Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

You Can\'t Always Get What You Want	By : tambrathegreat Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > General Views: 3320 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this endeavor. No copyright infringement is intended.

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9 January, 1998 23:37

It was a stupid thing to fight over. Hermione acknowledged that even as she flounced about the tent sullenly casting filthy looks at Harry.

It was so stupid that she, even now, refused to look at the book as he had bid her to. Instead, she had retreated to the kitchen area and was currently looking at the dismal state of their larder. They were already on quarter rations. In a few days, she would have to cut back again. She was so hungry that she was willing to eat anything, but foraging had become too dangerous. Just a few days ago, she and Harry had been out looking for anything edible in the forest and came across a bloody corpse. Harry said he thought it was Fenrir Greyback, but he wasn’t sure, the body's face was frozen to the snow-littered ground. Hermione had not been able to look past the blood on the roiled snow without wanting to sick up. The corpse made the war too real and she had retreated before Harry had to tell her. They had come back to the camp empty-handed and hadn’t gone out since. That thought alone sent her into another paroxysm of anger at Harry, Ron, Professors Snape and Dumbledore, and especially that stupid git, Voldemort, the one she owed the most of her anger. <i>He</i> had started this. She had been blissfully ignorant of the magical world, after all, blithely accepting that she was different in some respects, but normal. She didn’t ask to be a witch, to be a Muggleborn, and she certainly didn’t ask to be in a war. Or starving half to death because of that war and on some life-threatening quest that most definitely did not involve that book... Or not getting her education... Most especially she did not ask to live half a world away from her parents.

The last thought gave her pause.

She did actually send her parents half a world away, not that they would know, but the rest she most definitely didn’t ask for. Not one single iota of this trouble, including the Mountain Troll in first year and the being changed into a cat her second, though both of those really were her fault too... And now this stupid fight with Harry over a stupid children’s book and what it might mean for the war. As if a fairy tale had any bearing on real life.

She giggled as she realised just how silly that thought sounded coming from the brightest witch of her age, as Remus Lupin, the werewolf, had called her.
Her life had become one gigantic fairy tale, complete with giants, werewolves, vampires, a Half Blood Prince, and a whole list of scoundrels that served as fine evil henchmen to a dastardly snake-faced villain. An unladylike snort of laughter escaped her before she could stop it. She heard Harry rustle some paper, probably the pages of that damned book that Professor Dumbledore had willed her.

She lurched suddenly from her crouched position behind the counter, a position she had assumed to keep Harry’s determined, stone-faced visage out of her line of sight. However, she forgot the cabinet door that she had left open on the top tier of shelves in her look at their pitiful stores. She hit the wooden door so hard that she saw stars and staggered a bit before falling on her bum. A dark torrent of something warm and salty spilled down her face and into her gasping mouth.
Her last thought before she lost consciousness was, “Is that blood?”

&*&*&

“She has a severe concussion, Mr. Potter, which resulted in a comatose state.” Hermione heard Professor Snape drawl. He held her wrist in his sandpapery grip as he spoke. “I can see no other choice for you two...”

“No... Sir. You can’t risk your position...”Harry said as he did something to make a loud rustling noise. “Besides, aren’t there other Death Eaters besides you at Hogwarts?”

“Potter,” Snape said making the word snap. Hermione willed her eyelids to open so that she could see what was going on, but was unable. Snape continued over Harry’s continued objections, “How long has it been since you two have eaten a proper meal, taken a bath, or even rested for more than a few hours? You are doing no good for the war effort by remaining in this primitive hovel on this fruitless quest. Don’t martyr yourself for the cause just yet. There will be time enough for that later. Now pack your things. I shall take Miss Granger to Hogwarts and be back to fetch you.” Snape spoke without interruption over Harry’s objections, “As I said before, there are more hidden places than you can imagine at the school. You will be safer there than here. Don’t be such a rash Gryffindor, like your father.”

Someone, probably Harry, inhaled a sobbing hitch of breath. A muffled third voice that she recognised as Phineas Nigellus said, “He’s correct, boy. Listen to him. You could dwell in the Chamber of Secrets for years without discovery.”

Harry spoke over the portraits remonstrations, “It’s always the same with you, isn’t it, Snape? I’ll never be anything other than James Potter’s son and an annoyance to you.” Movement caused more rustling, and then Harry said from further away, “Well sod off. I can take care of her if you’ll just leave some food and the potion.”

