It is not that I may not have incurr'd
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound
I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd
With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound;
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground;
To thee I do devote it - thou shalt take
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found,
Which if I have not taken for the sake -
But let that pass - I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake.
— from “Childe Harold's Pilgrimage” (Canto 4) by George Gordon, Lord Byron
*****
"You would ask this of me?"
Her words hung in the air like a shimmering cloud and charged an already tense atmosphere. Would he punish her for impertinence, she wondered, or would he treat her mixture of astonishment and sarcasm with the same regard as he did their more philosophical discussions? A split second later she remembered that he would be more surprised had she not questioned him, that he would have been more curious had she said nothing. He expected her to question him, anticipated it even; by doing so she not only reassured him of her attention but also of her cognizance of the situation. It was a central part of the intricate and dynamic relationship in which they were engaged, an indication of the minute power shifts of which they were both aware. And since he couldn't harm her physically …
No, she thought sadly, but he could harm her in other ways. It would be so terribly easy for him to ensure her cooperation by hurting those she cared for, those whom she tried so desperately to protect despite such tremendously insurmountable odds.
After all, why go for the kill when you can go for the pain?
"Of course," he murmured as he slithered behind her in a whisper of silk and dragonhide. "You are the only one who can possibly do this … no one else has your particular abilities."
Of course. It was the reason — or at least one of them — that she was here and not at the mercy of the Malfoys, though some days she was forced to once more question whether this had truly been the lesser evil. With the Malfoys she would have been nothing more than another victim, one more forced to face that particular level of hell, but fate and genetics had decreed that she would play a larger role. And while in this position she was poised to do more than simply listen for any tiny morsel of information a patron might drop, it was not without its share of increased dangers. Or repercussions.
"Why me? Surely my unique abilities are not needed in this particular instance."
"Like calls to like, my dear. He is in need of intellectual companionship and your mind is far more a complement to his than any of the others ever could be. And he is far too important to entrust to an inadequate intellect."
Repercussions such as acknowledgment and desire; he acknowledged and encouraged her quest for knowledge and he desired her although he came infrequently to her bed. He favored her for her power, yes, but more than that he craved her very essence even as he feared what she could do if provoked. Head games and bed games, the favorite Slytherin pastimes at which she had come to excel and even anticipate. Their conversations were never dull and always, always stimulating no matter the topic or the tangential threads that invariably occurred. Together they spent hours discussing the finer points of Arithmantic equations, arguing over the nature of power, assessing the benefits and deficits in the rules of dueling, pouring over texts in search of the way to bind a certain type of charm to deviated transfiguration and generally contemplating and admiring one another's intellect and ambition.
It was verbal foreplay at its best.
Indeed, she was often so carried away by the sheer intensity of their interaction that she occasionally seemed to forget who he actually was — until the verbal foreplay gave way to physical desire. Only then was she forced to remember who he was, who she was, and why so many she loved now feared and hated her even as others cozened her in hopes of securing her favor. She was what she was.
The Favored Hetaira of the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's mistress.
Hermione raised her eyes to the mirror before them and stared at the man who stood behind her, his fingers trailing along the tops of her shoulders and following the path of the runes and runic symbols that slithered over her flesh only to vanish beneath the surface and reappear elsewhere. He met her gaze easily, his handsome appearance marred only by the paleness of his complexion and by the crimson orbs that stared so relentlessly into her own golden eyes. It was decidedly unnerving, she thought. This wizard, the embodiment of prejudice and darkness and control, should have looked as monstrous as she knew him to be and yet he appeared as alluring as any wizard in his prime. Such a thing was not to be borne, not when she knew first hand how he had achieved such a feat —
A flash of light.
Curses split open the night and the screams of children could be heard for miles -
Smell of burning flesh —
A glimpse of silver hair —
The trembling cry of a Phoenix —
The mingled sounds of triumph and despair —
NO.
She slammed the door to that mental repository. It did no good to dwell on the night Voldemort triumphed over Dumbledore, stealing his power and life through a fluke of planetary alignments. What was done was done, and there could be no undoing — all that was left was to survive to fight again.
But above all, to survive.
And so here she was, surviving, here among the opulent luxury of the Dark Court and its master while so many others endured torments or exile. Perhaps this, then, was the ultimate repercussion of a Hetaira who was favored by a high-ranking member of the Court — to lack for nothing except freedom. To be considered a traitor by those whose minds or talents had been deemed insufficient for consideration as Hetairai or Auletrides. And even by some who ranked among their members.
Hermione repressed a shudder of desire as his fingers traced the curve of her breast in pursuit of a particularly mobile rune. "You want me to seduce him."
His fingers stilled. "Did I say so?"
She arched an eyebrow in response. "Did you not ask me to be his companion during his stay at court? To treat him as I would you?"
Cool laughter filled her ears and an amused smile lingered on his lips as he wrapped his arms about her waist. "Ah, my dear … I do wish you to be his companion. He is very important to me, to the Dark Court, and now that all the repairs to Hogwarts are complete he may take his place at court during the summers. After years spent among children he needs a like mind, someone with whom he can converse. All I ask of you is to fill that void — talk to him, show him the court and introduce him to those of whom he has no knowledge. He was always rather resigned around people, socially speaking, and it will do him good to have a witty, intelligent woman at his disposal."
"And the other?"
The Dark Lord known as Voldemort, the last scion of the Marvolo line, paused for a moment to trace the pattern that encircled her clavicle before continuing.
"He could never bed a woman with whom he could not connect intellectually — it was a strength and a weakness. True, he never strays from his tasks for a taste of something fresh, but this unusual trait also makes him unlikely to visit the Dicteria. Should your pursuits lead to the bedchamber, I have no objection."
She turned her head slightly and allowed a smile to play at her lips as she phrased her next question. "Are you not afraid, my lord, of being replaced in my affections?"
"Of course not," he whispered. "You are not Helen, sweet Hermione, and Severus is no Paris to whisk you away to some far flung city."
No, my dear Neoptolemus, she thought, he is not Paris, but he may very well be Orestes.
"Severus, my lord? Do you refer to Severus Snape?"
His mouth brushed the shell of her ear. "Is there another?"
