disclaimer: recognizable stuff belongs to Rowlings, the rest, my own delusions. d'accord.
Battery
Tuesday, night.
The rain is pushing against the stones and I imagine that the stone is pushing against me, a circuit of nature so I can feel the rain against my hair. It's one of my few memories left, rain cascading down on me, harder than the measly water pressure from the showers could imitate. It's the first thing I wrote about in this journal, after I was taught to read and write. Some frowned at my teacher for this individuality I was given. The harsh arguing within earshot I can still recall, now knowing better than my puzzled child self what they meant.
One of us taught anything beyond our livelihood is shocking to me now. I am thankful, but I hope none realize how far I passed on what I learned. 'Elve and Ten can write as well as I. They have more freedom and have passed it onto others, I hope. Ten, being his sly self, taught me a different alphabet, one composed of looks, moves and watching closer than the techs do their monitors. I smile now, from the winter lesson of how Ten's bright red hair could be a signal of mischief to arrive.
None of that tonight. The room's dark, with no light bulbs to break and no candles to burn. Through the tiny window of the door, I can see the wirings and the light bulbs, unlit yet gleaming in the pitch hallway. It would be so easy for me to break out, like Ten threatens daily over his toast and eggs.
[ink splotches follow]
Every morning, there's the sizzle of the lights igniting along the hallway and I go and wait by the door. Voices begin the morning count with the call for the lock mechanism to be released. I always step through my door with held breath, checking at the edge of my eyesight for Ten and 'Elve. 'Elve always has nightmares and looks too pale even with his death ivory skin, bluish smudges under eyes the brightest part of his waned face. Ten is often muttering in his throat, observing the guards for their patterns. His hands squirm at his sides, the only indicator of his mood. One I learned quickly, from his fisted reluctance to the tapping anticipation of another failed escape attempt.
Batteries Roll Out! That bellow would startle the creche children or the half-asleep, but I'm used to the suddenness and do not startle easily anymore.
We're all led to the Great Hall, one of the few sections of the castle that hasn't been transformed into more cells and working chambers. Four long tables, sturdy and scarred from years of people sitting at them, now hold barely a hundred of our number. Our livelihood is a deadly one and each morning, I try to keep my eyes from where the creche children sit. I can't help but count their dwindling numbers. 'Elve says I have the heart of a lion, but I should know better than to worry after the untried. Once we're able to spellwork, is it okay to care then?
*******
He pressed his head to the cool stones, sighing in relief for the pain was leaving him. His hair was sweat damp and framed a reddened face. Laboured breathing was his focus, the stones his ground and yet, he strained to hear the tech's voice through them. There was always the chatter of the technicians after a spellworking, the shuffle of the guards uncertain to approach even a weakened battery and the battery's own trial of continuing to breathing.
Unnatural silence filling his ears. There was no hum of electricity or the sparkling crackle of magic through the fragile bones of his hands. His heart returned to its quiet whisper within his chest, his breath coming without the sensation of drowning; the harshest signs of a spellworking faded from his body. It left him worn and chilled, waiting for the guards to drag him to his feet and away from the working chamber.
The nothingness caused the boy to raise his head, slowly easing his body to sit upright and look about in confusion. He was in the Great Hall. His first thoughts were of the wards surrounding the working chambers and how he could pass through them by accident if it was thought impossible by all. The Hall was decorated, bringing him to second and third thoughts. Bright banners in a rainbow of colours caught his eye, so different from its usual dull grey and brown. The number of people seated throughout the Hall startled him. A sea of children and adults in black robes stared back, worried and frightened faces everywhere he looked.
He took to his feet with unsteady movements, confused as some children pulled sticks from their robes in mimicry of the adults, who pointed their sticks at him with grave faces. What could they do with sticks? He wondered faintly, trying to gather up what magic reserves he had left. He didn't trust himself with open access to the lines, not so soon after a working.
"But that's me Hermione." The voice traveled in the Great Hall. He turned to see a boy his age, half standing from a table, stick held tight in his hand. The boy raised his head and they both watched with wide eyes. It was a mirror image of his wary face and posture in black robes and without collar. A quick glance about the Hall showed him that all these children were free. Confused, he returned his focus to the mirror image, the free him. He reached up to trace the iron band surrounding his neck, confining him still.
