Author's note: My dear, dear friends! Thank you for your patience. You have said that you would read a sequel, so here it is. My "teaser" sequel. In the next, proper, sequel Evan will be a bit older, and enjoy all the fun things that go with being older. Bet you'll all look forward to that, won't you!
Kisses!
P.S. If you are reading this and have not yet read my first (much longer) story Evan Snape: King of Hogwarts, it might be a good idea to peruse that first. I'm not sure how much, if any, of this one-shot makes sense if you haven't (how's that for airy-fairy author-ness then!).
Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognise, probably less, and I most certainly am not making any money from writing about anything that you recognise (or anything else, for that matter), so please nobody sue me!
Voices in the Dark
Very early morning.
The room was almost completely dark, lit only by a silver dagger of dawn slicing between heavy curtains and across a cluttered desk.
It fell on the man's hands, clasped pathetically and resting on a sheet of close-written parchment, and he stared unseeing at them.
"So you failed," said the voice. He had known it would come. He had been waiting for it.
"I'm sorry…"
"All
these little games, professor," the voice continued as though he
hadn't spoken. "That naughty little trick you pulled with the
werewolf and the potions. Too clever by half. And for what? A silly
vendetta you have against the boy's father? Or is it just that you
don't want to get your hands dirty?
"I…
"Either way,
it's not good enough."
"But…"
"Kill him."
"But…"
"Kill him."
"But…"
"Do not fail again, Professor. I need the boy dead. Before he finds out what he is. You may," pensively, "have to get rid of that bloody cat."
"I tried," the man muttered.
"Well try harder."
Silence fell again.
"Why…me?" asked the man finally. The last word was little more than a whisper that faded into the heavy quiet
"You should have thought of that," said the voice remorselessly, "fifty-one years ago."
The man sat and stared at his hands again. Waited for the sun to come up properly and light his office. He was alone; he had been all along.
The full moon, pale against the dawning sky, slipped ever farther below the smoky horizon, and two men slouched tiredly in twin armchairs, facing each other before a blazing fire.
An uncorked bottle – nearly empty – stood on a side table, conveniently within reach of both. Two half-filled glasses rested nearby.
"Good stuff, though," said one. His hair was a bit on the scruffy side and brown.
"Did you really spit it out?" inquired the other in a silky, lazy voice. His hair was shoulder-length, black and glossy like a raven's wing. His eyes, although sleepy, blazed with intelligence, power and something beyond that. More importantly though, they were warm eyes, smiling affectionately at the still-shaken figure opposite.
"I did," affirmed the object of that more-than-slightly discomforting gaze, in a voice that held a hint of laughter.
"Well. I must say…" he reached for his glass. "You wasted some excellent plank."
"Oh, c'mon, Sev. Be serious. Are we going to talk about this?"
There was a long silence from the brooding man facing him. "I fail to see how talking will solve anything," he said finally. "Talking won't tell us who switched this bottle for the one I sent you. Talking won't tell us who wanted children put at such peril, not to mention turning you into a killer and me into the scapegoat."
"You wouldn't have been the scapegoat, Sev."
"Oh no? Who else would they have blamed, Rem? I sent the potion; all the public would have found out is that it didn't do its job and you transformed. And that would be all they needed to know. You would be in Azkaban, I would be in the doghouse, and god knows how many students would be in the graveyard."
Remus Lupin bravely suppressed a shudder. It didn't bear thinking about, really. "So…" he offered lamely. "I suppose that brings us back to…"
"…what the hell are we going to do about it?"
Blue eyes.
Bottomless eyes, sapphire eyes, eyes the blue of the bluest summer sky, or most perfect cornflower petal, or maybe a kingfisher's feathers.
Evan Snape shifted slightly under his eiderdown and put a hand out towards the girl lying on her stomach next to him, face turned towards his. "Sleep much?"
"No."
"No," he echoed. "Me either."
"Neither," she corrected. Then, after a little pause, "I still can't believe it. That. The dreams. I always knew they meant something, but…"
"I know. You won't tell?"
"I won't. I promise."
"No. You wouldn't."
There was another silence. "So…who do you think swapped the potions?"
Evan rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Not a clue. You?"
She shrugged. "It's why they did it that I'm more worried about. Do you think it was to kill students?"
"No…maybe. There are…there are easier ways of killing people, Lucy. And most people were in bed, weren't they? It was after curfew."
"Except you," Lucy pointed out slowly.
Evan swallowed. His brilliant green eyes fixed her blue ones with a disconcerting stare. "Except us," he corrected.
