Chapter Four - And Out of Good Still to Finds Means of Evil

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JKR and/or Daniel Knauf. I do not profit from writing this story.

Author's Notes: This is where those multiple warnings begin to rear their ugly head, so please be aware of the story's rating before you continue.

A very heart felt appreciation goes to my beta, melusin for all the work and time she has put into my story.

The moment Remus' eyes finally adjusted to the sudden darkness, he took off at a rapid sprint. The wet brush of the Forbidden Forest whipped painlessly against his thick skin as he moved effortlessly in his haste.

It's not a full moon tonight, is it?

Breathing deep and uneven gulps of air, Remus knew he could not run this fast. Glancing down at his legs, he saw pawed feet instead.

He was transformed.

As perplexing as the situation was, Remus comforted himself in the knowledge that he still maintained his mental capabilities. He must have somehow managed to take his Wolfsbane, even if he had forgotten there was a full moon.

Unexpectedly, Remus' feral ears strained at the echo of mimicked footsteps following him deeper into the forest. He abruptly stopped running and crouched low to the sodden ground, hiding himself amidst the fog.

Whoever was following him did not care about being heard.

Twigs snapped and leaves crunched as the hurried footsteps drew closer. An apprehensive dread iced down Remus' back at the idea that this person, or thing, was running loud, fast and obviously trailing him.

Stealthily, he rose from the ground and moved toward the hurried thrashing, stalking diagonally in an attempt to counter it.

All too soon, the noises halted, and Remus suddenly became aware of the dry chill in the night air. He raised his human hands, tucking them under his robes to maintain body heat.

What the hell?

Before Remus could understand why he was no longer transformed, a massive, shaggy body pounced on him from behind.

With a frightened gasp, Remus realized exactly whose forearm was tightly wrapped around his throat. As hoarse, wet breaths stirred against his ear, Remus dry retched at the stench of rubbish and clotted blood filling his nostrils. He desperately wanted to gain some measure of composure, but on attempting to inhale a steadied breath, he sobbed instead as the man's other arm snaked around his hip.

"It's good to see you again, Remus," the voice rasped as its owner thrust his pelvis against his victim's behind.

Remus froze the moment that voice filled his ears. And, try as hard as he might, he could not stop the tears that flowed down his face as his privates were painfully fondled.

"NO!" Remus screamed, shooting out of bed. With a white knuckled grip on his wand, he jerkily turned about in his room.

Realizing it was another dream, he sank to the floor, the adrenaline pumping through his veins being gradually replaced by grief. Resting his head on hugged knees, Remus rocked himself until the sun rose.

*** *** ***

Despite the stress of the previous night, Hermione felt nothing but satisfaction as she strolled into the full and busy kitchen.

"What'll it be, dear?"

"Just coffee and a strawberry pastry, Mrs. Weasley, please."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, I need my caffeine or my mind will refuse to function properly. And, I find coffee tastes best with something sweet."

"My, you make that sound appealing, I believe I'll have the same, Molly," said Sirius upon entering the kitchen.

Hermione smiled back at him as he pulled out a chair for her in-between himself and Ron.

"Did everyone sleep well?" asked Sirius.

"Like the dead," mumbled Ron, spluttering flakes of egg on Hermione's arm.

"Good God, that is revolting."

She scowled as Harry started laughing. He laughed even harder when her expression did not change.

"Harry, about what Dumbledore said..."

Harry sobered quickly. "Really, Hermione, you don't need to explain." He made eye contact with Ron as he put his fork down. "I still don't like it. I think it's too dangerous. But I should have, you know, respected your decision last night."

"Thank you," she turned expectantly to her red-headed best friend. "Ron?"

Mouth full of food, he abruptly stopped chewing. Ron did not expect Hermione to make him apologize as well. She should automatically know that Harry spoke for both of them. He smiled before he began to speak.

At the sight of more egg caked across his teeth, Hermione put up her hand. "I accept your apology. Please, do not try to talk again."

Everyone around the table erupted in laughter -- Hermione included.

The next couple of days passed by in pretty much the same fashion. Hermione thoroughly enjoyed the easy going company of her best friends, as well as that of Remus and Sirius. She knew she had to steal as many simple moments as possible with them before returning to Hogwarts in two weeks time. Everything would change when she became more active with her assignment for the Order.