"No, of course not," she whispered as he turned her in his arms and covered her lips with his own before trailing kisses down her throat as his passion rose. "I will do as you wish."
*****
The sound of cymbals and drums still echoed in her ears as she wove her way through the populated halls and promenades that connected the numerous buildings and towers in the palace to the agora at is center. She easily passed the few Death Eaters who were not dancing attendance on their master, and soon joined the throng of people milling about the large open area and, once there, allowed herself to relax her guard by just a fraction. Appointments that were in any fashion associated with the Malfoys were always nerve-wracking, she thought as she passed by a knot of her fellow Auletrides. Both were mercurial wizards, Draco more so than his father, but in the presence of a volume of good wine, their whores and other forms of *entertainment* they occasionally let slip a bit of useful information that she could pass on to the appropriate parties.
And that made all her efforts worthwhile.
"Ginny!"
The redhead was jolted out of her brief reverie by the voice that hailed her from across the agora, and turned toward the cultured tones, unsurprised to find a worried Padma Patil upon reaching her destination. The dark haired Hetaira was visibly disturbed and, as she followed the other woman's gaze, Ginny shuddered at the sight of the stage being erected in the dark corner of the agora not far from the Dicteria run by the Malfoys. The agora, the Dark Court's version of Diagon Alley, was as multi-faceted as the place upon which it was based with one notable exception — unlike its predecessor, the darker aspects once housed in side alleys were no longer hidden from view. Relegated to specific corners, yes, but hardly concealed. Aall manner of Dark Arts paraphernalia were available to any who wished to make purchase of such items, but so were the other reasons that witches and wizards once made excursions into Knockturn Alley. Like the Dicteria, the brothel run by the Malfoy family, whose numbers consisted primarily of Muggleborns of all ages. At the thought, Ginny carefully schooled her face into a blank expression before she turned to her companion and asked, "Have you heard anything?"
Padma shook her head. "No, I … I was going to ask if you had seen or heard something."
"Nothing about Parvati … "
"But?"
She was too sharp by far. Ginny sighed inwardly; would that her incisiveness extended a bit further.
"I saw Penelope a few days ago while I was dancing at Nott's little fete. He'd conscripted several Dicteriades to serve and to be … served," she swallowed convulsively.
Padma shuddered. "I still don't understand you, Ginny. You're smart enough, witty enough in your own fashion … why have you chosen the Auletrides? Why be little better than the ones who — "
"Can't choose for themselves? Why do this when I could be protected from the more carnal aspects of the Court?"
She nodded.
"Because I can," Ginny responded. "I dance and tell stories very well, so well that I'm in high demand among the Death Eaters and the Courtiers."
"But you, well … "
"Have sex with them," Ginny said bluntly, her manner a far cry from that of her school days when she would have thought more than twice before discussing such things with anyone, but especially an older Ravenclaw. "With some of them, at least, but not all. Besides, if I did what you did I'd be bored within a month."
Padma shook her head once more and lowered her voice. "Still, to sell yourself when you could be safe … what would your parents think, Ginny. Does Percy know? A-and what about Harry?"
"We all sell ourselves, you and I and several others. Penny, Parvati, and the Dicteriades are slaves, Padma. Slaves. They have no choices, no rights, no recourse … nothing but abuse each and every day they live," Ginny choked on the words as she forced them out. Even after three years she still felt the same guilt, the shame of not being a slave like so many others, but she pushed it away in order to focus on more pertinent issues.
"The Hetairai and the Auletrides are courtesans however much you may wish to deny it — we just sell different things. And at least we have certain rights and protections.
"I've also ceased to care about Harry or Percy's opinions. One is a leader of the Resistance, one works for the utter sham that the Ministry has become, and neither are here."
Padma opened her mouth to retort but a scream from the stage drew their attention and the two winced as a struggling former Hufflepuff that Ginny vaguely remembered was hauled off by a leering MacNair. The two watched in mute witness as the blonde and her temporary master disappeared from the agora amidst a small sea of lascivious Death Eaters. "And at least I get to choose my patrons," Ginny said pointedly. "I'm in control, not them."
"Still," Padma pursued, "I don't understand. How can you let them touch you?"
"And what is my other choice?" Ginny retorted. "Even the Hetairai aren't completely safe, although they are safer than most."
"You had a decent choice," she whispered. "Maybe that is what I don't understand."
"My choice? That I chose to live? What else would I have done — cried 'death before dishonor!' and gone out in a blaze of glory?"
The sarcasm in the redhead's voice was all too obvious to the former Ravenclaw prefect, who suddenly wished that they were back in the confines of Hogwarts where she could deduct points from the woman before her and send her back to Gryffindor Tower. "It would have been the lesser of two evils — "
"You don't really believe that," Ginny said coldly. "If you did, then you and Parvati would have turned your wands on yourselves like Cho Chang and Katie Bell."
Padma flinched. After a moment she raised her eyes and admitted, "You're right, you are … it's just … I really, really hate this."
Ginny snorted. "We all hate it."
Padma stiffened. "Not everyone."
"Not this again."
"She has no problems," Padma hissed. "All those years posing as something she's not … we were all such fools and look at her now. I don't see why you bother to defend her, Ginny Weasley, much less continue to consort with the traitorous little bitch."
Ginny felt her face flush as red as her hair as she stared at the woman before her, a woman she had once credited with far more intelligence than she was currently displaying. There was a time when Padma Patil had been as logical and sharp as the woman she was currently defaming, but those days were long past, she acknowledged sadly. Those who survived the war had found themselves forced to survive in a new world with new rules — and to do so often meant abandoning old traits, compromising integrity or becoming someone else. And sometimes all three.
"What about Sally Anne and Lisa, or even Terry Boot?" Ginny inquired, knowing that a continuous mention of Hermione would send Padma into a furious rage. "They are all Favored Hetairai — "
"Yes," Padma interrupted. "But only Terry is favored by a Death Eater whereas Lisa and Sally Anne have Courtiers for patrons — and unlike She Who Must Not Be Named, not one of them has their own household."
"That's not the issue — "
"Isn't it? The two are intertwined, Ginny. Do you even know what they call her?"