Snape gently let go of her arm and moved away, if she could tell by the jouncing of the camp bed. “Don’t be ridiculous, boy. Miss Granger’s injury is only exacerbated by her malnutrition. When your rations run out again, which they undoubtedly will, what will you do then?”

“What I’ve always done. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve been without food, as you well know, <i>Professor</i>.” A loud smack of metal on metal sounded, and then Harry said, “Or was I mistaken about what you learned about my wonderful family from those Occlumency lessons?”

Hermione tried to fidget out of her body’s self-imposed binding. After a few charged moments, Snape answered softly, “No. You were not mistaken. Tuney was always a nasty piece of work.”

“Well then, you see, I can do without.” Harry’s voice was closer. Hermione tried desperately `to say anything, but only made a small moan. Snape returned to her side, she could tell by the bitter scent of Darjeeling that clung to him. Harry finally said in a tone of capitulation, “But you’re right, she shouldn’t have to do without. Take her someplace safe and I’ll continue on with my task.”

“Don’t play the hero, Potter. Miss Granger is essential to your quest. I do believe she was the one to solve my riddle in your first year, and the one to brew Polyjuice in your second.” Snape smoothed his work-roughened hand over her brow, lingering over a tender spot as he continued, “She has demonstrated her usefulness to you, time and again, especially recently, if I am not mistaken.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Harry’s voice sounded guilty; as if he were remembering the time they had let their hormones dictate their actions. Hermione cringed at the thought that perhaps Snape knew of it too, somehow.

Snape’s voice whipped across the distance between the two men as he hissed, “I am still the adult in this situation and the most senior Order member, Mr Potter, and as such, you will speak to me with a modicum of respect.”

“I will when you deserve it,” Harry answered sullenly. “And don’t speak about Hermione as if she’s some kind of tool to use.”

To that, Hermione gave another moan, knowing that the two would come to hexes or blows if she did not intervene. Not that she really understood why it was important to placate Snape. He was still the murderer of Albus Dumbledore, he was still suspect, no matter what Harry said he saw when Snape destroyed the Horcrux.

“Why don’t you go kiss Volde—“

“Potter, do not speak his name.” Snape interrupted. “There is a jinx on it. Why do you think it is never spoken?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well now you do.”

“Why did Professor Dumbledore say it all the time?” Harry asked, his tone still defiant.

“You are no Albus Dumbledore, Potter.” Snape sighed, a morbid sound in the silence. When he spoke again there was heaviness to the tone. “Perhaps he did because he was a more powerful wizard than the Dark Lord, and unafraid of his former pupil. Perhaps he was mad. Who knows why Albus did what he did.”
“Especially when he trusted you,” Harry muttered and Hermione could sense imminent violence as Snape stiffened.

“Ha—rry.” Hermione finally managed, her voice cracking on the second syllable.

She was able finally to open her eyes. She focused on the great black expanse that was Professor Snape. “Why are you here?”

Snape’s stern, waxy face swam into focus as he answered, “You have been unconscious for three days, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter finally summoned me this evening to ascertain the cause of your state.”

“Three... days, you say?” Hermione struggled to sit, but Snape pushed her back with a steady pressure on her shoulder.

“Hermione?” Harry was suddenly in her line of sight. He was paler, than she remembered him being, his face more haggard. He must have spent the entire three days on watch. A jolt of guilt ran from the tip of her head to her gut. He tried to smile, but it came across his face in a wobbling of his chin and lips. “You gave me quite a fright."

She felt a hot rush of tears and she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, about the fight and everything..."

“Miss Granger, you need medical attention which I am unqualified to give to you,” Snape said. “Madam Pomfrey can be made available to you if you accompany me to Hogwarts.”

“I know, sir. I heard.” She opened her eyes again. Snape sounded different than he did when he was speaking with Harry, almost concerned even with his normal superior tone. It was quite a change from the way she remembered him being. Without deliberation, she blurted, “Why are you being so nice to me? You never were before.”

She waited with pent up breath for the explosion of his temper to rain down on her, but he merely chuckled darkly. “I am not without compassion, Miss Granger, all evidence to the contrary.”

Harry leaned over her, “Do you want to go with him?”

“Only if you come, Harry. He’s right... We’re not doing any good out here. At least we can do research if we go to Hogwarts...” Hermione stopped and turned her attention back to Snape. “Wait, how will you get Madam Pomfrey to help me? Does she know of your supposed role for the Order?”