She just shook her head, skeptical. "The other possibility is that somebody was trying to…"
"Discredit St. Mungo's…"
"And your father. Who hates him?"
"Well…lots of people, actually. But most of them…"
"…are in Azkaban. I know." She sniffed disdainfully.
He shrugged. "At least they should be grateful we don't have Dementor's anymore. Thanks to him."
"You know, Evan. Not all Death Eaters are in Azkaban."
"Regulus was cleared by the ministry, Lucy. We've been through this."
"But he did support You-Know-Who…"
"He ran. Dad helped him run. You've heard the story Lucy, Justin's always talking about how Dad saved his life."
"He killed people, Evan."
"We've had this discussion. Mum and Dad trust Reg. He was best man at their wedding. He's my Godfather. You like him, I thought."
"I do like him. But sometimes I wonder…"
"What?"
"Can people ever really change?" There was a strange note in her voice, and Evan frowned.
"This isn't really about Regulus, is it?" he asked, deadpan. "This is about your Father."
She squirmed. The only answer he needed. "He loves you, Lucy. And your Mum. Maybe that's enough for him to, you know, clean up his act."
"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. "So…do you think somebody is trying to make your father look bad?"
"I…I think so. Can you imagine the Daily Prophet?"
"I can. But would it matter? Evan…your father's a hero. People would forgive."
"Not the parents of whoever got killed or bitten. They wouldn't."
She shivered. "Let's not think about it anymore. If you like, write to your father tomorrow…I mean today, and tell him what you suspect. I bet he's already thought of it. He'll be more careful. And you, too. You be careful too. You were the one who was out after curfew. You were the one who Lupin met first. If somebody's trying to get rid of a student – I mean a student in particular – your name's top of the list."
He shrugged. "I guess no more night time wanderings. Though I thought nobody knew…"
"You can never be sure," she said ominously. "Maybe somebody was using an invisibility cloak. Like Dad's got."
"I was going to ask you to borrow that. Now, perhaps I'll leave it till next year…"
"I did ask, once. Mum said no before Dad even opened his mouth."
"Just like my Mum."
"And Mums everywhere."
"You'd better go, Lucy. The other's will wake up soon."
"And?"
"And this is the boys' dormitory."
"Oh yeah. Right." She slid her feet off the bed and sat up. "I'll see you for breakfast?"
"You know I never miss a meal, Lucy. Go."
"I'm gone, I'm gone." She tripped out through the door and away down the stairs.
Evan rolled over onto his back and lay for a moment, hands clasped behind his head. In the next bed, Ron Weasley gave a snort and twitched.
Oh well, Evan thought, glancing over. Time to start another day.
He hauled himself out of bed, aware of a persistent headache.
Something was different.
He couldn't say exactly what, but he knew something was different; something had changed.
Was he just imagining it, or was the light a little brighter, the colours more intense? Surely those old armchairs in the common room hadn't always been quite that brilliant a red.
And surely the early morning silence that held that huge room in thrall before its occupants were awake and about used to be more – well…silent.
But now, as he descended slowly, pulling a maroon wool sweater over his head, he was aware of a strange sort of whispering: a muttering: a murmuring: wind through the leaves in the heat of late summer.
He looked around him suspiciously, but nobody was there; wherever there might be. The murmuring seemed to have no defined source. "I don't suppose you can hear it, can you?" he asked Ptolemy wearily.
The cat looked back unblinking.
A sleepy, yawning Lucy – pretty in a pale pink tracksuit – was joining him.
He shook his head to clear it and smiled at her.
She collapsed into one of the strangely crimson armchairs without seeming to notice anything odd about it and smiled back. "Hallo. Feel like scrambled eggs yet?"
Ptolemy jumped into her lap and began stretching luxuriously while kneading at the rose-hued cotton.
"Not really. But I'll keep you company while drinking vast quantities of hot chocolate."
"Oh, well. That's all right then." She patted Ptolemy's furry back – the cat's head seemed to be buried somewhere underneath his belly – instigating a startlingly loud purring. Evan observed that only half of the cat (he couldn't tell if it was the front half or the back half) fitted on Lucy's diminutive lap. The rest of him was squashed up against the arm rest of the chair.
"Come on, then. The kitchen's nicer than up here, anyway."
Footsteps from the boys' staircase heralded an interloper, and they both turned around.
Ron Weasley ambled into the room, yawning hugely. "Hallo," he muttered. "You're up then?"
"No! Are we?"
