Dark Gods In The Blood
Chapter Eight
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A/N: So, what does Severus
think about all of this? 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
by: Hayseed (
Chapter Eight
There
were rumors that a very important station was in
ill. Hoped it was not
irritable. Hang
thought.
-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of
Darkness
His eyes opened automatically and Severus knew that it was six-thirty
in the morning, despite the lack of any indicators in his little room.
and damnably persistent.
In and out, in and out. He
counted his breaths. One, two, ...
By breath number sixty-seven, the door unlocked and opened as if on its
own, a single hand snaking in to flick the light switch.
Due to the nature of its occupants, Perkins Mental Institution operated
on regular Muggle electricity, and the fluorescent glare of the lights hurt
Severus’ eyes.
“Good morning, Severus,” a female voice said pleasantly from the other
side of the door -- he’d made it abundantly clear years ago that he did not
want assistance in the mornings. “Up
and at ‘em.”
He did not respond. It would
not be worth the breath to insult her -- it would just wash off and she’d never
consider it again.
Before -- or even in the beginning -- he would have taken the
time. Insulted, berated, and delighted
in her potential tears. Oh, the time he
had wasted railing at everyone. Albus,
Cuthrell, the nurses, the patients ...
But now Severus knew. He knew
that such behavior was carefully recorded, and each lovely gem was carried
carefully home to be related to loved ones, who would make the appropriate
noises. “Surely he didn’t say that!” he
knew the nurses would exclaim as they swapped stories over their lunch sacks.
He had no intention of being anyone’s anecdote any longer.
Slowly, patiently, Severus pulled himself to a seated position on his
cot. After a few more moments of quiet,
he finally stood, throwing his blanket sullenly to tloorloor.
‘pajamas’ -- blue scrubs as opposed to the dingy white that passed for day
wear.
They were not permitted underthings.
al'>Somehow, that was the final indignity in Severus’ mind.
He knew it was rather foolish of him.
Certainly he ought to have resented the days spent in a Full-Body
Bind. The tlestless number of times he’d
been stabbed with a Muggle IV needle because he simply did not feel like
eating. Or the fact that he was as
helpless as an infant any more where magic was concerned.
But no. Severus chose to resent
the more mundane considerations.
Morning tea instead of coffee.
No newspaper. The relatively
inoffensive existences of his fellow lunatics.
No knickers.
He scratched his head lazily as he felt his shirt settle on his
shoulders. Some days, he missed his
hair. The short stubble that he
lathered up in the shower offended him sometimes and he recalled his first
defiant haircut -- performed only after
Severus had been Stupefied -- with something like fondness.
Now, he permitted it with the same listlessness that he permitted
ethinthing that happened to him in life.
Another sharp knock on the door.
Seven, Severus thought to
himself, contemplating his lengthening toenails. This must be the week for nail cutting.
He met no one on his way to breakfast.
Possibly, the staff rather avoided him.
Severus did not blame them. hf
he had some mechanism for it, he would avoid himself
The cafeteria was crowded -- the usual jumble of shouting patients and
frowning nurses greeted him and he collected a breakfast tray with a small
sigh.
These were the hopeless cases.
The throwaways.
People like the Longbottom Auror and his wife, they
eyes and tell that they’d given up.
Hell ... even Gilderoy Lockhart rated St. Mungo’s.
The porridge was served in bowls.
No cutlery here. And everything
was charmed to disintegrate if ever removed from the cafeteria.
in the beginning, but found his chicken laying on the floor after his tray
turned to dust on his fingertips.
He frowned at the weak morning tea.
Watery and tasteless. Everything
There were only a handful of empty chairs and Severus surveyed them
with dismay. In the end, he settled
beside a fellow known only as Old Jack.
Old Jack was nearly as notorious as Severus himself -- silent apetupetulant, he had a habit of biting people who got close enough.
but no one really seemed to want to know
and that appeared to suit Old Jack just fine.
Keeping his chair a good distance away from Old Jack’s, Severus picked
up his porridge bowl and took a lethargic sip.
If he didn’t eat, it would get back around to Cuthrell and Severus would
find himself bound to his bed, a needle attached firmly to his arm.
twenty-four hours a day, to make sure that needle stayed
They hadn’t been careful enough, in the beginning.
asleep. Severus had been faking, of
course, and had the IV out of his arm and into his throat before anyone knew
what was happening. He’d managed to
puncture his windpipe but got no further than that as the nurse walked back in
suddenly, having forgotten a chart.
