione accepted
his offering with a grateful nod, leaning into the hand he placed on her
shoulder. “It’s harder than I’d ever
imagined.”
“It will get harder
yet before we are through,” he said cryptically.
It was her turn to
frown. “Since when did you begin
prognosticating, Ron Weasley?”
He grinned.
tour, but she’s busy feeding the starving masses.”
“I know about the parlor,”
she said, glancing around the room.
“And I’m sure you were dying to tell me all about the sconces in the
foyer.”
“The staircase was
just repaired,” Ron told her. “Harry
always preferred to say ‘refurbished,’ but that was because he didn’t want to
admit that his house was falling apart.”
Standing, she
continued to look around at her surroundings.
“It’s not falling apart,” she retorted.
“It looks ... comfortable.”
“You should have
seen it right after they moved in,” he said.
“Françoise was pregnant with Nicholas and she fell in love with the
place, so Harry bought it for her. If I
remember correctly, the realtor called it ‘a fixer-upper with potential,’ which
is real-estate babble for ‘old, crumbling antique.’”
“It’s
they’ve done a lovely job with it if it was that run down.”
“After Nicholas is
up and about, you should go up and see the kids’ playroom,” he said.
up so that the walls look like whatever game the kids happen to be playing that
day. Although it gets confused when
both of them are in there -- a few months ago, I remember Alice having a tea
party in the jungle with a handful of lions and elephants because Nicholas was
trying to play safari at the same time.”
Hermione
giggled. “It sounds like a kid’s
paradise.”
“Oh, it is,” Ron
agreed. pan>pan>“It was one of the first rooms
they finished -- right after Nicholas was born.”
“I wish ...” she
said. “I just wish ...”
“I know,” he said
to her unspoken thought. “But there’s
no sense in regrets, love.”
Sighing, she
allowed him to wrap a comforting arm around her shoulders.
battle.”
“Battles have a
nasty way of doing that,” he replied, squeezing her shoulders in an achingly
familiar gesture from her childhood.
“When you start to fight and you see the whole battlefield spread out in
front of you, it looks quite easy -- endless possibilities for victory.
end, the worse everything looks.”
She wrinkled her
nose up at him and pulled out of his loose embrace. “I can certainly tell that you grew up playing
chess.”
“Shut up,” he said
amiably. “We find our metaphors where
we can.”
“Well ... I believe
that you have a staircase to show me,” she said, moving to stand by the
doorway. “And some sconces.
insist on sconces.”
Ron followed her
nearly sheepishly. “You might be
disappointed there,” he answered.
“Harry and Françoise are a bit too modern for sconces.
though, that I can pacify you with.
Although I don’t know a damn thing about them -- Françoise dredged them
up from somewhere. Apparently they’re
very artistically significant, you see.”
“Lay on, then,” she
said, allowing him to sidle past her in the archway.
They were standing
in front of what Ron thought was an old Vermeer** copy, the only part of which
Hermione found remotely interesting was the large, gaudy gilt frame, when there
was a loud knock at the front door. She
gave him a questioning look and he shrugged in response.
A few moments
later, however, Françoise called out Ron’s name from the front of the
house. Abandoning the Vermeer copy with
something akin to relish, they made their way back to the parlor, where Albus
Dumbledore sat complacently on a sofa, cradling a teacup in one hand and
balancing Alice Potter on his knee with the other.
“Ah, Ron,” he said
airily. “How are you holding up, my
boy?”
Ron sat down
himself in a chair opposite from their old headmaster and folded his hands in
his lap. “I’m fine,” he replied.
“Good, good,”
Dumbledore said. “I just wanted to drop
by and make sure that everyone was all right.
And, of course, to take a cup of Françoise’s excellent tea.
Hermione found
herself blinking back tears as childhood memories of this man came washing back
over her. He’d always been in the
background, strong and gentle.
Apparently, he’d never left. The
adoring look on Alice’s face as she gazed up at him told Hermione that he’d
continued to be a strong presence in the life of Harry Potter, at least.
But was that so
surprising? Albus Dumbledore played
such an integral, paternal role in Harry’s youth -- it was probably inevitable
for them to extend that relationship through Harry’s adulthood.
Short though it
be
been.
But Dumbledore’s
wandering eye had finally settled on her.
“I see you have company,” he said mostly to Françoise, sharp gaze
transfixing her own, freezing her in her stance.
She inclined her
head. “Good morning, Professor
Dumbledore,” she said. “It’s good to
see you again.”
A single eyebrow
rose and he leice ice scramble out of his lap to tug impatiently at Ron’s
trouser leg. “I’m afraid you have me at
a disadvantage,” he replied politely.
Permitting herself
a small smile, Hermione sat down in the empty chair beside Ron’s.
what his reaction would be.
Typical
Dumbledore. If she’d thought Molly
Weasley was nonplussed upon seeing her standing in the hallway, it was nothing
to Dumbledore.
“The indubitable
Miss Granger,” he said, eyes now picking up a decided sparkle.
again. I’d been led to believe that you
were out of the country, though.”
“I have been,” she
admitted. “But I came back, when I
heard ...”
He sighed and
sipped at his tea. “Ah, yes.”
They were silent
for a few moments as Dumbledore continued to drink his tea.
occasionally reaching up to fiddle with his robes, searching his pockets with
the matter-of-factness that only the very young possess.
“And where is young
Nicholas?” he asked abruptly, eyes swiveling to fix on Françoise.
Her eyes went down
to her lap. “Sleeping,” she replied
shortly. “Or, in his room, at least.”
Dumbledore’s gaze
was sad. “He has taken this much harder
than anyone else.”
“He hasn’t spoken
since ...” Ron said, twirling a finger through Alice’s hair.