Lucy laughed and stood, dislodging the furry orange mound. Ptolemy shook himself and looked insulted, and Lucy sauntered off towards the door.
Blimey…and she won't even give me the time of day…all wrapped up with Snape, the stuck up little git…
A retort flew instantly to Evan's lips, his emerald eyes darkened to obsidian and he opened his mouth to deliver it.
But it remained unsaid.
He suddenly realized that Ron's lips hadn't moved.
The unkind sentiment had been verbalized only inside Evan's mind.
He blinked.
"What?" said the red-haired boy awkwardly.
Evan turned around and without a word, walked past Lucy, climbed through the portal to the corridor beyond, marched along it to where there was a door he knew concealed a large broom closet and locked himself inside.
Now he knew exactly what it was that was odd about this morning.
He did eventually emerge, but only because – well, he was getting hungry. And because Lucy was threatening to sit outside the cupboard door until he did. She probably would have, too, he thought. She would have slept there if it came to that, and to hell with Filch.
"So?" she said as they walked side by side down to the Kitchen.
"So?" he replied artlessly.
"So, d'you want to tell me what all that was about?"
He sighed, and explained.
"Creepy," she observed. "Can you do it with anybody else? How about me? Can you do me? Wait…wait…tell me what I'm thinking now!"
"Lucy…"
"Shh! Concentrate."
She herself had closed her eyes very tightly and seemed to be focusing intently.
Evan opened his mouth to tell her not to be silly.
Hufflepuffs all wear yellow underwear.
"They do not!"
Lucy's mouth dropped open for a moment. How did you…wow! "Wow!" she echoed out loud. Then she grinned. "That's so cool!"
"Oh shut up. Let's go get something to eat."
"I thought you were having hot chocolate."
"That too."
True to his word, Evan drank two mugs of the steaming, sweet brew while he ate blueberry muffins and watched Lucy demolish a plate of last night's picnic leftovers. Ptolemy they treated to a dish of prime rump steak.
Then they huddled in front of the huge open fire, Evan wrapped his cloak around both of them, and the huge ginger animal purred like a tiger growling and stretched across their intertwined legs.
The House-Elves, by now completely used to these early-morning visits, completely ignored them.
Some time later, when the breakfast had gone up to the Great Hall, and Lucy had vetoed Evan's suggestion that they hitch a ride with the sausages, they made their way upstairs.
Upon entering the banquet hall, they passed Ron at the Gryffindor table, and he glared suspiciously in their direction. Lucy treated him to a stunning smile, and dragged Evan over to where Draco was wedged between two members of the Slytherin Quidditch team who were busily rehashing yesterday's game, morosely stirring a bowl of porridge and brown sugar.
He brightened slightly at their approach. Finally!
"You can't have been here that long, Draco. Breakfast has only just started," said Evan without thinking. Then he stopped and rolled his eyes in frustration. "Merlin!" he cried. "I'm going back to my broom cupboard and I think I'll stay there all day!"
He didn't, however, get the chance to make his dignified exit. Lucy snagged the back of his collar as he spun on his heel, and he nearly fell over.
"What the…" said Draco.
Quite understandably, Lucy thought. "Come on and we'll collect Hermione," she said out loud. "Then we'll all go to his broom closet and we'll tell you both there where it's private." Then, with a meaningful glance at her friend. "Something tells me Evan would like a bit of quiet today."
"But…" said Draco, gesturing to his breakfast.
"Bring it," Lucy ordered.
So the young Slytherin obediently squeezed out from between the two thugs, grabbed his porridge bowl and followed Lucy back to the Gryffindor table.
And so he told his tale yet again, squashed – pleasantly crowded, Lucy said – in the broom closet with his three friends.
He told of following a man – he knew now it was Lupin – into the forest, worried he might be sick. He explained how he was stunned, how he found his way to a bizarre place called the crossroads; the crossroads between waking and dreaming, death and…something else. How he had called from her dreams the dragon whose heartstrings formed the core of both his and Lucy's wand, and how she had told him that he must be special. Truly special, she had said, because he was a Dreamer with the power to delve into a person's innermost mind.
"I thought," he concluded finally and miserably, "That she just meant when I wanted to. Not every minute of every bloody day. This year is going to be a nightmare!"
"Why now?" Draco wanted to know.
He shrugged. "Perhaps because…I'm…aware of my…talent now?"
"I've never heard of this, not in anything I've read!" said Hermione breathlessly.