And he never felt alone again.
normal'>It had initially bothered him, having that feeling of perpetually being
watched. Took him right back to his days
working as an undercover agent for the Order of the Phoenix -- right back into
Voldemort’s clutches. He’d had
nightmares. They tied him down and
forced Dreamless Sleep down his throat.
The nightmares eventually dissipated and Severus felt oddly drained.
the last vestiges of his feelings. The
suicide attempts ceased as Severus genuinely ceased to care.
Perhaps that was part of Cuthrell’s plan. Cow him into submission -- if he did not feel anything, he might
not want to die either.
Severus didn’t know any more.
That absolute certainty -- that desire to end it all -- was no longer
firm. His resolve was gone.
It was actually worse than the void
that had settled on him as he watched that stupid little boy drag Voldemort’s
body through the Hogwarts Great Hall all those years ago.
Death Eater he managed to bring down.
He didn’t want that life, he’d realized. He’d been reduced to nothing more than a puppet, following Albus’
orders so blindly he couldn’t find where Albus’ will stopped and his own began.
A bell sounded, startling Severus out of his musings as he stirred his
tea with a pinky finger. Eight o’clock,
then.
Patients began shuffling out of the cafeteria, to their various common
rooms and activities. Some of them to
therapy appointments, doubtless. And
maybe a few of them were going to visitation rooms. He did not know and he did not care.
There were a few activities that patients were encouraged to indulge
in. A Muggle contraption that showed
moving pictures was set up in a monitored room. Another held various ‘safe’ games. Muggle crayons and sheets of paper, a couple of carefully warded
chess sets, things like that.
Severus himself shuffled to the common room closest to his room.
it was not a place that many other people visited. That was part of the reason Severus preferred it.
The rest of the reason was obvious as he painstakingly dragged a chair
over to one of the large windows and sat down, staring out through the
glass. So many of the rooms in the
hospital lacked windows.
It was raining today, Severus saw.
The rain made little tapping sounds as it hit the glass, following
watery paths down the pane to puddle on the ledge. He put a hand to the glass and felt the warmth under his fingers.
Going to be a hot day, then.
He tried not to pay attention to the passage of time.
was, made it simpler to ignore the slow creeping of time, stretching the boring
days into equally dull years.
But the staff disrupted his little mental game.
Perkins -- the therapists thought it would be beneficial to play at celebrating
the holiday. Last year, Cuthrell had
been the one to dress up as Father Christmas, handing out trinkets and sweets
in his stupid white beard and ludicrous stuffed belly.
Reaching out a single finger, Severus traced the descent of one
raindrop as it slid down the glass. His
second day out of the first bind they’d put him under, he’d tried to throw
himself out of this very window, realizing with dismay that not only had it been
warded Unbreakable, but a Cushioning Charm had been placed as well.
There wasn’t a real pane of glass, a sharp corner, even a hard surface anywhere
Severus allowed himself to lose track of his surroundings as he watched
the rain fall. If he thought hard
enough, he could almost remember what it felt like to stand out in the
rain. Water trickling under his collar,
wet hair slapping his forehead and cheeks, bare toes squishing mud and grass
together. The coolness of his skin in
the muggy air. Even the electric feel
of the hair on the back of his neck rising as lightning crackled in distant
summers of many years ago.
But he couldn’t recall the smell.
Rationally, he told himself that rain smelt like a blend of earth and
green things. And he could remember that
memory -- laying in the grass in early spring, nose to the ground.
There was something else, though.
Some indefinable thing that said rain -- this was what he could no longer grasp. The tenuous memory of rain was slowly but surely escaping
him. Perhaps in ten more years, he
would forget the feel.
He felt the nurse enter the room.
A woman -- her heels clacked against the floor.
“Severus,” she said warmly, chirpily.
He hated the sound of his name on
these people’s lips. Fully, cheerfully
enunciated, Se-ver-us -- it made his
hackles rise every time he heard it.
“Severus, you have a visitor.”
He did turn at this. Turned and
silently stood, wishing he could disconcert her somehow with his behavior.
Walking quickly, Severus took the lead out of the room, not wanting to
be led around like a child. “You’ve
been popular lately,” the nurse said, nonplussed as she matched his stride,
walking by his side.
He said nothing.
“My, you’ve had, what? Five
visits this month?” she continued in that voice dripping with false cheer.
lady has been in to see you, Severus.”
Keeping his eyes focused straight ahead, he stayed silent.
she pointed to the visitation room door.
“Right in there, Severus,” she said as he put his hand on the
doorknob. “Enjoy your visit.”