The Dark Lady. Ginny repressed her emotions as the moniker skirted the edges of her mind, but something must have shown on her face because Padma cocked her head slightly and gave her reproving glare worthy of Minerva McGonagall. "You know what they say and you still call her friend? Perhaps you're more lost than I thought Ginny Weasley."
The redhead started to retort but once again her eyes were drawn to the stage and Ginny blanched as her companion let out a soft wail. "No," she breathed. "Circe, Morgana and Lilith, no, please no … "
Ginny watched helplessly as tears filled Padma's eyes at the sight of her twin being auctioned off to the crowd of Death Eaters and Courtiers, but she said nothing as the dark haired Hetaira suddenly choked and abruptly fled the agora to the disgruntlement of those in her path. On stage, Parvati alternately moaned and thrashed as the auctioneer stripped her of what little clothing she had and proceeded to give a full account of her various attributes.
"And remember, her twin is a Hetaira," the auctioneer informed the audience. "If you've ever been frustrated by those pesky little consensual sex rules this, my friends, is the next best thing."
Moments later she, too, was dragged from the room by a laughing Death Eater.
"On the whole," a voice came from her left, "I believe it's for the best that Padma departed before she heard that little aside. She must have reported someone to Gaius."
"Blaise," Ginny acknowledged softly. "She did indeed. It was Goyle, though what he wanted with a Hetaira is anyone's guess. Or rather, a very easy guess if you remember Avery, although I'd have thought they would have learned from his mistakes. What brings you here?"
The onyx-eyed Courtier raised an eyebrow and gestured to the wide hall that opened into the various passageways that led to the households of the high-ranking members of the Court. Ginny craned her neck and tried to see over the heads of the crowds until a tight grip on her wrist dragged her behind a large pillar as gasps echoed through the agora. Several people suddenly bowed or knelt. From their place behind the column Blaise and Ginny watched as Voldemort stalked through the room and came to stop before the auctioneer, who nervously waved the Dark Lord to a small alcove nearby. A few moments later two Death Eaters emerged from the alcove with a completely terrified petite blonde girl suspended between them and proceeded to follow their master back up the wide hall. Sighs of relief and a few of shock reverberated around the room as people began to regain their footing and return to their business.
"Come," Blaise urged quietly as she tugged Ginny toward one of the side passages. "There's a shortcut nearby and if we intend to see her before the banquet tonight we must go now."
A few moments later the two women were traversing a winding staircase and narrow hallway, both mindful of the need to reach the Upper Rooms as fast as they could. Ginny's mind was working furiously as she tried to piece together Blaise's urgency. While horrible and sickening, what Voldemort had done was by no means an unusual occurrence. Despite his most recent transformation — and her mind skirted the thoughts associated with that — the Dark Lord still retained some of his more twisted and potentially lethal desires, which he did not dare indulge with Hermione. Hence his visits to Malfoy's Dicteria. She shuddered as she thought about the poor girl he'd chosen today; she couldn't have been more than eighteen, if that, and it was unlikely she would survive the encounter.
And as soon as the edge was off his jaded appetite he would return to Hermione.
Hence the hurry.
"How long?" she asked her companion.
Blaise pursed her lips. "They were closeted together for over an hour and then he stormed out in search of a temporary substitute. I was coming to find you as planned and I was almost to the agora when I heard him coming, so I hurried."
"Do you know what's going on?"
"No, but something is happening today and it's to do with the banquet tonight," Blaise answered. "I hope that Hermione knows something."
Ginny silently agreed and the two said nothing more as they wound their way through the labyrinthine corridors, not stopping until they could see the doors to Hermione's household.
*****
Steam billowed from a large cauldron and a slightly noxious amber cloud seemed to pulse with life before slowly dissipating, the only trace of its presence a tiny plume of smoke that soon drifted away before the satisfied eyes of the brewer and his silent companion. The flames from the torches set into the stone walls flickered dramatically, or so the observer thought to himself as he watched his former professor decant the completed potion into the specially prepared bottles. It seemed odd to watch what clearly appeared to be liquid silver filtered into the brown glass vials and sealed with wax that had been charmed against the possibility of leakage. Yet the very act lessened the sense of dread that had filled him over three months ago when Harry and Professor McGona — no, Minerva, he repeated again — told the others that there was nothing left of the Psyche Potion, and that someone would have to inform Snape. And then someone else would have to venture through one of the unstable portals that separated the Magical and Muggle worlds to collect the mixture once it was ready. How or why he had been chosen was still something of a mystery —
"Mr. Longbottom?"
Neville jerked out of his reverie to find the glittering obsidian eyes he had once feared more than death itself boring into his own with deadly precision. "Sir?"
Snape arched an eyebrow at the boy's — no, man's — lack of hesitation; it appeared he was finally living up to his potential. "If you are finished staring off into the aether, Mr. Longbottom, I was going to suggest that you prepare these vials for the journey. You will need to depart quite soon if you wish to return without any repercussions. Death Eaters no longer roam the countryside with any frequency, but most people will no doubt notice and recall an unknown face that does not stop in amongst the townsfolk before moving on. And the tensions hereabouts are high enough as it is."
With a nod he began placing the vials of precious potion into a padded box that he would shrink later. As he did so he was aware of the Potions Master, now Headmaster of Hogwarts, cleaning the cauldron and instruments and banishing items back into their proper places in the storeroom, and wondered yet again why he was chosen to fetch the elixir. It wasn't simply a matter of bravery, almost anyone in the Resistance would have volunteered to make the journey, but Harry had asked for him specifically, knowing as he did the history between himself and the Spymaster.
He was almost done when he once more felt that unrelenting stare and he lifted his head to face the issue head on. Whatever Snape could dish out, he could take. "Yes?"
Again the eyebrow lifted, this time more in amusement than surprise. "It occurs to me, Mr. Longbottom, that you are perhaps the last person I would expect to undertake this particular assignment. Is there any reason you have done so?"