Evan and Lucy exchanged looks. "Well," said Lucy diplomatically. "The dragon-lady did say it was rare." She seemed to suddenly think of something and asked, "Evan, do you think my wand's always going to hum like that when you're in trouble? Because it could get tricky if we're in a battle together and you get hit and I'm trying to, like, throw some hexes around."
Three pairs of eyes gazed at her.
"Why would you be in a battle?" Draco asked.
"Um," said Evan thoughtfully, gazing at his wand. "We should work on that."
They had no sooner emerged than Oliver Wood came bouncing up. "There you are!" he beamed.
"Yes," said Evan. "You've found me. Now you hide and I'll try to find you."
"If he's even tempted to try," Lucy added sweetly.
Wood ignored her. "So, Evan," he said. "The last thing we want to do is get slack, so I think the team should keep up with our training while we're at school. I mean, not everybody will be able to practice over the Christmas holidays and…"
"Wood," said Evan in disbelief. "We've got some of the worst ever snow-storms moving in. Nobody's going to be training over the Christmas holidays!"
"Well, all the more reason to practice now."
This was unanswerable, and Evan sighed glumly. "Lead the way."
The team was waiting for them, five lonely figures huddled in the middle of the Quiddich field.
"Bea's got something to say," said Alicia Spinnet briefly.
"I'm quitting the team," said the girl. "There's a chess tournament starting up, and I'd rather do that. After all, there is something to be said for brains over brawn."
Wood opened his mouth, closed it again and glared suspiciously at the younger of his two beaters. "Did you have anything to do with this?"
"I…uh…might have mentioned it a few times."
"To Percy Weasley? Yes…he told me he got the idea from you."
Evan gave her a withering look.
"Oh great. That's just great. Sabotaged by my own team!"
"I really don't think that…"
"What are we supposed to do now?"
"Well…Lucy could take her place?"
"Another first year? They'll laugh at us!"
"They weren't laughing yesterday, were they?" Evan retorted, quite reasonably, he thought.
It was Wood's turn to give a nasty look. "Oh, all right. Go and get her, and we'll try her out. But I'm only doing this because you recommended her, and you're so good."
"My blushes, Oliver," Evan murmured. He prodded Ptolemy with his foot. "Go get Lucy," he ordered. The cat stared haughtily at him. "Go on. Make yourself useful."
Fine, the cat's ears seemed to say. He trotted off.
Evan looked back at his team. Eyebrows were raised. "What?"
"Oh, never mind. Let's get started."
It wasn't until he was a good fifty feet in the air that it happened. His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a split second, he thought he was going to fall. He gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and knees. He'd never felt anything like that.
It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off. Evan tried to descend – and then he realised that his broom was completely out of control. He couldn't turn it. He couldn't direct it at al. It was zig-zagging through the air and every now and then making violent swishing movements which almost unseated him.
"What the hell does Evan think he's doing?" Wood asked concernedly, squinting up at his Beater. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he's lost control of his broom, but he can't have…"
They were all staring now, as the Nimbus slowly began carrying Evan higher and higher, jerking and twitching as it went.
Suddenly, there was a squeal from Lucy. She had just followed Ptolemy onto the pitch and was running towards the group as fast as she could, gazing with horror at her friend. Evan's broom was rolling over and over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then it gave a wild jerk, and Evan swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only his left hand.
"That broom's been tampered with!" Wood bellowed, turning slightly red in the face, and glaring ferociously around the pitch as though expecting to see the culprits hiding behind the goalposts.
"Nothing can interfere with a broomstick," Lucy said impatiently, some distance below him on the ground. "Nothing but powerful Dark magic, anyway."
Fred Weasley had flown higher – seemed to be trying to pull Evan to safety on his own broom, but it was no good – every time he got near, Evan's disobedient broom jumped higher still. He dropped lower and, with Wood, circled below, obviously hoping to catch him if – when – he fell.
The broom was now shaking so hard, it was almost impossible for Evan to hang on much longer.
"What's he doing?" Lucy asked suddenly.
Evan had shaken his wand from his sleeve and was brandishing it awkwardly. He was so far up now she almost couldn't hear what he shouted so fiercely, but her ears just caught it: "Accio!"
Like a rocket, Alicia Spinnet's broom shot out of her hand and straight up in the air towards the dangling boy.
It was with him, ready, in a heartbeat. Before his own broom could dodge away it was close enough to his hand to grab it. And he did grab it. His wand disappeared back into his sleeve, his strong fingers closed around the other broom's steady handle and quick as the blink of an eye he was astride it and was speeding towards the ground. His jinxed – for it must have been jinxed – broomstick hung forgotten in the air above him. Hung as though surprised for a few seconds, and then as Evan's feet hit the ground and he quickly dismounted, and as Lucy ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, it dropped rigid and wooded from the sky, landing about six yards from where he was standing.
