Chapter Thirty-Seven — Hate

"More serious than I had thought, yet not as surprising as I had expected."

Snape said nothing in response. There didn't seem to be anything pertinent to say.

Dumbledore continued to stare into the stone bowl of the Pensieve, but whether he was actually observing something there was hard to tell.

"Does either of them know that the other has the same goal in mind?"

Snape scanned back over what Todianus had told him.

"It's possible. Both seem to be having some measure of success, and maybe working together they would have more, but Greyback still remembers how the Death Eaters treated the werewolves before. It would be his preference to work alone this time."

"As I recall, he didn't treat his own kind much better," Dumbledore mused quietly. "I've never envied lycanthropes," he admitted with a sigh, "but I pity them even more so, now." He turned to face Snape. "What is this? No words of scorn, Severus? Have those numerous arguments between us slipped your memory?"

Snape gazed blankly at him and refused to be drawn into another one of those "arguments".

Dumbledore squinted at him. "Are you feeling all right? You're very pale."

"Sunbathing is not high on my list of pastimes," Snape replied dryly, squashing the urge to roll his eyes.

"You haven't lost your sense of humour, at least," the older man noted. "You may need it." He left the Pensieve and headed back to his desk. "It might be best if you work with Remus on this." The lack of reaction at his words made him look even more keenly at Snape. "You're definitely not well if that failed to outrage you," he noted with a slight smile.

Snape gave him his best death look.

"I don't expect the two of you to be firm friends, but could you at least set aside the acrimony for the greater good?"

The effort it took not to reply in the negative caused Snape's mouth to form a tight line across his face and a flush of heat to rise in his cheeks.

Dumbledore sighed. "Regardless, the two of you will need to find some way to cooperate." He sat down in his chair and began to rummage through a drawer in his desk. "If what you have told me is true, then we have very little time to try and convince any lycanthropes that we are a third option available to them. Their usefulness to our cause is incalculable. Plus, I don't see how they can ever hope to be accepted into wizarding society without our help."

Snape shook his head slightly at Dumbledore's words, wishing he had failed to notice the unabashed patronisation. He wondered if the man knew he spoke of lycanthropes as if they were soiled, unrefined animals who needed to be taught how the rest of the world behaved, which was true in many ways, but that was beside the point. There was a palpable sense of elitism in the old wizard that Snape sometimes found rather alarming. He wondered if he was regarded in the same light: as someone who played at being a civilised member of society, who came from dubious, mixed bloodlines and still tried to play with the upper-class as if they were all equals. He frowned. No one knew better than he how such folly was regarded by the pure-bloods, but to hear the stain of it in Dumbledore's voice never failed to sting.

"I am certain that Lupin doesn't need my assistance," he snapped rather nastily.

Dumbledore shrugged as he drew a sheaf of papers out of the drawer. "Perhaps not, but the man is shouldering rather a lot of responsibility right now, so I think he'd appreciate the help." He picked up his quill and started to scratch out something along the margin of the topmost page. "And since you have decided to stick your toe in the water..."

"The information came out whilst I was determining what Macnair had been doing!" Snape barked, rubbing a sheen of sweat off his temple with the pad of his thumb. "I really couldn't care less about the fate of the werewolf population!"

Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow. "Something you have stated on more than one occasion, Severus, but you can't choose to help only those that you like in this world. Assistance should be given to lycanthropes as much as any of the other magical creatures. One never knows what may come of it." He drew out a page from closer to the bottom of the sheaf and peered through his half-moon glasses at it. "Besides, you have a very valuable informant, now, and knowing the circumstances of Remus' activities will be useful in you knowing which questions to ask your... contact." He scribbled something at the top of the page and pushed it back into place. "And your own knowledge of lycanthropes is not insubstantial. It is time we had your input."

"I really have nothing to add, Headmaster."

Dumbledore looked up at him, a ghosting of irritation in his eyes. "We are all doing things we don't want to do, Severus."

You have the gall to say that to my face? Snape thought in outrage, his hands beginning to shake.