"To be honest, I've wondered about that myself," he admitted. "All I know is that Harry asked me specifically to do this, but I don't know why. I'm no better at brewing potions than I was in school, but — "
He stopped for a moment and seemed to sink even deeper into his thoughts before he spoke again. "Maybe … maybe it's because Harry knows that I understand how important this is, that I'll be more careful because of what's at stake. There are plenty of runners more experienced who are willing to die if they're caught with the stuff, so I suppose they're best suited to distribution, but I'm the one who will make sure it gets to the others so that it can be given to the runners. Does that make any sense? Or maybe it's because I know how much this meant to Hermione … "
As he trailed off Snape gave a nod and turned back to his work, effectively hiding his emotion ravaged face from his former pupil. "I believe you to be correct in both estimations," he told Neville after he had managed to repress the pain in his voice. "You are not a glory seeker nor are you an — adrenaline junkie, I believe is the correct Muggle expression — Mr. Longbottom, and like Mr. Potter and Minerva you know exactly what we lost when Miss Granger … disappeared."
Neville nodded and shrank the box. "Thank you, sir, for your help with this. Without Hermione … "
Snape waved a hand in dismissal. "She would have wanted the elixir brewed, regardless, and doubtlessly she would have approached me in time about brewing it in tandem so that there would be more. It's nothing. But please do not wait until your supply has dwindled into inexistence before asking for more."
"But it's not nothing," Neville protested. "If Voldemort were to discover that you were brewing the Psyche Potion — "
"He would assume I had done so in the hopes of creating a counter agent," Snape cut in, his voice becoming frigid. "After all, to be bested by one of my own students — and a Gryffindor Mudblood at that — is simply not to be borne."
Neville stiffened for a moment before he heard the undertone of sarcasm in Snape's voice, but nodded in agreement. Undoubtedly he was right; the Dark Lord would have no reason to suspect Severus Snape was anything but a loyal Death Eater trying to undo the work of a clever little witch. But as he pocketed the box and turned to leave, he was again accosted by an unexpected question.
"I don't suppose, Mr. Longbottom, that Potter sent any of the rarer of ingredients with you?"
A very sheepish expression crossed Neville's face as he rummaged in his pockets until he found the hidden seam. He whispered the counter charm and felt the seam give way as his fingers curled around a small vial which, when passed to Snape, appeared to be nothing more powerful than water.
Albeit with a slight golden tinge.
"Do thank Fawkes for me, Mr. Longbottom," the Potions Master whispered softly. "And have a safe journey."
Neville gave the man one final look, shrugged and then left.
Once the boy was gone, Severus Snape allowed himself to exhale a shaky breath and collapse into the chair at his desk as he rolled the vial between his fingers. Phoenix's tears. The active ingredient in the Psyche Potion that was developed and first brewed by Miss Hermione Granger in a little regarded subdungeon at Hogwarts three years after the matriculation of her class. Her return to the school after two years on the Continent had surprised many, but it became clear quite quickly that it had been time well spent. Ostensibly she had been lured back to the castle to brew some of the more complex medicinal potions for Pomfrey. She even did that brewing at every available opportunity not only to maintain her precarious position before the eyes and ears of baby Death Eaters, but because she genuinely felt the need to do so. Her other task, known only to he and Dumbledore, was the practical formulation of the research she had carried out after leaving school for an apprenticeship in Italy — the Psyche Potion, an elixir for the mind and balm for the soul.
A combination curative and preventative for the Imperius Curse.
He shuddered. If only … there were thousands of self-recriminations floating about in the recesses of his mind but more than a few were attached to the year she had spent tucked away in the underbelly of the castle. If only he had spared more thought to what the potion would mean to Voldemort, if only he had insisted that the Order not announce to the world what she had accomplished, if only …
If only he hadn't underestimated her ability to know her own heart.
"Severus!"
Her fingers tangled in his hair as she squeezed him in jubilation, much to his surprise. The Headmaster had been worried when she had failed to materialize for dinner after missing luncheon and, knowing her penchant to take breakfast over the cauldron or her equations, had sent him to fetch her to the kitchens — kicking and screaming if necessary. It would not do to have her skipping meals. He knew only too well how easy it was to lose oneself in research, and for said research to suffer due to the neglect of the body and mind. He was determined not to see this come to pass for Miss Granger, not only because she was on the cusp of actualizing the most promising gain in this yet undeclared war, but because he found himself coming to appreciate — if not quite love — the intelligent young witch. The years had transformed her bossy know-it-all attitude into a confident brilliance that she wore like the finest silk, and he had been oddly unsurprised to discover his own feelings for her change. It was as if he had known, on some unfathomable level, that this would happen.
Thus it was this selfsame sense of knowing, coupled with months of exposure to her moods, that told him he would likely as not be forced to physically extract her from her laboratory. It came as a surprise, then, to do no more than enter the room and suddenly find her plastered to his chest as she laughed with glee.
"Severus!"
"Miss Granger … Hermione," he attempted, only to find his flow of words interrupted by the brush of her lips against his. Feather light and sweeter than honeyed wine, they were gone as quickly as they had come and another laugh escaped her as she pulled back to face him properly.
"It works, it really works!"
His mind groped for a few seconds with what she had said before he felt the full impact of her words. And then …
"Are you sure?"
Her exuberance settled quickly into a more sedate but assured confidence, although her eyes still retained a sparkle. "Most certainly. I've been testing it for the past three hours."
"Three hours! Why did you not send for the Headmaster or myself sooner?"
She bowed her head and looked away for a moment before lifting her eyes to his, the sherry-colored orbs meeting twin pools of obsidian, and in those depths he saw the reasons even before she spoke. "I … I needed to know, for myself, to see it before the others knew … "
"To make certain of your success, for yourself?" He whispered the words to her as much as to himself, knowing instinctively that she needed to confirm her breakthrough for herself and remembering his own intrinsic need to assure himself of an experimental potion's success before involving a separate party. "I understand, Hermione … "
Her breath caught slightly as their eyes locked once more. "Severus, I … "
"Snape!"
He jerked out of his reverie and scowled as Rolanda Hooch dropped a scroll onto his desk before dropping herself into one of the chairs across from said desk. A smirk formed and she lifted an eyebrow. "Pleasant daydreams, Snape? Or just thankful that Longbottom's gone?"
"Neither," he snapped. "Why are you here?"
She jerked her head toward his desk. "It's come."
