Revenant

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I claim nothing.

Revenant

Chapter Four: Rendering


“…of those Unforgiven Hosts, they who, insomuch as can be understood, have never died, but lay instead consumed by the pul-“

Here the text was obscured by a strange stain, too dark to be blood. Hermione turned the page, attempting not to look too closely at the gruesome etchings that filled the pages.

“-shall burn all the brighter, consuming them completely with no more than a Kiss. By these things can a man be unmade, and a mind unravelled until the creature that has been left is no more than its component parts.

From here the Faithful and Most Devout of servants can be made, rearranged into an image of their creator, whom they shall revere as-“

Hermione squinted, but could not make out the scrawl that had been worn from the manuscript by creasing and smudging.

“…and when those that have gone amid those poor souls, begging and wretched before the Imperishable Realm of those Unatoned, then shall they too find themselves blown upon the Void, far beyond any redemption or kindness. Never the less, by-“

Hermione’s eyes watered as she skimmed down the page. She could feel the aches in her body; the slight shaking and palsies that had grown more numerous since she had first sat down to read the book, but this was it. It was the book. With each page she turned, she was sure of it.

“-and only the Dim Kingdom shall welcome them back, for it is the birthright of all who have been born, or have yet to be born. The ties that have been severed can never be retied, and the Bonds thus forged shall never be parted-”

Hermione could feel the words: sodden, broken and bloated with vileness; they stuck to her thoughts and wormed deep into her mind until she could feel only the chill of the evening around her, damp and unhealthy in its heart. She had taken to wearing gloves, not because of any desire to protect the fragile seeming vellum from the destructive oils in her hands, nor to ward off the chill of the room, but to distance herself from that dread tome; to gain a barrier, an armour from the foul thing.

As she slammed the book shut, the book caught on the edges of her mittens and seemed to lunge forward at her, the thin manuscript gaining an obscene life as it fluttered against her body.

She jerked backwards, but she could still feel the spider-light touches where the book had caressed her, and she stepped backwards again, a scream shamelessly lodged in her throat. The words of the book, dank and filled with putrid truths, burned into Hermione with fingers of ink; dark seeds of rot that held tight to her hands with the sharp edges of glass.

She felt dirty, as if she had dipped her hands and body into a filth that she could neither erase nor clean. Her eyes watered, and she could feel the skin around them prickling up as the feel of the filth spread across her cheeks and forehead, and slowly began to seep towards her throat. The horrors of the book -blurred in text, and only half understood by her panicking mind- were trying to consume her. They were oozing into her thoughts, into her very bloodstream, and she could feel her vision darkening and twisting.

She scrambled away from the fallen tome, and leaned heavily upon the back her chair, placing it between her and the offensive object.

How could something as innocuous as a combination of paper, leather, glue and ink have such an effect upon her? Were written words really so powerful as to carry such consequences in their very shapes? As a witch, her mind and heart screamed YES until she felt raw with the tension of not giving voice to that cry. As an empirical researcher, her body shook with the denied emotions, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

The form of Severus Snape entered the room, carefully carrying the blank notebook she had earlier requested. He moved gracelessly towards her, and she glanced at him only to look away, choking on another sob. The horrors of book were crawling through her mind, and she couldn’t look at him. He was the living example of all that she had read in the tome, the realities of the words standing vivid before her, waiting silently with an empty notebook in hand.

Swallowing her tears, and with a half-cringe, Hermione reached for the notebook. She was as surprised as ever when she effortlessly took it from his unresisting grasp. His eyes were half hooded, as they always were, and seemed to glimmer to her with a sneering knowing. ‘He must have known what they were doing to him’ she thought. There was no way they could have started the ritual without this man, of all men, not knowing what was going to happen.

He became darker to her then, a willing participant in this farce of justice, with its self-inflicted remorse. Hermione pulled back, away from him and all that dark shadows that she could see cavorting around him. His dark eyes followed her relentlessly, his hand still outstretched from where the notebook had been pulled from his grasp. Both the book on the floor and the man before her reeked with a darkness -with a hunger- of things unbidden. Before her stood evil, rendered to its purest form.

She began to slowly back away from the creature before her, pulling herself along the wall slowly, one hand braced to guide along the rough surface of the bookshelves behind her. Her other hand held the empty notebook before her, a thin shield should the evil that coiled all around her should decide to lunge and strike at her.

Snape stepped forward to follow her and Hermione felt her body freeze. Courage was a tricky thing: so easy on the battlefield, with friends and comrades scattered all around; with goals and objectives clearly outlined. But here, in the darkness of her own home -with this un-living ancleaclean thing before her- courage became a whole new thing; a murky goal that centred wholly on survival and escape.

His eyes seemed to be searching hers, waiting for some hidden command to come from her. He loomed over her, and she felt engulfed by his eyes, dark and empty. Such an empty thing, so cold and hungry it could never be filled.

He took another step towards her, and the shadows swallowed his face, leaving only the faint gleam of his eyes, reflecting back towards her. She could feel the sharp bright pain as her teeth bit into the softness of her lips, and she braced her body for escape.