"I know your experiences with lycanthropes have not been pleasant, but there must be something that draws you to them if you had spent all that time researching them while you were an intern at the hospital." He raised his eyebrows. "Unless there is something that you wish to tell me?"

Snape glared frostily at him. "Medical assistance should be given to lycanthropes as much as any of the other magical creatures," he replied flatly, returning Dumbledore's words. "However much I may dislike them."

"Of course," the man replied after a noticeable pause. "Why is Macnair attempting to recruit seevy?"

Snape blinked at him, a little disorientated. He put it down to the change of subject. "From what I have been told, they have proved useful in tracking down those that Macnair wishes to find."

"Lycanthropes."

"Amongst others." Snape frowned, wondering why it was becoming so hot in the Headmaster's office, especially since there was no fire under the mantel to impart any warmth. "Some that Macnair wishes to control, others that he wishes to kill."

"I hope that he finds them harder to find than we have," Dumbledore mentioned, placing his quill down on the table carefully.

"Surely Miss Parr could assist you on that," Snape pointed out, squinting as a drop of sweat found its way from his hairline to the corner of one eye, the saltiness stinging sharply. "She is unfailingly helpful," he added sarcastically.

"Her knowledge has borne some fruit, though not as much as I would have liked. The restrictions placed on her are rather severe," Dumbledore revealed, ignoring Snape's rather snotty remark and making the younger man wonder what the origin of those restrictions was.

"Restraint is not something she seems to have any problem with." He shivered as the room temperature seemed to drop alarmingly. "I got the impression she is here in return for her assistance. It wouldn't surprise me that she is short-changing you on that arrangement."

"She has little reason to trust wizarding society, Severus. I keep that in mind whenever asking her for information. In any case, Remus seems to have more sway with her than I do, so I must rely on his delicate touch."

Snape snorted loudly. "That oaf has about as much subtlety as Peeves on a good day! Or a bad one. Take your pick." He folded his arms to try and keep some body warmth to himself. "She walks all over him like the doormat he is."

"This doormat you speak so derisively of continues to put himself in very grave danger for the benefit of our cause, Severus," Dumbledore pointed out sternly. "He has never balked at anything asked of him, though lately he has more than enough reason to!"

Snape attempted to sneer but found it a little awkward as the muscles in his face seemed to have gone rather numb. "His recent actions seem rather counterproductive to fostering any kind of trust amongst other lycanthropes," he retorted, trying not to slur his words. The shaking in his hands began to spread along his crossed arms. "Not much delicate touch evident there."

"I cannot berate Remus for doing what he felt to be right," Dumbledore replied, his brows drawing down over his eyes.

"By stealing a potential brood-dam from right under their noses? A pretty serious transgression, in my opinion. How long before he does something more dangerous?"

"His actions were... impulsive," Dumbledore admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly my point," Snape griped, hunching his shoulders against the coldness seeping under his clothing. "My objection isn't to the end result, it's to the method by which that result was achieved. I cannot work with someone who fails to think through the ramifications of his actions beforehand!"

"Not everyone is blessed with such unwavering mental and emotional discipline, Severus," said Dumbledore, leaning forward in his chair. "Sometimes allowances must be made for those who act rashly under the influence of strong emotion."

Snape gritted his teeth together so hard that he could have sworn he heard his jaw creak. You never fail to throw that back in my face, do you, you bastard!

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I find the topic of conversation agitating," Snape ground out with the effort of someone trying their utmost to hide an affliction. The greying around the outside of his vision warned him that if he didn't get out of Dumbledore's office right now, he'd keel over with all the grace of a sack of potatoes being dropped from the top of the Astronomy Tower. "Perhaps we can continue this another time." He turned awkwardly as his balance started to fail him and made for the door. The grey crept inward, and his legs felt like they were moving through syrup.

Just get to the door, he told himself. Don't you dare pass out here!

The sheer threat of humiliation at being found slumped on the floor gave him enough strength to find his own quarters before giving into the fever that tore at him, cramping his muscles and making the sweat run out of every pore until his clothing was as soaked as if he had stood in the rain that fell outside the walls in icy sheets.