Snape glared down at the offending scroll sealed with an elegant and telling black "V" before passing his hand over his eyes with a sigh. And so it had finally arrived, the summons that he could no longer deny would come — the invitation, nay order, to attend Lord Voldemort at his Dark Court. He had hoped for a bit more time but was unsurprised all the same. The final repairs and refurbishment of Hogwarts had been complete for over a month, the curriculum developed and needed teachers hired, so there was nothing more to be done here until the last week of August. Hence the summons.
"You knew it was coming, Severus."
The stern but gentle tones of Poppy Pomfrey came from the doorway and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. What would they have done had she followed McGonagall and Flitwick into the Muggle world? He silently reprimanded himself for indulging in yet more useless and maudlin doggerel, though he did wave the mediwitch into the other chair opposite his desk and was unsurprised to find Claire Sinistra and Sybil Trelawney standing just behind the other two witches. These four women, the last of the staff who had served under Albus Dumbledore and who still lived within the Magical world, were the only ones he trusted with his secret although, to be frank, Poppy had known for years and he had been surprised to find that Trelawney had long since guessed the truth.
"When will you need to leave?"
He raised an eyebrow at Sinistra's calm and even tone but chided himself. With her star charts and passion for the heavens, he often forgot that she was as Slytherin as he was himself despite her disdain for the power-plays and the game in which those of the Serpents' Lair had been engaged for centuries. She would be the one to understand exactly what was at stake. "Tonight, I believe. There's no need to keep him waiting and I've no excuse for putting it off 'til morning."
Poppy sighed.
"I know," he told her wearily. "But as Rolanda mentioned, at least Longbottom is gone and hopefully they have enough of the potion to last until autumn."
There was silence in the room as the five assembled allowed their thoughts to drift to missing friends and loved ones, as well as linger on the man who was to blame for the shambles their world had become. Snape was the first to shake off the flight of melancholy and slipped a knife beneath the seal on the scroll and set about scanning its contents, confirming what he had already known as well as making adjustments to what he would need to pack for his stay at the Dark Court. He had risen to peruse his stores and was in the process of extracting certain ingredients — making a note to have them replaced at the earliest possible convenience — when he heard a sharp intake of breath and turned to find Sibyl Trelawney standing rigidly in place, her eyes focused on him. Gone was the flighty vacant stare he was so accustomed to seeing and in its place was a bright sharpness that was eerily blank, but curiously knowing for all that.
"Sibyl … "
He wasn't sure who had spoken but it mattered not as she paid it no heed, but when she opened her mouth the voice that emerged was full of assurance and warning, and he felt a shiver travel up his spine as he remembered the stories about her great-uncle.
"That which yields is not always meek."
No more had the words escaped her lips than she collapsed in a heap on the floor, Poppy and Sinistra bending over her in worry. Snape continued to stare and would have done so indefinitely had not Hooch spoken at that moment.
“Well, well," she drawled. "Albus always said she had some real talent in her. Told me she had made two real predictions in all the time that he'd known her — suppose this makes three, eh, Snape. Snape?"
Snape, however, was paying her no attention. His thoughts had turned inwards and his ferocious mind was desperately trying to cope with why he suddenly knew how important Trelawney's words to be.
"That which yields is not always meek … "
*****
That which yields to a greater force does so not because it is weaker, but rather because it is far more cunning.
Or so Blaise had once told her, Hermione thought as her eyes traced the pattern of the stars from her chaise on the upper piazza outside her rooms. Play the game and do so better than they ever could and you will either triumph or survive, though a true triumph comes only if you survive as well; a snake in the grass is a far cry from a lioness on the prowl. Gryffindors, she was given to understand, counted it as a victory even if those engaged in the struggle perished whereas Slytherins counted their victories more carefully — by any means necessary, yes, but go softly and be sure to return. Useful advice for one engaged in an insidious game such as the one she was currently playing. Matching wits with Lord Voldemort was as dangerous and potentially lethal as it was thrilling and insightful, much like the chess game she and the boys had played during their first year at Hogwarts. Only this time there was no Philosopher's Stone to save, merely half the population of Magical Britain.
Which was pressure of an entirely different sort.
Of course, it has been rightly said that she thrives under pressure and Hermione herself was inclined to agree. There was almost nothing more satisfying than the verbal sparring in which she and Voldemort were frequently engaged, unless it was the dangerous but necessary game of power politics she and Blaise (and Ginny, to be truthful) played with his followers. A game that, until recently, had seemed deadlocked.
Enter Draco Malfoy's apparent dissatisfaction with life in the Dark Court and his even more apparent desire for some sort of change, a set of feelings shared — or so Ginny believed — by the younger members of the court. Or rather, those members who were the children of the Death Eaters, the ones who had been denied the so-called privilege of wearing the Dark Mark just in case. This, coupled with the feelings of a number of the Courtiers, was just the sort of thing that led to palace revolutions. And it would lead there, of that she was most positive. The Dark Court was rife with the seeds of revolution, just as the world beyond the palace gates was poised for a bloody civil war and the Resistance was desperately searching for a way to break through the barriers.
Or so she hoped, in the moments that she allowed herself to think on the others who remained free in exile. Not that those moments were frequent. Few members of the Dark Court had contact with the remainder of Magical Britain — with the exception of marauding Death Eaters and those in administrative positions who had counterparts in the Ministry — and she had learned quite early on that to cling to the hope that Harry and the others would swoop in and save the day was pointless. And not only pointless, she thought, but counterproductive as well. If you spent your days and nights praying for a knight in shining armor then you would more than likely do nothing. On the other hand, once you stopped looking for a hero you were more likely to open your eyes and use whatever abilities and intelligence you still possessed to your advantage and to the advantage of others. Of course, it went without saying that there were those who learned to grasp the former but never moved on to the latter.
Such was Padma Patil's situation; she had enough intelligence to save herself, as it were, but she was still looking for a hero to come charging in and save the day. She had yet to realize that once you take hold of your own fate, you stop looking for heroes and get on with the business of simultaneously surviving in and breaking down an oppressive regime. This inability to see the forest for the trees made her useless as fellow conspirator and, unfortunately, also made her less of an ally than she could have been were it not for her astounding but perhaps understandable lack of comprehension. Then again, Padma was a Ravenclaw in a very Slytherin world … all the books in the Archives couldn't help her now.