"Well," he remarked. "That was interesting."
"What the HELL was that about, Snape?" Wood demanded hotly. His face, Evan noticed with some interest, was still rather red.
"I think," he said thoughtfully. "Somebody's trying to kill me."
It was, as Lucy told him later, a bit of a conversation stopper.
"Not much of a practice stopper though," Evan pointed out. "The temperature of Hell has not yet fallen below zero. Oliver Wood has not changed his mind about a Quiddich practice session."
"I don't know what you're complaining about. He didn't make you get back on the broom."
"I'll have to eventually, though," Evan replied glumly.
"You're not scared are you?"
"No. Just fed up. Why would anybody want to kill me?"
"Maybe it's a jealous seventh-year."
"Lucy…"
"Could even be Flint and his squadron. You certainly pissed them off enough."
"We pissed them off enough. And I seriously doubt a couple of moronic school kids have the power or the knowledge to jinx a broom."
"All right then. So it's a teacher? Lupin?"
Evan treated her to a withering look.
"Well, he's a werewolf. Maybe he switched his own potion."
"I'm…not even going to think about that one."
"No?"
"Well, for starters, what on earth have I ever done to Professor Lupin?"
"He might just hate kids."
"Lucy."
"All right. Bad idea."
A little silence fell.
Lucy sighed, and Evan sighed, and they sat together, staring out of the window, holding hands for comfort.
Much, much, later, Evan had made up his mind.
Not to write to his father or mother; that would get him hauled out of school so fast it'd be like flying through a time warp.
Not to get his excitable Godfather involved. Such was Regulus's terror of Lord Voldemort that he had never completely been convinced that the man had gone for good, and tended to suppose that any event even slightly out of the usual heralded the second coming.
No. It had occurred to Evan, over his chicken casserole at dinner that night, that he potentially had a much more valuable source of information.
"Hypothetically," he said to Lucy, helping himself to some more potatoes, "If I wanted to get my hands on some Draught of Living Death, how d'you think I'd do it?"
Lucy had already started on desert, and serenely licked chocolate icecream from her fingers as she considered the question. "Lupin's private stores?"
"Why would Lupin have that handy?"
"So, we steal the ingredients and we bloody make it ourselves," she shrugged. "We can do it. And I bet there's a formula in one of those super-advanced books you brought from home."
"Hmm…yes. It's an O.W.L potion, so I think – I'm sure that it's in Advanced Potions."
"Well then." She paused. "We'll need a distraction."
"Oh, that's easy."
"It is?"
"Sure. Lupin's head of Slytherin, remember?"
"Poor sod."
"We'll get Draco to start a fight, is all."
Lucy paused, an impressive frozen spoonful halfway to her mouth. "Poor sod," she said finally, with considerably greater feeling.
Young Mr. Malfoy, it so happened, was surprisingly happy to help the scheming duo out. Evan suspected this was largely due to the impressive arsenal of spells and hexes he seemed to have accumulated from a battered old copy of For Enemies that Evan had loaned him, previously owned, and considerably added to, by Dr. Severus Snape.
He seemed to be looking forward to trying a few of them out.
Hermione flicked through the book without comment, but she looked worriedly at Draco and her lips pursed very tight together.
"I don't think she entirely approves," Lucy remarked, as they waited for the ruckus to start, and Lupin to come running out of his office, where he seemed to be grading papers.
"Hermione doesn't approve of a lot of things," Evan replied, correctly interpreting his friend's remark.
"But…oh. Here we go!"
"Professor Lupin!"
It was Pansy Parkinson, her eyes wide. "Professor Lupin, you've got to come quickly!"
"Again?" This, from Lupin.
The girl nodded miserably. "Somebody enchanted the furniture and the armchairs are beating up Flint and his gang."
"Nice," Evan whispered. "That's the Locomodus Enchantment, I think."
"One of your Dad's?"
He nodded. "I tried it myself, actually, after I got my wand."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Only I was at my Aunt and Uncle's at the time. She threw a fit when she came in and the dining-room chairs were chasing Neville around the room."
"Why were they doing that?"
"He broke my Potion's kit I had let him borrow."
"Ah."
They were silent as they watched Pansy and Lupin disappear along the dungeon corridor towards the Slytherin common room.
"All clear then," Lucy observed.