There must have been a time in his life when he had felt this way. There must have been. There was no other explanation for the familiarity of it, like an item of clothing so often worn it had softened to an almost butter-like consistency. But try as he might, he could not recall that time. He sifted through his memories and could not find it, yet he was so sure it that it was there. Somewhere. Sometime.

His mind shifted ever so slightly, enough to slide against the embrace around him. Smooth like glass, light as a feather's touch, stronger than a diamond buried deep underground.

It could not have been recently. There had been nothing in his life that would lead him anywhere near this. It was not after he had turned back; there had been little in the way of salvation then. It was not after he had forsaken common sense and followed the lure of vengeance; that had brought nothing but delusion and despair. It had not been when his life had stretched before him like an ocean of potential into which the ships of opportunity had eventually sunk one by one; the sensation of loss had only ever increased. It had not been as a child; there had never been anyone to show him such things were possible.

To feel this content...it was an illusion that others spoke of. He had only ever stood to the side and seen the appearance of it; an actor dressed in its costume to continue the charade that such sensation could even be dreamt of, let alone experienced in reality.

To feel this at ease...it would have required him to disregard all the expectations that his gaolers shackled him with, to sever the strings they tied to him in order to make him perform to their opaque and cruel script as they struck him across the back with the cutting, whip-like goad of guilt.

To feel this complete...surely there were so many parts of him missing, so very many that had withered or been brutalised beyond recognition that he should not even recognise himself without the holes and amputations.

To feel this potent...he had been in positions of incredible strength that still crumbled from the hairline fractures of betrayal and deceit, and even at their peak had never shielded him with such an imperforate aegis.

To feel this licentious...how could he pause on the ascent to carnal ecstasy, one step below that rapturous peak of lubricious finality where for one moment he lost who he was and became nothing more than a convulsion of lust and need and possession, and not go insane from the torture of being kept from its attainment?

The edges of his mind began to dissolve and blur, seeping, bleeding into hers, and that was when he knew that the feeling of familiarity hadn't been his. He couldn't remember having ever felt like this because in truth he hadn't. It had all come from her, wrapped around him as she was so they were like two slumbering animals that relaxed into each other, that breathed as one, that were one. He couldn't tell where she ended and he began. He didn't care to know.

You have to let him go.

The voice echoed through him, so recognisable yet so alien, one inch to the left of where it normally emanated from, that subtle deviation enough to threaten him far more than physical violence had even been able to.

She tightened around him, a child unwilling to release a treasured possession, no matter how sternly the parent spoke.

It is unfair to him. You should never have done it.

A ripple of consternation moved through her, but she held fast, held tight, defiant.

Chara.

No.

You must.

No!

It is not a choice you get to make.

Her mind twisted and flexed, and everything that he was yielded to drift in that plangent swell of regret. He would have let her wrench him into a knot that could never be undone, as long as she never let him go.

You have to do it now. Before it's too late.

For the briefest moment her hold was a constriction of such pain, such blistering agony, that it threatened to unravel his consciousness into a frayed mass of nonsensical impulses. Then she did the unthinkable.

She let him go.

This was drowning without the water. Burning without the fire. Freezing without the cold. Suffocation while he still breathed. The fall without the drop. The fall that didn't end.

He reached out reflexively in every direction as her touch trailed away from him, desperate, despairing, as terrified as he had ever been in his life. She was going to leave him here! Condemn him to how he had been before. Alone. Fractured. Dead.

It would destroy him. Not instantly. It would last until the end of his days, leaving just enough of him to be acutely aware of the loss. A burning dread that would strangle him, a blackened threat that it would only worsen, a promise that even as he died inside he would still be conscious of his abandonment to the bitter, flat, cruel greyness that extended around him like an unbroken, desolate gravestone.

She could not do this to him!

Somewhere in that black void, his mind touched hers, the horror spilling from him and into her in a torrent, his anguish clutching at her, his need dragging her back towards him with the monstrous strength of utter hopelessness. Pleading. Begging.