And that, Hermione reflected as the slight breeze wafted over her bare flesh, was truly indicative of just how far she herself had come since her capture by Malfoy five years earlier. Reality had quite literally been a slap in the face and she had borne it as well as she could, especially considering that nothing in her life could have prepared her for what had since transpired.
"You bloody tease!" he growled as he shoved her to the floor. "Hetaira or not I have every right to taste you, you little mudblood!"
Fear shot through her veins as he stifled her cries and ripped the muslin of her dress, his fingers digging into her skin with enough pressure to bruise. She struggled wildly, desperate to escape this madness; she was only fortunate that he had no wand, that such were confiscated before anyone could access the more arcane and esoteric tomes in the Archives. There were too many chances that even the simplest spell could backfire with potentially lethal consequences if performed near some of the more well warded books, so anyone who entered the cavern that housed the most restricted of knowledge must first surrender his or her wand. They were Voldemort's own orders and his Death Eaters obeyed without question. Never, she thought as he attempted to wrench her arms behind her back and roll her onto her stomach, never had she thought she would be in danger here. Only the few scholars permitted by the Dark Lord and the Hetairai ever came to this room so it was here that she had believed it safe to hide from this madman.
A lucky twist dislodged her attacker and she scrambled hurriedly to her feet, her breathing fast and shallow as she frantically scanned the room she knew so well for an exit that would not take her past her assailant. It was hopeless, however, and she screamed once more as she was flung to the floor. She landed badly and whatever breath she'd been able to draw now strangled in her throat as pain erupted from her side, a searing and sharp pain that was nearly as bad as the one she'd felt during the last battle. He smirked at her pain and lifted his now blood-soaked fingers, the dagger he'd been holding buried in her stomach, then laughed as he pried apart her now limp legs.
And then … then she screamed again, not because of his invasion but because of the heat and pressure building deep within her. Her very skin was aflame with something completely unknown and her blood crackled inside her veins. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she knew that it was magic, powerful magic, old magic, but in the heat of the moment all she knew was that this had to be stopped. Nothing had ever hurt this much, not even when Voldemort had ruthlessly used his power to extract the embedded chastity charm that had both annoyed Malfoy and kept her safe from this very situation. She felt it welling up, coming closer to the surface with every passing second and then …
The voices. Hundreds of voices filled her mind, all with one refrain: "Burn him! Burn him! Destroy the one who trespasses … BURN HIM!"
And somehow, someway, Hermione lifted her badly fractured arm and clamped it around her tormentor's neck and whispered words she had never learned. In that instant something within her exploded, a tremendous release of pressure and magic flowed outward from her pores and from far away she heard him begin to scream and struggle. More screams echoed as others found their way into the room and watched with amazement as Hermione — bruised and bleeding — as untouched by the flames that seemed to consume the Death Eater who lay on top of her. She watched with an odd sense of manic pride as he screamed and writhed in agony until someone doused the flames with a hastily (and dangerously) conjured bucket of water, never noticing that her pale unblemished flesh was now covered in an array of runic symbols that were still burning black …
Violence, so much violence … even after the truth about her abilities, whatever they actually were, was discovered there was always an undercurrent of violence surrounding her dealings with the Death Eaters and other like minded members of the Dark Court. The runes that slithered and flowed over her flesh seemed to pause and flicker as she remembered the agony she felt when Avery pushed her to floor of the Archives, rape and murder on his mind. Hermione raised a hand to her breast and brushed her fingers across the tender tissue of her aureole in a futile attempt to banish the old ghosts and instead only managed to send a shiver of desire straight to her center. By the gods, she thought as she shuddered in revulsion, am I so far gone that even remembered violence arouses me? Will I never again be able to feel pleasure without pain? Or pain without pleasure? Or is this as fleeting as the thought of freedom?
A tiny voice in the back of her mind laughed at her folly. It's not the violence, the voice murmured, it's the power you have that so arouses your deepest desires.
"Avery was a fool, my dear, and you dealt with him as you best saw fit … do not linger over guilt you do not feel."
The whisper came from the doorway and she shivered as she remembered his hasty departure no more than an hour before. Had he come straight to her after raping and brutalizing some poor Muggleborn witch or wizard? Would she find on him the residue of another? Had he even bothered to find a bed or had his baser desires led him to take his twisted pleasure in another venue? There was no doubt he had done so, for the maddened need she had heard in his voice just before he had stormed from her bed was no longer evident, nor did he radiate the predatory sexuality that always preceded his forays into the brothel run by the Malfoys.
Hermione opened her eyes to find him silhouetted in shadows and moving with a fluid grace that belied his need. Crimson eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul came closer until their foreheads touched and he was flush with her body, his once lethally desperate need now tempered to a delicious hardness that would no doubt last until just before the banquet was to commence. His fingers were slick with oil as they slid between her thighs and she sighed, her hips lifting of their own volition as her legs parted to grant him access to that most intimate of regions. A gasp escaped her throat as he encircled the seat of her pleasure with the tip of one finger before trailing its way downward, and she bit her lip to stop herself from pleading that he continue that simple ministration. Why was it, she wondered hazily, that he could coax this sort of reaction from her when so many others had failed? Why did she seem to want him even as she loathed him? Was it simply the needs of her body or was there a deeper connection between them?
It was at moments like these, she reflected as he buried his mouth in the crook of her neck, that she completely understood Ginny's reasons for choosing a different path. Of course there was more between them than carnal pleasure. Four years of what was for all intents and purposes cohabitation was bound to result in a certain level of intimacy that existed outside the bounds of the flesh. The way of the Hetaira — especially one who became a companion — was madness unlike anything she had ever seen or studied, whereas Ginny and the Auletrides had the option of a closed mind. Her mind and her body, however, were ever open to the wizard who had claimed her as a companion. Never again could she exist within the Archives as nothing more than someone with whom to have an intellectual conversation. But as she tilted her hips anew and felt his hardness seek its temporary sheath, his fingers once more dancing around the tender pearl of her desire, her passion fogged mind assured her there were worse fates.
And then she thought no more.