Evan glanced down at his patient feline companion, sitting at his feet, erect and motionless as a twenty-pound butter sculpture. "You keep watch," he said. "And if you hear Lupin coming back…" he paused and seemed to steel himself for something unpleasant but nevertheless necessary before finishing, "slow him down."
"Ouch!" Lucy remarked in quick sympathy, and Evan wryly grimaced, hoping for the sake of their professor's ankles that they had well finished before he made his return.
They brewed the potion in an abandoned classroom. Evan, thinking how useful it would be, was practicing Confundus charms, hoping to eventually be able to charm whatever room he and Lucy were using for their private time or special projects so anybody looking for them would be unable to quite find the spot. In the meantime, they both charmed the door locked and placed Muffulato charms before igniting a small portable fire on the scratched surface of a dusty desk.
"St. Patrick's Blaze," Evan remarked, beginning to prepare the first few ingredients. "That's what they're called, the fires we use in potions. And here. Gives heat only to what's above it."
"You know a lot," Lucy remarked, setting up her scales.
"I read a lot," Evan replied.
The Draught of Living Death does not take a long time to make, which is presumably why it was selected for use in the O.W.L. examinations. The ingredient list is long and pedantic, the timing critical to a second, but the potion itself takes only a few hours. Less, actually, for the young Gryffindors that night in that old classroom, for they were using an adapted formula his father had scrawled in the margins long ago. Probably when he was studying for his own O.W.Ls (best ever potions results in Hogwarts' history, Lily had told them once).
Lucy; dear, dear friend that she was, had not asked a single question regarding his sudden desire for such a potion. She had merely asked perhaps a very little plaintively whether they could also steal the ingredients for some Polyjuice potion, "since we're here, Evan," claiming that the resulting potion would be a lot more fun than the one they were actually intending to concoct.
"That formula," Evan had said, grinning, "I don't have handy."
Now, as they watched their efforts bubble and steam and change colour, Evan wondered – not for the first time – why he hadn't simply got somebody to stun him again. And the answer came to him – not for the first time – that he just preferred it this way. He honestly couldn't say why.
When the contents of their cauldron finally turned an exceptionally stunning shade of green, Lucy extinguished her "St. Patrick's Blaze", and Evan carefully bottled the liquid.
They cleared up, put their equipment away, wrapped any left-over ingredients that could be used again in damp paper and stowed the package in Evan's bag, binned the rest, took down the charms and – after peering out cautiously to make sure the coast was clear, poked Ptolemy awake and scurried back to Gryffindor tower.
Alone – if being surrounded by four snoring young boys could be called alone – in his dormitory, Evan slowly changed into his pajamas, not taking his brilliant green eyes from the equally brilliant potion in the glass bottle on his bedside table. He crawled between the sheets, pulled the curtains around his bed firmly closed and warded them as best he could. Although, remembering as he did suddenly, that strange shield that had protected him as he slept last time, these basic (at best) spells might be unnecessary.
He shrugged to himself, though, and left them as they were. Then he measured a tiny amount into a little medicine glass. Enough to last a few hours – three or four, most likely. And if he woke up then, and couldn't get back to sleep? Well…he had plenty of books to read.
He drank it down.
And almost instantly, everything went black.
When Evan opened his eyes, at first he thought he hadn't. The darkness pressing in around him was absolute. He held a hand up, right in front of his nose, but he couldn't make out so much as an outline. It was somehow thick and suffocating as well, although how light – or lack there of – could be suffocating he wasn't entirely sure. Possible or not, however, it was difficult to breathe, and his chest felt impossibly heavy. He dropped his hand back to his side, wondering briefly if he was upright or lying down, and waited for something to happen.
It felt like hours. It felt like seconds. It felt like an eternity, and it felt like no time at all. Then the darkness and the heaviness both began to roll away from him and he was floating – just floating – in thick silvery mist.
Without warning, his feet hit solid ground. There was nothing to do except to walk, and hope, so he walked and he hoped, hands stretched in front of him, pale shadows in the fog.
Ouch! He had hit something solid. It was, of all things, a lantern-post. He stared up at it as one gazes at an old friend one has not seen for years and perhaps expected never to see again, and as he did it began to glow. The mist drained away like water down a bath plug, and slowly Evan rotated where he stood.
The first thing he noticed was that it was not at all the same as the last time he had been here. Certainly, he was standing beside a lamp-post – just like last time. Only the light it cast seemed to be so much brighter – almost like sunlight in summer – and it was warm like summer too. As he took a few tentative steps, the sound beneath his feet was the rustle of fresh grass, not the crunch of icy snow, and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of rose blossom. Above him, the sky was a bright and brilliant blue.