The soft jangle of the doorbell brought into focus the hazy light that shone through the dusty windows, and brought back the cheery fire that burned without heat in the corner of the room. Hermione felt the world skew back into reality, and cold feel the tension slowly drain from her body.

Taking a deep breath, and rubbing at her eyes, Professor Snape had once more become a thin and hapless creature, standing before her in need of direction and purpose, no longer a container of all the evils of the human mind. She gave a weak laugh at herself and pushed herself away from the wall. She slowly walked to the door, feeling the ache that had spread across her body and tightened all the muscles in her face.

She pulled the door open and was surprised to see the immaculately dressed form of Draco Malfoy standing before her.

Hermione stood mute in the doorway, staring at the blonde man before her. He was tall, taller than he had been since she had last seen him. Her eyes followed his slender form to his face, and she flinched away from the pale blue of his eyes.

Draco inclined his head in greeting, and asked solemnly, “Hello Hermione, may I come in?” His voice was low and smooth aad nad none of the petulance she remembered from school.

A chill crawled down Hermione\'s spine, and she stepped back, reflexively holding the door open in an unconscious invitation.

Draco stepped gracefully into the foyer and looked around with a polite interest. His eyes locked onto the old coat rack that held the dark longcoat of the erstwhile professor. “Lovely home you have Hermione. Very... cosy. Very warm and inviting.\"

As a pale and slender hand reached out to trace the dark wool of the coat, Hermione snapped back to herself. \"I... erm... thank you Malfoy. I... what are you doing here?\"

Draco smiled languidly and turned his full attention back to the small woman in front of him. \"Ah, Gryffindor tact: forward and to the point. I\'ve always admired that about you Hermione.\"

Hermione shook her head and shut the door. He was addressing her by her first name, as if they were friends. She turned and looked closer at her visitor. He was impeccably dressed and all of his movements were confident and filled with grace; he knew exactly how he looked, and he arranged himself to his best effect. If there were any unease in his motions she could not find any sign of it. Hermione placed her hands on her hips and asked, more forcefully this time, “Malfoy. What are you doing here?\
\"
\"Is there another place where we might sit and talk? My concerns are not ones that I feel comfortable talking about while standing on a doorstep.\"

Hermione bit the words that threatened to come out of her mouth. It had been a long time since she had cared what a Malfoy was -or was not- comfortable with.

\"Fine. The dining room then.\" Hermione turned to lead the way, but the shape of Severus Snape coming out from the Library caught her eye. Draco, always alert, followed her gaze, and she heard the breath catch in his throat as he saw the saturnine man.

His face drained of all colour as he looked at the silent form of the exDeath Eater. A sob escaped him before he was able to get his breath. All of Draco’s grace and poise fled him as he crossed the small foyer. “Sev…” he whispered. “Oh… gods… uncle Sev….”

‘Uncle Sev?’ Hermione thought to herself.

He approached the automaton slowly, as one would a newly dug grave. “They told me, but I didn’t… and then I saw you the other day… oh gods…”

The dark eyes didn’t even blink as the young man’s hands reach out to slowly touch the dark black woollen robes. Draco pulled his hand back with a start; the body under the robes was warm but lifeless; motionless and empty for all the heat it gave off. Even the eyes that watched seemed flat and distant, as if the soul that had once lived there had fled, leaving the flesh behind, a poor shroud.

Or a warm corpse.

“Draco.” Her voice was soft, calling him away from the mute figure.

Draco’s body was trembling in a strange mixture of fear, relief and desperation. Hermione had been surprised when he had immediately approached the dark man, but in retrospect, she wasn’t sure why. She had always known how Snape had favoured Draco; she had just never realized the depth of bond that the two might have shared. That Draco might have favoured Snape had never occurred to her.

“Draco,” She called out to him again, as if calling him back away from a sharp and unfathomable drop. “You wanted to see me about something?”

He stiffened before turning back to her, and she looked away, not letting herself see the tears that glittered in the young man’s eyes. He was grateful for her discretion as he took a deep breath to compose himself. “Yes. I did. I apologize for not giving you any notice.”

Hermione nodded, dismissing his apology as unnecessary, and they both escaped into the rigidity of formality, each of them masking and hiding their mutual distresses. “Well, perhaps you’d best follow me to the dining room then.”

Draco settled into a hard backed chair at the dining table, and stared into the middle distance. Hermione walked carefully around him and settled herself across from him. She was watching him closer now, and she noted with surprise how frail he looked in the bright light. When Professor Snape moved into the room, pathetically following them, Hermione saw Draco’s eyes snap to the dark man, devouring every awkward movement, no matter how the sight pained him.

Hermione cleared her throat softly. “Draco, what did you want to talk about?” The first name was easy to use when he looked so young, when he looked so lost.

Draco tore his eyes from the silent man and assessed Hermione, unknowingly echoing her thoughts: she looked ill at ease here, in her own home, and Draco frowned minutely. She seemed to be sitting carefully at her side of the table as if she were the guest here, not he.

“There are a great deal of things I would like to speak with you about Hermione.”