That's when the final side effect of spellworking faded away and he was once again able to sense magic. He was amidst a turbulent sea of power, the currents tugging at him to work their lines into reality. There were shallow spots in the crowd of children and deep wells of energy within the adults. All this magic and they were like creche children, leaving their magic free about their bodies. All at once, he was frightened of and for them. Loose magic could only be dangerous.
The currents stirred and magic was focused and refined in a wave of one adult's stick. He turned and held up his hands to receive the hasty spellwork, shunting the spark of amber magic back into its current. The man scowled, black eyes narrowing as he pulled more magic into his spellwork. He watched with curious eyes, having never seen magic being used in such a careless manner.
The man was tall and dark, his magic hazing about him as grey clouds do the moon. The boy tensed in reaction when a following spell reached him. He grasped it and shuddered from the strength of what he thought was careless spellwork. Guards did such work on them, catching them unaware by their strength and quickness. He had never thought of their tricks as magic before. He narrowed his eyes at the man, uncertain of what he was facing.
Another one stepped up behind the dark man and he cringed. There was no hazing of magic to cloak the physical in shadows, but a full radiance that shone as the sun did through closed eyes. Painful warmth that warned him not to touch or look too closely, otherwise he would burn himself to ashes. This was no guard to drag him back to his cell. Something was off. This adult was so old, but his magic was still potent. The oldest battery he knew of was nearly fifty years old and his magic was all but dried up, a well tapped too often during drought.
"I have to find Tom," he told himself, deaf to everything save the magic currents filling the Great Hall. He felt the flows drifting over his bare skin, whispering against his clothes, reminding him of spellworking within the deep chambers of the castle. A chamber that was so heavily locked down while he was within it that the world disappeared and his universe was those four walls. He started to drift out of the magic, sure there was a reason for not allowing himself to work the magic into suitable spells.
One, he realized suddenly, there was no spell scribed on the floor of the Hall, no guidelines for him to follow. Two was discovered in a state of mild panic, hands flexing at his sides a sign that part of the casting had already begun. A wild spellwork would short fuse within its creator and at best, knock him unconscious against the wards. At worst, splatter his remains across the wards.
Four, his eyes widening in terror, there were no wards.
A tight grasp at his elbow caused him to gasp in fright, the spellwork diving into whomever restrained him. There were reasons for guards to be afraid of a battery afterwards, charred and lifeless reasons. He pushed the magic into the only spell fresh in his mind, hasty in correcting the parameters for two bodies and open in his destination but for one word: safe. One desperate pull on the lines and they slipped into the currents, leaving the Hall far above them.
"You brought us to the Chamber of Secrets?" A suspicious voice questioned as he checked himself over for strain and residue. He lifted his head to once again stare at identical green eyes, his eyes, glaring back at him.
"Is that what it's called? I was never told." He shrugged and looked about the cavernous chamber. It had changed from the last time he had hidden in it. There was debris of fallen stones and crumbled statuary and most obvious of all, the long petrified skeleton of a basilisk resting in the shallow waters, its body trailing into the deeper sewers.
"What happened to George?" He quavered, walking through puddles to the stone remains. It had been a companion, although bloodthirsty in opinions. Too many foolish people had given the basilisk a taste for guards and low level batteries.
"George?" was squeaked out by the boy, who followed him with stick drawn.
"He liked the sound of it, odd name I always thought. What happened?" He questioned again. The boy stopped in a puddle, hand nervously twirling the stick at his side.
"I killed him. He was petrifying students." The boy whispered haltingly. The other nodded in response.
"Always warned him that attacking people would get him killed. Basilisks don't listen very well, do they." He pat the stone skull and looked at the boy. Something was off about him, despite the identical oddness of them both.
"Your face..." He trailed off, unsure.
"What of my face? I don't have a black smudge over my cheek." The boy retorted, bravely reaching out to wipe at the smudge. He looked surprise when no ink came away with his thumb.
"It's a mark, not a smudge. Identification mark if you must know." He smiled then. "You don't have one!" His pleased exclamation cut short as he saw the red scar darting under a cloud of black bangs.
"You have a scar, just like mine." He pulled away his hair to show an identical groove in his forehead.
"Did your mother try to kill you too?" He asked softly.
*****
end introduction.
a/n: shall I continue?