*****
It was not quite what he had expected, Snape admitted later. Having seen Voldemort only a handful of times over the past few years — and then only when summoned to a dark stone chamber — he had not truly believed that the Dark Court would so closely resemble a Mediterranean pleasure palace. Then again, perhaps that should have been anticipated; Malfoy was, after all, one of the Dark Lord's highest ranked lieutenants and the blond sadist craved luxury almost as much as pain and suffering. Still, he had not expected such opulence to be afforded to him, especially after his arrival was marked by no one more impressive than a page in a black and silver tunic beneath green robes. To be led not to an interrogation or other such debriefing but to a lavishly decorated set of rooms — his own household, so the page remarked — in what was termed the Upper Rooms was even more unexpected and he quickly began reconciling his prior notions and suppositions with his newfound knowledge. The result was as simple as it was expected: tread carefully, make no assumptions, and keep your senses and your intellect sharp. Remember Trelawney's prediction.
He snorted inwardly at that. As strange as he found the Dark Court, never would he have anticipated that he would one day be taking one of her so-called predictions into serious consideration.
Nor would he have believed it had he been informed that the Dark Court would be modeled, after a fashion, on Ancient Greece and Rome. And yet here it was. The buildings more suited to a temperate climate than the British Isles (yet charmed to resist the elements of said isles), the costume of the residents, the agora he had glimpsed while following the young boy to his chambers …
The scantily clothed redhead reclining on his bed.
The two simply regarded each other in silence until the page and the last of the house elves had departed, the latter promising to return with a light repast and former promising directions to the banqueting chambers should he be in need. Neither the page nor the elves paid the woman any mind as they scurried about or disappeared, but her once-warm brown eyes were the only thing for which he had any consideration. The rich blue of her chiton, what little there was of it, flattered her pale skin and her mouth curved into a seductive smile.
"Good evening," she purred huskily.
Severus Snape was not a man who was often at a loss for words and, as he had had a few moments to contemplate the situation and again wonder at his lack of viable information concerning the woman who was in what was undeniably his bed, did not mince them now. "Miss Weasley, what, pray tell, are you doing in my bed? I was given to understand that you were … elsewhere."
The nymph shrugged but otherwise remained unchanged. "Things change, Professor."
"Miss Weasley — "
"Things change," she reiterated, her voice just marginally less flirtatious than the one she had used scant seconds earlier. The practically unnoticeable change in tone and the slightest tilt of her head set off klaxons in his brain and made him wonder, yet again, how many changes he was unaware of. A lift of the eyebrow was all she needed to abandon the bed and stand before him.
"Not everything here is as it appears," she told him. "We change, we adapt, we play the game — but above all, we survive."
"And this?" In one sweeping movement he both indicated her attire and gestured towards the bed.
"I was sent," she said softly, her voice lingering slightly and specifically on the last word. "There are those in the Dark Court who noted your arrival but, for various reasons, were unable to attend on it. No one would ever begin to question that one of the Auletrides had been conscripted to welcome the newest member of the Court, so you may consider me — "
"A house warming gift?"
His sarcasm was easily shrugged off. "A messenger? Ambassador, however, is perhaps more correct. Of those who find your arrival … auspicious."
The ebony eyebrow climbed higher as he contemplated her words and the strange image she presented. Once removed from the bed the layers of her blue silk chiton fell into place — covering more than they had as she reclined. He noticed a himation, the combination veil and outer robe that was carefully draped over the head and shoulders as much to protect as to create a stylish effect, of a similar material trailing over the back of a nearby chair. The neckline of the chiton was modest and it had been girdled only twice beneath her breasts, creating an air of innocence until one noted the flowing layers that fell to the floor were split up to mid-thigh on either side and exposed a generous amount of shapely leg. He focused his attention on her as she moved about the room, his sharp eyes noting the texture of the silk and the silver thread that embroidered the neckline and side slits as well as the silver clasps at her shoulders. They could have been transfigured, but he had sufficient cause to doubt that she had used magic to alter her wardrobe — every whisper of silk and flash of silver spoke of authenticity. And that, in turn, indicated a source of money.
A soft pop and the scent of fresh bread bespoke the arrival of the meal promised by the recently departed elf. He turned to find Ginny Weasley seating herself on one of a pair of lightly padded gilt chairs and gesturing for him to take the seat opposite which, after a moment's hesitation, he did. She busied herself pouring two cups of tea and he lifted the hood of the platter to find a half loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese and an assortment of fruit. After due consideration, he lifted inquiring eyes to his companion who simply gave a sharp nod.
"Eat now," she told him. "The banquet may last for hours and while I don't doubt your capacity to deal with what will no doubt occur, it's unlikely anything you eat there will rest well in your stomach. This also reduces your risk of being poisoned."
Her last statement took him by surprise, not just because its came from her but by her simple acceptance of it. "Is that common?"
She paused, the teacup halfway to her mouth. "More so than I would like," she said, lifting the steaming beverage to her lips. "Mind you, it doesn't happen often and I don't think anyone would try to do so to you tonight, but it never hurts to think ahead. So, eat now and … ask your questions. I'll answer if I can since we don't have much time."
Severus absently sipped at his tea and thought over what he did and did not know. The young Miss Weasley — who should have been Mrs. Potter and safe in the Muggle world — showed none of the signs of being controlled by Imperius which, if he remembered correctly, was because she had been one of the first to receive a full regimen of Psyche Potion. Which meant she was working for someone. Or rather, he thought as he remembered her earlier words, she was in collusion with someone or several someones. So … "Where is Potter?"
She blinked in surprise. "In the Muggle world, I'd imagine, since that's where I left him last."
He nodded inwardly. "And your patron?"
At this she smiled. "I'm a woman of independent means, Professor."
"I'm familiar with the Auletrides and the other facets of life in Ancient Greece, Miss Weasley," he responded. "There must be someone who provides you with expensive silk and thread made of genuine silver."
She sighed. "It's complicated … When I first arrived and joined the Auletrides I was dependent on luck and had to do whatever I could to earn money, to earn my place among them. Once I had done so, however, once I could pay the governing body of the Auletrides for my mark and essentially liberate myself — "
Ginny broke off as she saw the confusion flicker across his features before it was masked.
"Maybe I should start by saying everyone who is a part of the Dark Court has a place,” she began again. “The bulk of the Court consists of Courtiers, the people who didn't necessarily support Voldemort but who have no wish to be walked upon by the others who did. There are the Death Eaters, of course, and their families. The Dicteriades, the slaves — mostly Muggleborn — who were stripped of their wands and confined to the brothel. Then there are the Auletrides and the Hetairai; both are courtesans, we just sell different things."