Hermione shivered at the tone of his voice, and found herself unable to look at his pale, pale eyes. When he spoke, looking at her with his father’s eyes, she found herself hearing the words of a man dead and gone. Combined with the after-effects of ‘the Book’ she found herself having to consciously fight the lingering darkness that clouded her vision, and made Draco seem, not as a man, but rather as a malevolent ghost come to call and torment.

“And? Are you going to tell me about them?” Hermione asked as the silence dragged on. She hoped that at least her voice sounded calm.

“Last I heard, Harry Potter,” Draco’s voice drawled sarcastically over the name, and Hermione was once again reminded of the callous young man from Hogwarts, “was the guardian for Snape. And yet, here he is, in the home of Hermione Granger.”

“Funny what one hears. Last I heard, you were in court trying to prove you weren’t a Death Eater.”

Draco’s face was a mask as he stared at Hermione. A cool white mask, with only a hint of shadow under the eyes.

“Innocent until proven guilty Granger. Innocent until proven guilty.” Draco’s voice was a cold as his demeanour.

“Or maybe it’s amazing what money can buy.” Hermione retorted.

“Speaking of what money can buy Granger, I’d like to talk to you about that.”

Hermione remained silent. ‘It had only been a matter of time,’ she thought to herself. ‘Here it comes.’

“They turned my mother you know. Just this last week, they turned her.”

Hermione swallowed and looked away, not even glancing at him out of the corner of her eye anymore. She hadn’t had time to keep up with the news, and this sudden information stunned her, deeply. Not only had this horrible and barbaric thing happened, but it was still happening. It was only a matter of time before it became common, before it became a joke and the horror was replaced by uncaring acceptance.

“And you want to know what’s amazing?” Draco continued, his voice soft. “It’s amazing what money can’t buy. They are going to sell my mother to the highest bidder, and I’m not even allowed to bid. My own mother.”

He leaned across the dining room table, his voice lowering and becoming far more dangerous than she’d ever heard it; far more dangerous than even Lucius Malfoy’s voice had ever gotten. “Fletcher told me that it’s to ‘prove a point.’ Can you guess what ‘point’ they’re trying to prove Granger?”

Hermione risked a glance in his direction, and his eyes trapped her; they glittered like diamonds, taking all of the light from the room and throwing it back, cold and sharp. Draco no longer looked frail; he looked deadly.

“Because I don’t know Granger. I don’t know what their goddamn point is, but I know my mother was not a Death Eater. And now they’ve taken her mind away. My father’s dead, and the Ministry is planning to auction my mother off to the highest bidder.”

“I’m sorry-”

“I don’t want your ‘sorry’ Granger! I want your help. They’re watching all the bidders carefully. I can’t get anyone in close enough. But as I’ve so recently found out,” He broke his gaze from her and stared at Snape contemplatively, “Just because someone is a guardian, doesn’t mean they can’t… lend the automaton to another.”

“Draco… I… I’m the legal guardian for Snape… I’m not sure where you may have heard that I’m not... but…” Hermione took a deep breath and tried to collect herself. “The way the spell is formed, the automaton will only obey the one that they are bound to. They have no choice, and the bindings can’t be transferred. I’m not sure how… how… extreme the bond is, but I know that Prof- Snape- is… I can’t leave him alone. He gets… sick.”

“Sick?” His voice was dull, and Hermione followed his gaze to the dark man standing quietly in the corner.

“…erm… his body seems to… uh… shut down…. so to speak.” A faint line appeared between her eyes as she considered a piece of text she had skimmed over earlier.

“…the Bond becomes the Heart, a thing that lies between the man’s heart and the grasping of the man’s hand; the Bond becomes the Will, a thing that lies between the man’s will, and all the hopes of his heart. Even to Life itself may the Bond become, and fashion itself tighter than a noose upon the Subservient…”

Hermione swallowed again, and looked closer at the waiting figure of the Professor. Holding her breath, she willed her thoughts to him, ‘water…’ and bit her tongue when he wordlessly turned towards the kitchen.

The sweet tang of copper filled her mouth and she could feel the bile rise from her belly. The two tastes mingled, and she found herself frantically struggling not to dry retch in the presence of a Malfoy.

Draco watched the dark man suddenly leave the room, and turned an unknowing gaze to Hermione. “Hmm. Do you begin to see my dilemma?” He asked coldly.

“I think…” Hermione said breathlessly, “…that I am beginning to see a great many things.”

*


[A/N:
Heh, wow, those are some pretty amazing reviews that you folks have written here. Wow, thank you.

I write fanfiction because it’s fun. Yeah, every now and then I’ll write original stuff, but not as much; I’m pretty lazy as writers go, and the only reason this has gone as far as it has is because my beta is a slave driver. LittleBird has decided to put me on a “writing schedule,” which is like a diet, only with words. So there’s that to look forward to (and dread.) I’m sure it’ll build character of some sort… so here’s to trying…

Quite a bit of the text for the Slaughman Rituals was stolen from some essays by Yeats. I reworded them, and then bastardized bits and pieces to make it sound they way I wanted it to… if you want to read the originals, they’re the essays: “Hosting of the Sidhe,” “Earth, Fire, Water” and “The Untiring Ones,” all from his The Celtic Twilight collection.]