Although there was no fence, a gate made of what looked like gold swung lazily in a white marble archway behind him, through which he had come. As he watched, its latch finally caught and it shut soundlessly. Opposite there was another golden gate in another white marble arch. And another and another, opposite each other, right-angled to the other two. All the latches were fastened.
I'm back.
He looked again at the lantern and the bench, and then, disbelievingly, at the scene before him.
The lawn, smooth and soft as velvet spread out like a green cloth from his feet, sprinkled liberally with bright yellow buttercups. Thriving in a tangled hedge between – and creeping and catching at – the stone archways were the fragrant white briar-roses he could smell. And standing neatly beside the bench, there was a little wooden table covered with a white lace cloth, upon which stood a white china teapot, jug and sugar bowl, along with a matching plate of what looked remarkably like coconut macaroons and a lazily steaming teacup.
Sitting beside it on the bench, long slim legs crossed at the ankles and tucked underneath the seat was a girl.
She was sitting very straight. Ramrod straight, her spine stiff and chin lifted, but with her back to him. Her hands seemed to be folded in her lap and she was staring, just staring, at nothing.
At that exact second, before he could take in another detail, she whipped around and stared at him with huge, melting eyes that very deep and liquid purple colour most people would call violet. Her coral pink lips formed a tiny little 'oh' of surprise in her delicate face. Her skin was a beautiful, glowing, honey colour – like the petals of a pale gold orchid.
But most remarkable was her hair; flowing down to the bottom of her spine in a smooth, shiny cascade like a waterfall of coin-gold silk, held only by a pale blue ribbon worn Alice-in-Wonderland style.
She wore a starched cotton dress with little puffed sleeves edged with white lace; it was the same colour as the ribbon, and barely reached halfway down her thighs. Her legs and feet were bare.
He thought she looked about thirteen or fourteen.
"Hello," she said in a low, sweet voice. Somehow, he had expected that her voice would be low and sweet. "Evan, isn't it? Evan Snape."
"Yes," he said. "How did you know?"
"I must say," she said, "I wasn't expecting you. "This…this changes things…"
"Pardon?"
He had a feeling she was talking more to herself than to him. "Who are you?" he asked.
There was a little silence. "Amelia Earnshaw," she said finally, seeming to come out of a little trance and smiling at him with perfectly even, very white teeth. "Well, as you're here, won't you join me for a cup of tea?"
She sat down again, crossed her legs at the ankles and tucked them under the seat, then reached towards the table. Her hands were very narrow, her fingers very long, and her nails perfect.
He glanced again at the table, and realised a second cup had appeared beside the first. "Milk and sugar?" she asked politely.
"Both. Please," he replied, almost forgetting his manners.
There was another little silence as she poured a splash of creamy milk into the bottom of the cup, set the jug back down and lifted the teapot.
He accepted his cup, once she had added two lumps of sugar, along with a macaroon. "Is this…real?"
"Well…no. You see it smells like tea, tastes like tea, feels like tea…"
He took a small sip. She was right.
"…but it doesn't quench thirst. And that biscuit won't satisfy your hunger. That's because you don't get thirsty here. Or hungry. I…" a distant, sad look came into her eyes. "…have forgotten what it feels like to be hungry."
"So…you're not like me."
"A Dreamer, you mean? Oh yes. I am a Dreamer. Just like you. But I didn't find that out until after…"
"After?"
She fixed him with those bottomless eyes. "I'm dead, Evan. I was murdered when I was fourteen."
He opened his mouth, closed it again. "Oh…" he managed. "I'm…sorry."
She shrugged. "It certainly isn't your fault."
"So that's when you came here?"
"Yes."
"A Dragon told me Dreamers don't actually die," he confided. "Not until they want to."
She nodded. "That is true."
"I actually came here hoping to meet her again. Do you know where she is?"
Amelia looked thoughtful. "Does she have a name?"
Evan shook his head. "I don't think so. Do Dragons usually have names?"
"Sometimes. Well. Dragons know their way around our world better than other creatures. She probably isn't lost. If you called her here, and she hasn't come, she's either awake or dead."
"Oh. Well…I hope she isn't. Dead, I mean. Is there any way to find out?"
"Mm…once you've got a connection to somebody, it's quite easy to get into their heads."
"I keep hearing people's thoughts," Evan confided a little miserably. "And I don't want to!"