In a way, it already has, she thought.

The only thing Hermione was uneasy about was the encounter she was determined to have with Professor Snape. She knew she had to talk to him, but he never attended dinner. From what Sirius told her, he had his own room and was sleeping here, but she never witnessed his comings or goings.

Stretching her back, Hermione deeply sighed as her lower spine cracked. She loved reading in the Black family library late at night by a powerful fire. Leaning on the arm of the plush settee, she pulled her bare feet off the chilled floor, tucking them under her night robe.

Hermione did not realize that she was reading the same line over and over as her attention kept drifting. As determined as she was to review her school books before the start of term, she was not making much headway this evening.

SLAM!

The page cradled in her fingers ripped forcefully as her body reacted to the irate closing of the front door. Hermione had dropped the damaged book in an attempt to procure her wand before her mind fully comprehended who was screaming in the entrance hall.

"MUDBLOOD LOVING FILTH. DISGUSTING BLOOD TRAITORS. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE... "

"Shut that old hag up!"

"Shh... don't fret yourself, Severus. Here, let me help you up the stairs. Give me your arm."

"Get your hands off me, Minerva. The very last thing I want at this moment is your annoying coddling."

"Albus, get the portrait curtains, please, before she wakes the rest of the house."

Hermione silently cracked open the library door in time to see Professor Dumbledore silence Madame Black. Professor McGonagall stood at the foot of the stairs, propping up a very angry and deathly pale Professor Snape against the banister. He stumbled as he yanked his arm free of her.

"I told you to leave me the bloody hell alone," he hissed before his body shook. It was horrifically evident that he was in much pain.

When she had watched all three of them slowly ascend the stairs, Hermione quietly left the library in the hopes of following them.

She was incredibly surprised that no one in the house woke as Snape was muttering nasty expletives at his two captors all the way to the second landing. Tailing them up the massive staircase, Hermione could hear Minerva's faint shushing sounds fade in the air right behind Snape's deep voice.

As the last of Dumbledore's purple robes vanished into Snape's room, Hermione swiftly seized her chance to press herself against the wall beside Snape's door. She only wanted to listen. She had no hope other than to press her ear against the battered door. But, a long streak of candle-light blazed across the grimy floor. Hermione sneaked a quick glance before returning back to the wall. Identifying that all three seemed tremendously occupied, Hermione steadied her vision along the fracture of space in the door, lowering her body as close to the floor as possible.

Infuriated, Snape sat on the edge of his four-poster while Minerva attempted to remove his soiled robes. Dumbledore busied himself opposite the door, rummaging through a tall cabinet filled with various bottles.

The moment Snape's heavy black cloak fell from his shoulders, Hermione choked down a gasp forced upon her by instinct. She was horrified to see that his white undershirt was soaked in blood.

"Get out."

"Shut up."

Dumbledore gravely walked over to his two trusted friends, handing Snape a vial of Pain Relieving Potion.

Snape gulped it quickly, violently swatting Minerva's hand away from his collar buttons at the same time.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Severus! I need to see where you are hurt."

"I am perfectly capable of mending my own wounds, you meddling cow." He smirked as her face contorted in rage. "Besides, most of this blood is not even mine."

Minerva's eyes widened before she quickly slid two fingers into the neck of his shirt and ripped down forcefully, buttons severing and scattering to the floor.

Hermione sucked in a nervous breath.

Snape reflexively reached for his wand on the duvet. By the rise and fall of his chest, she could see that his breathing was steady yet quick. He sat up straight on the bed, eyes narrowing at the woman before him. By the deathly silence in the room, and Severus' wand jammed into Minerva's left kidney, Hermione knew his patience had finally run out.

"Leave. NOW," he barked.

Dumbledore slowly treaded toward the frightening standoff.

"Severus, we know how much you detest being helped after such... gatherings, but we've never seen you in this state before. If Minerva had not found you --" He stopped speaking when Snape's expression refused to change. "Please. Let her look you over, for my sake at least."

Dumbledore attempted to affectionately rest his hand on Snape's shoulder, but withdrew it when the forbidding figure tensed under his touch. "Please."