-- -- --
--
He didn’t know whether or not Miss Granger had changed through the
years. It would have been nice to be
able to snarl at her, “You’re the same ignorant little child from all those
years ago,” but he wasn’t entirely sure.
And if nothing else, Severus preferred to be honest.
What’s more, he didn’t know exactly what Miss Granger used
He had a dim recollection of buck teeth, frizzy hair, and an irritating
tendency to regurgitate textbooks, but nothing further.
Her cronies, Potter and Weasley, stood firm in his memory.
face as he sat beside Albus at Order meetings.
Passing around pictures of his brat as everyone else obediently cooed,
those damnable knowing eyes watching Severus, always. Distrustful. And Weasley
-- red hair an incongruous beacon as he led Aurors to their deaths at the hands
of Voldemort’s followers, time and time again.
His weight on Severus’ shoulders as he pulled him out of Rosier’s
hideout, the confusion on his face the moment unconsciousness took him.
But Granger ... no, she eluded him.
She’d gone away, he remembered with a start as he took the seat
opposite hers in the dingy little room.
Potter and Weasley went to Albus that day, trying to see if she’d told
anyone where she went.
He suppressed a mental snort.
As if she would have been in a
position to speak so familiarly with Albus.
Weasley worked with the Order in adulthood, Potter had an honorary seat
due to his circumstance, but Granger was nothing more than a glorified
childhood friend of theirs.
But she was the one sitting here with him now.
Severus permitted himself a moment to study her.
looking robes, and a look in her eyes that he could not immediately place.
and he had it.
Innocence.
Miss Granger was looking at him innocently. There was no dissembling, no calculation in her gaze.
Well, why would there
be? he asked himself. She had not been there.
She had not seen what everyone else had.
But her gaze disconcerted him.
More than Potter’s glares, more than Albus’ patient understanding,
Granger’s innocent curiosity simultaneously frustrated and puzzled him.
He wanted her to go away.
“Well, Miss Granger,” he said quietly, watching her blink.
mind?”
“I --” she started.
He wasn’t about to let her finish.
“Convince me that my life really, truly is worth living, perhaps? That
there are people who care whether or not I’m still exchanging oxygen with the
environment? No, Miss Granger ... you
can tell me nothing that I have not already heard before.”
Was she actually glaring at
him? “No, sir,” she retorted in a
rather chilly sort of tone. “My
intention, actually, was to ask how you were.”
This was said in a warmer voice, but her eyes were still narrowed.
Stifling a laugh at her ludicrous statement, Severus decided to actually
reply. “I am still, Miss Granger, quite
mad. Pray, how are you
She accepted the rebuke silently -- apparently, she was aware of the
foolishness of her remark as well. One
of her eyelids trembled slightly.
“If you have nothing to say to me, Miss Granger, apart from enquiring
after my health, I will bid you good day, then,” he said, unwilling to allow
this to continue. They had already had
two silent exchanges -- he was not in the mood for another.
With a little frown, Granger actually opened her mouth to speak.
She stuttered briefly, clearly discomfited, and Severus permitted
himself a small smile at her distress.
“Does your Dr. Cuthrell not know you were a professor at Hogwarts?” she
finally managed to get out.
Taken aback, Severus actually considered his reply rather
carefully. “Not a question I was
expecting,” he said. “But I believe
that Cuthrell is marginally aware of my former profession.
students, many years ago. A Ravenclaw,
if memory serves.”
“Oh,” she replied. “He just ...
seemed rather surprised when I referred to you as ‘Professor’ when we spoke the
other day.”
His eyebrows rose as he considered what she’d just said.
“We spoke at length, I’m afraid,” she admitted after a short
pause. “He wanted me to ... erm ...
well, bring information to him, I guess.
I understand why you don’t trust him.”
“And you would be telling me this because ...?” he asked dryly.
Granger shrugged. “I have no
reason not to tell you,” she said.
aware of the treatment you are receiving.
Besides, I wonder why he jumped on the fact that I called you
‘Professor.’ Especially since he
“Probably because I am not in the habit of receiving visitors who
address me in such a fashion,” Severus replied. “Former students of mine, in general, would not seek me out under
most circumstances. You are, Miss
Granger, possibly somewhat of a novelty to him.” He smirked as her eyes widened -- she obviously grasped the
subtle insult in his response.
“I find that hard to believe,” she said, clearly not willing to rise to
the bait. “After all, you spent at
least twenty years at Hogwarts -- Britain must be practically overrun
“Twenty-five,” he corrected rather snappishly.
myself returning to an old question.