"Really? How remarkable!" She seemed genuinely thrilled. "All their thoughts, or just those directed at you?"
"Just those about – to – me."
"Ah."
"So…what about the dragon?"
"Forget her," said Amelia briskly. "You're here for answers, right? I can give you answers, as long as you answer a few questions of mine."
"I can do that," Evan asked slowly. "But I don't know about forgetting her. What if she's…"
"When did you last see her?"
"Uh…last night."
"No Dragons have died since then. I would have seen."
"Seen?"
"The souls of the dead come through here before they truly cross over. Something you can learn later is how to intervene." She smiled faintly as though at a private joke.
"We can do that?"
"Well…it takes practice, but yes. We can do that, if we want. The souls we retrieve can stay here, or in there." She gestured with her cup towards the fourth gate; the gate that led not to The Waking, or The Dreaming, and not to Death, but on Evan's last visit, had remained unmarked.
"What's there? Besides dead people."
"I'll show you some time," she promised. "Right now, I can sense that whatever you drank to bring you here is beginning to wear off. Finish your tea and your biscuit quickly. It will soon be time for you to wake up."
Evan nibbled his macaroon, which tasted exactly like one would expect a macaroon to taste like, and forced himself to be content. Momentarily, as Amelia had predicted, he felt a familiar tug from behind his naval.
It was time to go.
Very early morning.
Once again the room was almost completely dark, once again lit only by a silver dagger of dawn slicing between heavy curtains and across a cluttered desk.
Once again it fell on the man's hands, clasped pathetically and resting on a sheet of close-written parchment, and once again he stared unseeing at them.
The voice was back. "So you failed again," it said. Then surprising, and cryptically, "But that's all right. Things…things have changed."
"They have?" he asked hesitantly, numb with relief, scarcely daring to believe his good luck.
"Oh yes," said the voice. "I have plans for the boy, you know."
"You do?"
"Mm. Shall I tell you?"
"I…" he was lost for words.
"I'm going to turn him into a monster."
She was waiting for Evan when he stepped through the archway that night. This time, her bright hair was braided in a French plait and secured by an ornamental blue silk butterfly. Her dress was white and lacy. He noticed that the climbing roses had gone, replaced by cherry trees in blossom.
She smiled a greeting and rose gracefully to her feet. "Hello Evan; welcome back."
"Um…hi, Amelia."
"I want you to meet somebody. A friend of mine, from when we were both alive. He survived me, but he's dead now. I caught him before he crossed over, and he's in there…" she nodded at the fourth archway, the unmarked archway. "…right now. He was a lot older when it happened, but he prefers to be, well. You'll see."
"You were going to tell me what else is in there," Evan remarked, following her as she began walking towards the gate. "Besides dead people."
"In there, Evan, is the collective wisdom of the world."
"What?"
"Everything that anybody has ever thought or dreamed or discovered, it's all in here."
The gate swung open at their approach, and she stepped through without hesitating.
Evan followed.
It was a library. Well, of course it is. All cast in carved, smooth white marble. A library.
A big library. A huge library. A simply enormous library. There were simply no words to describe its vastness. As far his sharp eyes could make out – farther, oh! Much father – before him, to his left, to his right, were shelves. Shelves filled with books. Shelves without end, and – he looked up – shelves without tops.
Near them was a large, solid desk, made of what looked like ebony. Scattered over its surface were sheets of paper, filled with close handwriting. Stacked neatly in one corner were several books with bright covers. There was no lantern; it was bright enough to do without (did night ever fall here? Did winter ever come unless they wanted it to?).
A leather chair was drawn up to the desk, and in it sat a boy – a youth. He held in his long white hand a luxury Eagle-feather quill, and as Evan watched, he left off tapping it aimlessly on the nearby paper and dipped it into a small gold inkpot. Then he placed the forefinger of his other hand on a line of the text from the book he was looking at, and frowning in concentration began to copy it down.
Amelia cleared her throat.
The boy stopped writing and looked up. For a moment he was perfectly still, then he methodically placed his quill sideways on top of the inkpot and slowly rose to his feet. "You must be Evan," he said lightly.
He had a firm, square jaw and was rather pale. He was taller than Evan, and probably quite a bit older, but his hair was jet black, like Evan's. His eyes were dark brown and his gaze intelligent and serious.
"Um..." Evan took a couple of steps closer and put out his hand. "Yes. Yes I am."
The boy grasped it with his own. "Pleased to meet you," he said. "I'm Tom. Tom Riddle."
End.