Snape did not reply, nor did he intend to. He did, however, lower his wand as he turned his face away from the other two people in the room.

Taking quick advantage of his submission, Minerva hurriedly shoved the sticky shirt off Snape's shoulders.

Hermione felt a slight tickling at the back of her throat as her mouth went dry. Her mind had had difficulty grasping the unfamiliar sight of her brutal Potions master in a white shirt splattered with purple gore, but seeing his bare upper body was far beyond surreal. From the sporadic twitching along his neck and shoulders, Hermione gathered that he was extremely tense. All the same, she could not help but marvel at the distinctive characteristics of his body. His slim neck fell upon strong broad shoulders, which set a contrasting frame for his wiry muscled biceps and forearms.

She did not think it important to note, but during her slow examination of Snape's bare upper body, the idea of attempting to catch a glimpse of his Dark Mark never once crossed her mind. Hermione's psyche, however, was not infantile enough to deny its existence under Snape's stern black robes. Every day in his presence since had she joined the Order, the idea of him bearing the Dark Lord's tattoo seemed no more out of the ordinary then the presence of cruelty in his voice.

Instead, her attention became ensnared by a tattoo of a different sort.

Hermione's eyes swiveled rapidly as she tried to visually take in this captivating enigma. The familiar fuzziness behind her eyebrows returned as the confusion of two very distinct emotions flooded her senses. Her stomach felt greasy with disgust as she eyed the blotchy streaks of dried blood. Yet, at the same time, she could not help but marvel at the sight of the taut muscles of his slender back. A back which seemed to serve as a perfect canvas for the deep ebony ink work covering it.

Her breath caught in her chest as she eyed the massively large, knotted design that spread from the nape of his neck to the protruding bones of his shoulders. The twisting chains continued down the entire expanse of his back and sides of his ribcage, ending above the waistband of his trousers. She had never seen a Celtic illustration so rich in detail. Endless knots connected with thin chains at the top of his spine, gradually expanded into heavy spikes at his lower back. His whole back was colored in at various links to give the illusion of depth, serving to highlight some chains more then others. Hermione's damp hands began to twitch as the sudden urge to slide her fingers across the massive tattoo burst into her mind.

Her distracted reverie ended at the sound of a hiss.

Muttering, Minerva quickly mended the wound below the right side of Snape's ribs. "I think this is the only serious wound you sustained."

"Obviously," he sneered, lip curling.

Dumbledore tensely watched Minerva's face as hurt and rage battled to overwhelm her.

"I believe Severus is due for some much needed rest, Minerva." Lightly placing both hands on either side of her shoulders, he slowly guided her to the door. "Goodnight, my boy."

Snape quickly seized his chance to flee to the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Hermione could feel her heart beating in her throat at the idea of getting caught snooping where she definitely did not belong. She rose from the floor and quickly descended the stairs to her bedroom on the first-floor landing as quietly as possible.

*** *** ***

Hermione lay still in bed for hours, staring at the spider webs on the roof of her canopy. She truly did not know what to make of tonight's events. Far too many different emotions had run through her mind while she was observing the goings on in Snape's room. She was desperate to know where he had been, what he had done, and who had cast a slicing hex on him.

Does he always retire here late at night like that? There was so much blood.

"... most of this blood is not even mine."

In the same way Hermione had no desire to curiously gawk at Snape's Dark Mark, she also did not question the type of duties he performed as a spy. She could not objectively see the abnormality of her reaction, so Hermione did not question it, but hearing him speak so off-handedly about being drenched in the body fluids of another did not bother her as much as his slicing wound had.

*** *** ***

Severus' nasal passages burned, exhaling the thick smoke with a steady breath, as he sat reclined in the single armchair placed directly in front of the fire. His hair, still wet from his quick shower, stuck to the back of his neck and shoulders. His grey nightshirt hung open at the front, revealing the scarred skin of his slender body.

The large four-poster bed, opposite the fire, lay untouched. The sage-green sheets were as pristine as when Molly had left them days ago. Repulsively stained Death Eater robes lay ignored where Minerva had discarded them, discoloring the already filthy rug with their abhorrent fluids.

Leaning back into the armchair, Snape slid a hand through his damp hair and swallowed another dram of Ogden's. After a final puff, he flicked the hashish and opium reefer into the fire before refilling his tumbler.