“Let me take care of that detail, Miss Granger, whilst you focus your considerable intelligence on convincing this dunder-- Potter to join you.” Snape huffed, his thin lips twisting into a tight, wry smile as he once again picked up her wrist between his thumb and forefinger. She felt her pulse beat as he pressed his finger into the notch where her artery was located. Hermione regarded him as his lips moved whilst he looked at a pocket watch. He looked older than his thirty-eight or nine years, older than he had seemed the year before, with the creases in his forehead and new, deep worry lines by his mouth. He glanced at her, his gaze sharp and forbidding and Hermione looked away a dull feeling of dread in her chest. Once done, he announced, “Your heart rate is still too rapid.” He turned his attention to Harry as he asked, “What will it be, Potter, your damnable pride or your friend’s life?”

Harry threw his hands in the air in capitulation. “Fine. We’ll go with you. I just hope this isn’t a mistake.”

Snape looked as if he might agree with Harry, if only just this once.

12 January, 1998 07:13

Lucius had always hated being ill. When he was a child it had been impossible to keep him abed no matter how high his temperature rose, or how much his personal house elf threatened to inform his parents. Yes, he had always been a man of action and it galled him that the injury inflicted upon his person by a primitive Muggle weapon could lay him so low. It was a week and a few days, and he had yet to recover from the removal of his damaged lung and the loss of blood.

He had developed an infection from the bullet which had nicked his stomach on its path of destruction. Madam Pomfrey, still a martinet after all these years, forbade him to set foot out of the bed for an entire week. He could tell that the mediwitch loathed his presence but was, fortunately for him, still guided by the Hippocratic Oath. She was bound to care for him, though she expressed her disgust at his presence in her domain each time she attended him, with her firmly pressed lips and the sharp way she spoke to him. It was also fortunate that his presence in the infirmary jeopardised the school. Due to this fact he was afforded an unused apprentice’s lodging near enough to the hospital wing. It was private and protected by the ancient wards set down by the Founders, so that apprentices would not be abused in the wizarding world in the way they had historically been abused in the Muggle one.

Narcissa had returned home a few days ago to smooth his way back into his own manor house. The Dark Lord had been quite perturbed by Lucius’ incapacitation and the loss of two of his lieutenants. Because of the deaths of Rabastan and Rodolphus on a mission headed by Lucius, he knew that his reception upon returning to the Manor would not be pleasant.

He feared that Narcissa and Severus both had already felt the pain of the Cruciatus for his absence.

Pomfrey bustled into the room, her demeanour stiff as was the norm since he awoke. Lucius suffered her silently cast diagnostic spells, only chaffing a little when he realised he could not read them clearly. She ran through the rest of her medical routine and when she finished, she snapped, “You’re well enough to get out of bed now. Don’t overdo it, or you’ll relapse. And for Merlin’s sake don’t go outside the room. Your presence here has caused enough problems.”

She snapped her wand back into its holder and fussed some with Lucius’ bedding. He bestowed a frosty smile upon her as she retreated to the window to flick the curtains aside. Light sifted through the window, watery and pale. Once done with her daily routine she bustled to the door, but then paused as if considering something of great import. Lucius waited, a sardonic cast to his expression, eyebrow raised as if in question. Pomfrey heaved a sigh and brought something out of her pocket. She sat it on the bedside table. Lucius glanced at the object, a miniature portrait etched on ivory of the Gryffindor Fat Lady, who sat preening until she saw him. She then gave a shriek and disappeared. Malfoy gave the school matron a look of wry amusement. “How thoughtful, Madam. You’ve brought me a fearful Gryffindor portrait. I shall cherish it forever.”

Pomfrey huffed, “Don’t thank me. Another portrait requested it.” He stifled a chuckle with a cough as she added, “Probably to keep an eye on you.”

It was no wonder that Severus had an exasperated fondness for the mediwitch. She was certainly unafraid. Lucius idly wondered into which House she had been sorted. She turned on her heel, a precise movement that was at once graceful and dismissive. “Do try not to overexert yourself today. I do not have time to deal with a patient who has no regard for others, especially with all the extra work your friends have made for me.”