He gazed at her steadily but when he spoke his voice was not without some compassion. "So you are not a slave."
"No," she confirmed. "No member of the Auletrides or Hetairai is a slave, but we are liable to the governing body of our chosen group for a fee. Once it is paid we are free of its rules and constraints. Even before that there are protections and ways to extract justice, if necessary."
"And how do you pay this fee?"
Ginny shrugged. "Patron gifts, mostly, anything a patron gives you that is outside the bounds of the contract that was negotiated by the representative of the governing body. Given that the Auletrides are the entertainers of the Court — the dancers, singers, musicians, bards — it's easy to pay the fee and, once we do so, we're free to choose our own patrons and negotiate our contracts. But we still maintain the ties to and the protection of the governing body. Sex is a part of what we do, but it isn't everything."
"And the Hetairai?"
"In theory it is exactly the same," she said slowly, remembering the warnings given to her by both Blaise and Hermione. "In practice, though, everything changes. They live adjacent to and are found within the Archives, where they keep up with things and do research. They're the ones you go to if you want an intellectual conversation, compare research notes, or the like, so fewer of them are independent."
She paused for a moment to refill her cup.
"The most important difference is that the Hetairai are selected based on their potential as companions," she continued, raising her eyes to his as she spoke. "Sex isn't really part of it for most of them because it has to be completely consensual, and even then there have to have been so many successful meetings between Hetaira and patron before sex can be brought up. Most of them never do more with their patrons than talk or play chess."
Severus could hear the hesitation in her voice, sense the careful omissions, and found that his curiosity was piqued. The differences between her descriptions and his knowledge of Classical Grecian society was fascinating; it seemed that the Dark Lord (or someone close to him) had carefully thought out and implemented these twists on ancient ideas. It made him wonder why she was hesitating at all. "And?"
He sounded just as he did when you had forgotten to mention something in class, she thought. It was disturbing and amusing all it once, both for its familiarity and the memories it inevitably evoked.
"A few, no more than five or six by the last count, are what has been termed Favored — they were chosen as a companion by someone in the Court, their fee paid and any contact with other patrons strictly prohibited. Although in theory they're as free as I, as free as any of us can be, they usually go to live with whoever it was who chose them, although they retain all access to the Archives and all their previous protections."
"As a mistress," he stated flatly as he processed this new information.
Or consort, her mind added.
"Or perhaps not," he continued to reason aloud. "It's more than that, is it not Miss Weasley?"
She nodded her head in confirmation before rising from her chair and crossing the room. "I've overstayed, Professor, and I must return to my rooms to … prepare for the banquet."
His keen ears caught the pause in her voice and he, too, rose from his seat and crossed the room only to find her draped within the confines of the delicate woolen mantle he had seem earlier. He pulled the edges of the material together and stared at her for a long moment before nodding. "Then I shall see you anon, Miss Weasley."
It had been, he reflected a few hours later as he entered the sumptuous banquet room, an interesting and disturbing conversation, but one that he counted as fortunate. His next visitor, Lucius Malfoy, had spent the better part of an hour detailing the wonders that awaited him within the Dark Court. And now as he wound his way through the darkened throng of bodies toward a beckoning MacNair, he was doubly grateful to Miss Weasley for subtly informing him that not everyone present was as depraved as their attendance would seem to suggest.
"Severus," greeted that worthy in an amiable if somewhat guarded and envious fashion. "Glad to see you away from that school, my friend. Must be quite the relief, eh?"
"Assuredly," he responded dryly. "I've wanted nothing more than to abandon the mindless ramblings of children for the mindless if more depraved ramblings of their parents."
MacNair must have found this amusing, or at least comforting, for the solidly built man gave a great laugh that did not abate for some time.
"Oh, Severus, I've missed your wit, we all have, especially our Lord. Actually, I've been looking for you — he's expecting you right about now. Ho you," he snagged a page by the back of his robes. "Take this gentleman to the Dark Lord's private reception room."
Muttering his thanks, Severus set off to follow the page — this time in a green tunic beneath black robes with silver accents — through the crush of bodies that were gathered for what was sure to be an evening of debauched sadism. As they slithered in and out of the assembled masses he tried to avoid seeing the faces of his former students: those serving, those partaking, and those being served. He forced back a shudder of revulsion but allowed a cruel smirk to touch his lips as the crowd began to thin before a large archway that contained an ornate door. The page raised a shaking hand and rapped three times, then stepped back and gestured for him to do the same. A long minute later the door swung open a touch, just wide enough for him to slip through, and he nodded to the page who eagerly scampered away.
Once he was inside the massive door closed silently and Severus found himself not only in a room smaller than he had expected, but face to face with the Dark Lord. He quickly knelt and began to perform his customary greeting only to be summarily hauled upright and clasped — much to his shock and distress — in what for Voldemort was surely a warm embrace.
"Ah, Severus, you look well," came the sibilant whisper from the wizard before him. "I have sorely missed you, my boy. You do not know how pleased I am to at last see you take your place among us, to have you at my side once more. Am I not, my dear?"
Severus caught a flash out of the corner of his eye and found that it came from a young woman — or rather from her dress. A mistress, he wondered, or a like-minded ambitious witch? Like Ginny Weasley, she, too, wore a chiton but unlike Miss Weasley's this one was cinched from just beneath the breasts to just above the hips, creating the illusion of a longer waist and fuller hips. Not that her figure was hidden, he snorted inwardly. The silk was partially translucent and even in the darkened room he could see the outline of her body. What drew the eye, however, was not the array of curls piled upon her head and strung with emeralds nor the multitude of diamonds that decorated that silvery white silk, but the dark red runes and other symbols that adorned her pale flesh. Severus felt his blood chill as half-forgotten tales from his childhood flitted through his mind. Surely it wasn't possible, he thought as she turned towards him and moved out of the shadows, surely Dumbledore would have taken steps to ensure the safety of the elusive Hawkeforte heiress …
"Indeed, my lord," Hermione murmured huskily. "Good evening, Headmaster. We've been expecting you."