Such was the routine after he had performed his faithful duties to the Dark Lord. Tonight was no different from any other night -- except for that damn Slicing Hex. Snape unconsciously fingered his sealed, yet still tender, wound.

Snape recalled the night's events as the euphoria of the various nerve numbing substances surged though him.

Fucking hell, Macnair.

Macnair always grew angry when he was not the first to enjoy the night's entertainment. Like Snape, he hated his playthings used. And, like Snape, he made sure they looked very used by the time he'd finished with them.

Snape could hear the muffled echo of screams the moment he walked into Malfoy Manor. This was normal even on nights when Lucius did not host Death Eater socials. Upon entering the extravagant entrance hall, Snape noticed the he was one of the last to arrive by the number of cloaks on the rack.

Let's get this over with, he thought.

A loud scream filled the room after a sickening 'CRACK'.

Large, dilated black pupils stared at the hearth fire, not blinking and glazed.

Too stoned to walk to the tall storage cabinet, Snape gulped down another glass of Ogden's, hoping it would prevent his tremors and numb his mind to those dreams.

Snape knew he should not have assaulted Macnair in front of the other Death Eaters. They both may be in the inner circle, but Macnair still outranked him. His other 'superiors' predictably cast several bouts of the Cruciatus Curse for their amusement and his punishment.

Of course, even in torture, originality would escape such sheep.

But, it was all too tempting to take the opportunity to inflict entertaining torment on Macnair. As for the rest, Snape really did not give a shit.

He lazily closed his eyes as he raised a second spliff up to his lips.

His real problems began when Minerva found him staggering up the drive to number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

What the bloody hell was she doing here anyway? Overbearing harpy could not wait to send her Patronus to Dumbledore. He snorted.

Out of everything that had happened tonight, Snape despised seeing Albus and Minerva the most.

How he loathed their pity and concern. Not because he was too proud and he certainly did not possess any ridiculous sentimental notions of not deserving compassion. It was just completely and utterly misplaced.

A waste of time and effort.

For someone to pity him, they would have to live under the misconception that Snape inhabited an unwanted life heavy with self-loathing. Pity, compassion, sympathy; Snape sneered when such idiotic emotions were shown towards him.

No, he lived no life worth pity. He felt neither pleasure in doing good nor remorse when he acted atrociously.

Good... evil... like there is even a fucking difference anymore.

His head fell back against the plush cushion as his mind entered another intoxicated reminiscence. Snape vaguely remembered a time years ago when he actually felt eager to spy for Dumbledore; to prove to the Headmaster that he was no longer a loyal Death Eater and that he would no longer worship the Dark Lord.

The path to Hell is paved with good intentions.

To him, nothing had changed since the first fall of the Dark Lord, nor after his return. Not one damn thing. He still fucked the same at Malfoy Manor. He still hexed the same when he killed Muggles. He still crawled the same when he worshiped the Dark Lord.

The only difference this time was the repeated gratitude of Dumbledore; for dedicated, good, service to The Order of Phoenix.

For the past twenty years, Severus had joined in the merciless amusement of the Death Eaters as they tormented the wizarding and Muggle communities from behind the scenes. For the past twenty years he had done it for the good of the Order, effectively leaking information to both sides. And because of this, Severus had lost almost all of his ability to emotionally differentiate between right and wrong.

Now, whenever he made major decisions in his espionage work, his only sense of morale came in the mantra of "Would Dumbledore approve?"

"Your main priority is to maintain your status in the inner circle, Severus. The Order is nothing without your information."

Oh, how lovely.

Twenty years without a firm grasp on a clear conscience, twenty years of doing evil for the greater good had finally taken its toll on Severus.

Sympathy, pity and compassion were definitely useless emotions to feel for a man like him. A man who understood his own state of mind so well that he welcomed the apathy that had completely consumed him. In almost everything, dealing with the Order or the Dark Lord, relating to morality or evil, Severus truly did not give a shit.

Author's Notes: Special thanks to my talented beta, melusin.

Chapter title taken from John Milton's Paradise Lost, Book i. Line 165.

Next up: Information about Sirius' situation is revealed, and Hermione has another fit of night time wanderings.