Lucius remained silent until she left the room, not quite understanding how Severus had made extra work for her. The current Headmaster had argued against the implementation of the Dark Lord’s more radical teaching methods to his physical detriment most of the time, even though he was victorious more often than not. If she spoke of the Carrows, Lucius most certainly did not consider them friends and could not fathom that those two incestuous buffoons had been able to retain control of their classes, much less cause damage that might require medical attention. He turned his attention to the portrait, curious if the Fat Lady would return to scold him for his political views and general Slytherin nature. The portrait remained empty, blank except for the sketchy background. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the weakening effects of his invalid state. His muscles thrummed as he stretched experimentally, moving his toes toward the slippers left him by Narcissa. They faced inward to the bed and he cursed softly as he scooted them around so that he could slip them on without bending. Narcissa knew better than to leave the slipper toes turned toward the bed. Fairies, while generally standoffish, could not resist wreaking havoc on a sleeping human, and slippers turned toward the sleeper were almost guaranteed to give them ideas and a toehold. It was no wonder that Lucius’ dreams for the last few nights had been peppered with omens and portents.

Once his slippers were on, he cast about for his dressing gown that lay at the end of the bed. It was his favourite, the quilted silk one he wore in the winter months, dark as mahogany and soft from years of careful wear. He noted that one of the sleeves had a frayed edge. He would command one of the house elves to fix the material when he returned to the Manor. The dressing gown was one of the few things that Lucius clung to sentimentally. It was the last gift his mother had given him before she died.

Once he was relatively comfortable he attempted to stand. After the third try, he managed an approximation of the posture, his hairline and nose dripping sweat, his heart pounding with the effort as he remained bent over slightly to catch his breath. It when his vision quit swimming that he heard a soft cough issue from the portrait. The hairs on his neck prickled with the awareness that only a person under observation could experience.

He should have been unsurprised that the watcher who peered out from the miniature was none other than Albus Dumbledore, yet he felt his jaw constrict and his eyes narrow at the old man’s intrusive gaze. He could not abide the man when he was alive and doubted the older wizard’s attitude had softened towards Lucius himself even after death. He bestowed a superior sneer on the former Headmaster and waited for the portrait to speak. As head of the most powerful pureblood family in England, he refused to bow and scrape to a mere portrait.

The portrait finally relented, its tone mildly amused. “I see nothing has changed with you, Lucius.”

Lucius felt his knees give way and he plopped back to the bed as ungracefully as a newborn foal. He managed without the wheeze that he usually felt creeping on his speech, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Dumbledore? Have you come to spy on me? See that I don’t commit rapine and pillaging?”

To that comment, the portrait remained silent, choosing instead to regard Malfoy with a steady gaze behind winking, painted glass. Lucius fought the urge to fidget as if he were a student and instead began buffing his nails upon the silk, liking the sheen the silk gave them when he stopped.

After a short period of time, the portrait said, “I cannot help you, Lucius, if you do not speak to me about your fears.”

Lucius shot the portrait a hard-eyed look, the grey of his irises subsuming his pupils as they contracted with the jolt of fear that went through him at the words. When he thought he could speak without stuttering he said with a cotton dry tongue that seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth, “I don’t follow, old man. I am here to recover from folly of my own making. I serve the Dark Lord without question.”

The portrait’s glasses shimmered, flashing with the cerulean and titanium pigment used to create them. “Certainly, there is no doubt that you serve him, Lucius. I would never gainsay that fact. It is, however, a matter between the two of us if you have begun to question his methods and his aims. Privately, of course-- I would never wish to jeopardise a potential ally, or even a person considering the prospect.”

Lucius jerked his head up sharply at the comment, but said nothing. It was well and good that a portrait thought nothing of his inner turmoil, as long as the loquacious bit of pigment did not broadcast the news to all and sundry. Especially since that same portrait had access to the current Headmaster, no matter that Snape was the author of Dumbledore’s death. The living man had always seemed a little dotty, there was no accounting for how much the painted creature retained of that particular personality trait.

The portrait sighed, “Well, Lucius, I shall leave you to your important grooming duties. I simply thought I would let you know that your fears are shared by many in your organisation. Perhaps you should think of a way to harness the energies of those who are dissatisfied. Please feel free to keep this portrait with you as a reminder of this conversation.”

Lucius gave an almost imperceptible nod before he slowly began manoeuvring his legs back onto the bed. Communication could sometimes be extremely tiring when one contemplated plotting treason.

His hand moved to the portrait and he pocketed it, one step closer to a decision about his future.
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You Can\'t Always Get What You Want