“Unfortunately, I
think there is little we can do,” Dumbledore replied, setting the cup back in
its saucer. “Nicholas must come to
terms with everything in his own time.”
“What a despicable
sentiment,” Françoise said abruptly, sipping at her own tea.
more years, I won’t ever be able to ...”
Dumbledore gave a
wry little shrug and Hermione could swear that a small grin crossed his
face. “Perhaps my ... choice of
phrasing was inappropriate, then,” he said by way of apology.
plucked his wand out of Alice’s curious hand with an expertise that suggested
it to be an action that occurred with great frequency.
and put her teacup back on the tray.
“You do
don’t you, old man?”
Hermione bit back a
loud splutter as the tea she’d been in the process of swallowing was threatening
to escape through her nose. Laughing
outright, Dumbledore leaned over to give Françoise’s cheek a fatherly sort of
pat. “I never tire of your candor,
child. Most refreshing in a world full
of obsequious, pretentious folk.”
“Another meeting
with Cornelius Fudge, then?” Ron asked knowingly.
Hermione found
herself rather stunned at the sense of kinship between the other occupants of
the room. A connection between Albus
Dumbledore and Harry Potter was not beyond the stretch of the imagination by
any means, but one between Dumbledore and Ron?
She tried to quell her rising amazement as the conversation continued.
“That ... that,”
Dumbledore sighed. “I understand the
necessity of politicians, but one could hope for an ounce of competence.”
“You and my dad
need to chat about Fudge over a cuppa one day,” Ron replied.
with the Minister myself. We’re allowed
more of a free license than you Order chappies.”
With a minute
shrug, Dumbledore managed to convey his utter contempt rather effectively.
that the Order is simply out of his jurisdiction. The funeral business was the absolute last straw.
“I wrote a letter
when I saw his ‘official request,’” he said with a nod.
my back to the Earth’s end. I’m just
glad that he
our cover was well and truly blown.”
“Malfoy?” Françoise
asked, obviously confused. “Who --”
“Draco Malfoy,” Ron
amended. “I guess you wouldn’t know
him. He runs in entirely different
circles these days, but we all went to Hogwarts together.
we kept it out of every official document.”
“I told him, of
course,” Dumbledore interjected mildly.
Ron’s look was
incredulous and somewhat wild-eyed.
“You what
“His motives were
not circumspect,” he continued, calm in the face of Ron’s rising anger.
allowed to operate under his own moral guidelines, he has improved considerably
with age. His request was genuine and
heartfelt and if I recall correctly, Ron Weasley, he caused no trouble.”
deceptively gentle tone that totally belied the steel underneath.
“Well ...” Ron
hedged, clearly dissatisfied with Dumbledore’s explanation.
little girl still in his lap, taking the wand from her yet again.
Discontent with her
uncle’s recalcitrance to bend to her will, the child screwed up her face,
probably in preparation to cry. “Unca
Ron ...” she tried, with wet eyes and trembling lips.
“You manipulative
little devil,” Ron sighed. “It won’t
work on me this time. Here ... go back
to your Uncle Albus -- you can play him like a violin, I’d bet.”
He passed the
toddler back to Dumbledore and the girl brightened considerably.
with aplomb.
Permitting her
ministrations with good graces, Dumbledore just gave her little hand a
pat. “Ah, the glories of youth,” he
said.
“Oh, good,”
Françoise said sarcastically. “Now he’s
gone all batty again. I’ve always
wondered about your ‘cheerful old man’ bit, Albus. Every inch the powerful wizard one moment, a tottering old fellow
dispensing gnomic wisdom the next.
‘Fess up -- you enjoy every minute of it, don’t you?”
“I admit to
nothing,” he said serenely, bouncing Alice on his knee, causing her to giggle
with delight.
Bravely, Hermione
threw out her own taunt. “At least he
hasn’t resorted to offering ‘round little candies. I do
time. Whenever tensions were mounting
at Order headquarters, he would always interrupt the argument with a handful of
sweets.”
“Now, how would you
know about that when you were supposed to be tucked into bed like good little
children?” Dumbledore asked with a knowing smile.
Both Ron and
Hermione reddened slightly but remained gamely silent.
“And as for
have been told by many of my colleagues that I look my least imposing when
proffering candy. It has, through the
years, become a little joke, you see.
My way of putting people at ease.
With varying degrees of success, of course.”
“It never worked on
Snape,” Ron said with a short laugh. “I
remember he would always just say something horrible to you and then keep on
shouting.”
“Fred and George
Weasley must have had their Extendable Ears working admirably well far earlier
than I’d originally thought,” he commented.
To perhaps distract
Dumbledore from Ron’s ever-deepening blush, Hermione spoke quickly.
old dungeons?”
An awkward silence
fell over the room -- Ron became very interested in the patterning of the rug
under his feet and Dumbledore studied the top of Alice’s head intently.
and began collecting their teacups back on the tray, disappearing into the
kitchen.
“Of course you
wouldn’t know,” Ron said quietly.
“Thirteen years.” He laughed
bitterly.
“What?” Hermione
wondered.
“Miss Granger,”
Dumbledore said with sorrow in his voice.
“Severus is ... not himself.”
She not
not
understand. “What do you mean?”
His eyes were
cheerless as he elaborated. “He’s been a
resident of Perkins Mental Institution up in Yorkshire for these five years
past.”
-- --
-- --
**Footnote -- Jan
Vermeer was a 17th century Dutch artist in the Baroque style whose
genius was not fully recognized in his lifetime. Very little is known of his training (although the rest of his
life is well-documented) but some sources say that he was trained by a former
pupil of the great Rembrandt of the Utrecht school (thanks, Janson!).
Françoise would have an actual
century copy would not go amiss in their décor and would certainly be worth a
pretty penny.
-- --
-- --