Why, indeed, are you here, Miss Granger, novelty among lunatics?”
Again, her face shuttered. “I
told you before,” she said sharply. “I
just felt like I needed to come.”
“Need,” he repeated thoughtfully.
“What a curious word, need. We
use it far too often, really. We need
to breathe, we need to eat. Many
children need things such as
broomsticks, toys, candy. People need
affection. No, Miss Granger, I don’t
think that you needed to come.”
“Why do you insist that I put it into words?” she asked, frustration
showing.
Severus let out a long sigh, steepling his fingers under his chin -- a
gesture that he knew meant nothing to Granger.
“Because, Miss Granger, words are all that’s left to me.”
She did not seem to know what to do with her hands.
then to her hair, twisting a stray curl as she appeared to think.
“Exactly, Miss Granger,” he said, interrupting her stammering with
something akin to mercy. “You have no
reason to be here. And, with that in
mind, I suggest that you leave.”
Her gaze was suddenly hard, piercing.
“If words are so important to you, Snape, then tell me why you chose to
speak with me, of all people.
spoken to anyone lately.”
He glared. Glared at Granger’s
face, glared at the table, glared at his own fingernails, peeking over the
edges of his fingertips. “I do not have
to justify my actions to you.”
“Well, then.” Her face was set.
“I see we have reached an impasse,” he said, idly scratching the back
of his head.
Granger winced -- he had no idea as to why. “In what way?” she asked, recovering rather well.
With a shrug, he met her gaze forthrightly. “We have nothing left to talk about.”
She actually smiled at
that. “Have you, by any chance, read
Plato, Professor Snape?”
To his credit, he masked his surprise and managed to keep his jaw in
place. “Are you suggesting, Miss
Granger, that we discuss the Greeks?”
“What, you have other pressing social engagements?” she asked
innocently. He did not know how she
maintained a straight face.
He ignored her. “Some of his
Dialogues are better than others.”
“And the Republic?”
“A sufficient analogy for ethical means, but not an entirely convincing
political treatise. If I recall
correctly, however, Plato did not intend it as such. I also remember reading it wondering when the old fool would get
to the blasted point,” he said thoughtfully.
“I am sure, Miss Granger, that you have nothing but wonderful things to
say about it, however.”
She shrugged minutely. “I was
always rather uncomfortable with the initial set-up of his ideal city, to tell
the truth. The myth of metals struck me
as so much brainwashing. Imagine,
telling a child that he was bronze, just
because he didn’t happen to be as smart as the one next door.**
clasclass=MsoBodyText align=left style='text-align:left'>To Severus’ amazement, they actually managed to fill a decent period of
time talking about Plato’s Republic.
be far less sugar-coated than he’d originally anticipated.
twist of the wrist. “It is ironic, of
course, that Machiavelli himself was not Machiavellian. A true Republican, really.
Bruni’s.** I’m fairly certain he wound
up in exile somewhere.”
“Thus completing the irony,” he commented dryly.
lesson?”
She blushed.
“I think, Miss Granger, that you somehow believe that you are humoring
me,” he continued. “But I am certain
that I am humoring you.”
Granger nodded abruptly, apparently not willing to belabor the point,
and stood, chair scraping loudly in the silence. “I will say goodbye, then, Professor Snape.”
“I am no professor, Miss Granger,” he reminded her, nodding in kind.
normal'>
And she was gone, leaving Severus to contemplate the closed door
quietly, wondering what she was about.
For that matter, he wondered what he
was about.
-- --
-- --
**Footnote -- Plato’s Republic
is indeed a treatise on ethics (the fundamental question Plato desires to
answer is “What is good in and of itself?”), however he develops this huge metaphor
of ‘the ideal city’ within it. The
method Plato proposes to control the lower populations of said ideal city is to
instruct children in the belief that there are three sorts of people -- gold,
silver, and bronze -- and everyone works according to their composition.
**Footnote -- Machiavelli, for all his reputation due to the
publication of The Prince in 1529, was
not Machiavellian. The Prince
kingdom, which is, incidentally, rather despotic. However, Machiavelli himself was a staunch republican, calling
for the unification of Italy under a single, democratic leader.
both would appreciate the irony of such a thing and would thus be familiar with
the tale. Machiavelli was indeed exiled
to his country estate for the last few years of his life -- called San
Casciano, I believe. Thus endeth the
impromptu history lesson.
-- --
-- --