She tried to wrest his grasp from her, pushing him away, fending him off from his frenetic attempt to become a part of her once more. She was too strong for him. No matter how tightly he clung to her, she broke every point of connection ruthlessly, the fingers that held on at the edge of the precipice slipping until there was only one left to keep him suspended above that chasm that would drop him far below hell.

Something inside him shattered, and all he could do was cry out soundlessly in his defeat, to wait for the death that would last for the rest of life.

But the drop never came.

A finely-tuned balance of hesitation that contracted down to a point so small that it could not possibly hold him. A thread of second-chance.

Be quiet. Be still.

It was all he could do not to clamber along that fibre in panic, took all that he had to trust that she would not let him fall. He tried to touch as much of that single point as he possibly could and waited.

You've not defied me since you were eight. Why would you do so now?

You have already pointed out my disgrace. Must you twist the knife as well?

I don't know, Chara. You tell me.

It will not happen again.

It should never have happened in the first place!

Damn it, Caroli, he asked me! What was I to do?

Refuse! He doesn't know our ways. You shouldn't have acted as if he did!

He was going to the fat man. I could have found out where you were. I could have come for you!

You risk too much.

That is what I do! That is why I exist! How can you punish me for fulfilling my duty to you?

What will you do when your duty ends, Chara?

Don't say that!

What will you do when you cannot be there for me?

Why are you asking this?

Because it's a question you will have to answer, Striker!

No! Remus will find you. He said he can find you!

I cannot keep holding on. It hurts. So much.

Then I will take it. I've done it before. I can do it again!

It is too much, Chara. It will kill you.

Without you, I am already dead!

No, Chara.

Please? Just a little longer. Please?

The silence went for so long that he wondered if he had missed the reply.

Then you had best hurry.

He woke an hour before dawn with the rain still lashing at the building's stone, the sour stink of fever-sweat surrounding him, soaked into the sheets and curdling in the fibres of the clothes he'd collapsed onto the bed in.

There wasn't one part of him that didn't hurt, that didn't feel as if it had been shredded with filthy, diseased claws.

Snape let his head fall to one side, more of a submission to gravity than any deliberately-guided muscular movement, and found himself looking straight into Folter's eyes.

The house-elf gazed back at him mournfully, her form outlined in a thin halo caused by the light of a single lamp that sat on the floor behind her. She held a small glass bottle in her hands. Empty.

It would not be the first time she would have treated him. Her eye was sharp and her mind quick, and more than once, she had saved him from succumbing to a potentially fatal injury or a deadly poison. He knew she watched him closely, watched whatever he did and learned from it in her usual silence, perhaps thinking that he didn't notice her, that he didn't realise that she looked for any chance to keep him from falling into the pit that surrounded the small island of his miserable isolation.

He sighed. Why did she even care? It was an oft-asked question that he had never been able to answer.

Lifting his arm was like trying to raise a petrified tree from its watery grave, the tendons and ligaments creaking and splitting like rotten rope so he could open his hand.

Folter placed the empty bottle carefully into his palm.

Bringing it closer to his face took an age. Or perhaps it took no time at all. The raw misery that leaked into the infinitesimal space between every cell in his body did cruel things to the instance he occupied, twisting it into insensibility.

The label told him what he already knew, and he let his arm fall back to his side and closed his eyes.

"I'll need more," he whispered. "You know where to find it."

She paused before answering, as she always did. No doubt she pushed her hair behind her ears before speaking. She always did that, too.

"Yes, Professor."

He waited long enough to ensure she was gone before he dredged up some remnant of strength, some scrap of energy that allowed him to hurl the glass bottle at the wall opposite his bed. It shattered loudly in the dark, sending shards of pain into his head that tore their way into his sinuses and splintered the nerves in his teeth.

Parr had let him stumble into her trap, holding back the true magnitude of what he'd asked of her so she could use him to get what she wanted. In doing so she had forced into him something he hadn't expected, something that he would have backed away from if he had known what it was. She'd shown him what could have been his and then taken it away, leaving him to suffer and twist on the barbed hook of withdrawal. She'd made him an addict for what could never be his.

And he hated her for it.