Title: A NOI SI SCHIUDE IL CIEL
Summary: No one would describe Severus Snape as tolerant, Stern, brilliant or perpetually dyspeptic, perhaps. But not tolerant. And definitely never right when it comes to anything to do with Harry Potter. SLASH.
Author: E. K. Stanton.
Rating: PG-13
E-mail: e_k_stanton@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Random Shakespeare allusions are unaccredited, but if you wish them all pointing out, e-mail us at the above address and we would be happy to oblige.
A/N: E. K. Stanton is the pen-name for two currently archived authors on fanfiction.net (and elsewhere) who wish to remain anonymous at this present time. The anonymity is of a desire for judgement to be based on the content and value of the fanfiction, and not on any previous infamy or lack thereof.
Fic takes place during "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets."
-----
PART ONE
"Cry havoc..."
-----
No one would describe Severus Snape as tolerant. Stern, yes. Brilliant, perhaps. Dyspeptic, probably. Nothing on the positive side, such as tolerant, or nice, or even tolerable.
Tolerance was not one of Severus Snape's top personality traits, and Potter tried these limits to their threshold on an almost impossibly regular basis. Rule breaking, meddling with arts and ideas that he had no concern for, apathy in the classrooms, skimming through lessons that he had the full capability for brilliance in, all these and more thoroughly pissed him off.
So when Potter got caught out very publicly with his peculiar idiocies, Severus tried his very best to get Potter fairly tried and condemned for his thoughtless rule breaking. However many times he campaigned for this, though, Potter always got off lightly. One of these days, Potter would try a stunt that ought to get him killed, and probably would. His name would disappear from the lips of wizards all over the world, and just be one of those names mentioned fleetingly in a History of Magic lesson and just as fleetingly forgotten by the students.
In this case, though, Potter was guilty. Of that much he was certain. Everything that went wrong around Hogwarts, however minutely, seemed to be able to be linked directly to Potter, and however many times he voiced his suspicions, it was always put down to the tentative and downright explosive rapport between himself and the infamous Marauders. Guilty for what, though. Aye, there's the rub, Snape thought dazedly.
Well, this time, Potter couldn't get out of this so easily. Filch sobbed again, loudly, hugging the stiff form of Mrs. Norris to his cheek, and to the disbelief of Severus' own eyes it looked as if the fragile, weathered caretaker was going to collapse into a pile of dust. More years ago than Severus would care to admit, he might have been surprised, but over the years the wonders or magic dulled, leaving him with a bland acceptance of both the mundane and the supernatural.
Potter was guilty. He may not have Petrified the cat, but there was no logical reason for him to be in the corridor at all. The rest of the students had been at the Halloween feast, and while it was Nick's 500th deathday, Severus couldn't think of a fathomable thing that would make a child, and a twelve year old child at that, want to visit one of those overly dull affairs.
Then again, Potter had always been a martyr for some cause or other. He was probably championing the cause for ghosts who hadn't been properly decapitated, or for those ghosts that wallowed in their own perpetual season of discontent.
Severus opened his mouth to make some suitably sarcastic comment, and hide the smirk threatening to cross his face from a combination of his own acerbic thoughts and the expression on Potter, Granger and the youngest Weasley boy's faces, but was abruptly stopped. He snapped his mouth shut in complete bafflement as, somehow, seemingly from out of nowhere, Potter was abruptly slammed into the wall face forwards. The Potter boy collapsed in a moaning heap with a cloud of dust against the walls covered with shocked images of Lockhart.
Only something appeared to be different.
The Granger girl shrieked, running forward at the same time, and Severus watched it all like it was in slow motion. Something was wrong with this scenario, completely and utterly wrong, and it wasn't even anything to do with the fact that Potter had just escaped a good and just rollicking from the happy powers that could expel him at will.
To his side, Professor McGonagall gasped. With good reason, Severus thought in a daze. Belatedly pulling out his wand, he looked on slowly as the Weasley boy and Dumbledore helped Potter to his feet.
Potter looked shaken, bruised and pleasingly bloody; but he also looked a good ten years older, and was clad in what looked alarmingly close to the night-ops gear of the Unspeakables.
Something was most definitely wrong.
-----
Feeling his breath whoosh out of him in a great rush of air, Potter felt rather than saw the world explode around him in an impressive outburst of stars. Ringing was heavy in his ears, and he could still feel the heavy hands on his shoulders, pushing him into the whirl of colours that the device had emitted.
Feeling hands light on his shoulder in worry, he screwed up his face, ignoring the flashes of pain that cried for attention from every part of his body. The wizards who had gotten too close had let out energy blasts that had obviously hit him more often than he'd thought.
Dizzy and bewildered, he pulled himself to his feet, turning around. The world exploded again, in a blur of colour and sounds. He could feel the glasses on his face, the frames heavy and irritating behind his ears, but the world was a blotch of bright colours and vague shapes. He was faintly aware of the hiss of magic, some muttered words that sounded almost as if Hermione had said them, and he felt a brief curl of longing as the world started to make sense again.
If sense was that Neville Longbottom had suddenly become an expert at Potions, Albus Dumbledore had given up sugar permanently and Draco Malfoy had just used a telephone and started talking to Vernon Dursley about the latest episode of "Amdani."
Blinking furiously, Potter counted who was there automatically. Professor Sprout, Professor McGonagall, Lockhart, Flitwick, Dumbledore, a very young Ron Weasley, an equally young Hermione Granger, and Snape. Mind working furiously, he tried to remember what situation had been like this one in his past. Hermione and Ron looked to be about eleven, twelve, or perhaps even thirteen…
Mind working on overload, Potter whirled around to check the only answer that came to mind.
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.
"Dammit!"
Pushing past the startled occupants of Lockhart's room, and hearing Lockhart's disturbingly high-pitched thin, reedy voice proclaiming that he'd obviously run into an 'aging cloud, happens all the time in Rampabedagau', Potter broke into a run. Clattering indicated he was being followed, and Potter could hear Snape's footfalls above all the rest. In his second year at Hogwarts, Snape was still a surly so-and-so, and Potter was keen to stay out of the way until he could have a proper chat with the truculent Potions master.
Pounding up the corridors, Potter reached the crossroad of corridors where the written-in-blood message brazenly blazed across the walls.
Enemies of the heir, beware!
-----
"Malfoy!"
Slowing, forcing his breathing to be light, Snape rested one hand on his hip as
he watched Potter yell out Malfoy's surname, his voice brusque and loud and
commanding.
"MALFOY!"
Looking up, he saw Potter glance over at him, as he himself was slowly being flanked by the other people from the office. Lockhart came up last, walking slowly with a grin on his reddened face, and he pushed past a fuming Snape to walk over to Potter.
"Ah, dear boy, don't worry. I'll get you to your right age in no time," Lockhart announced, showing too many teeth and flicking out his wand with a flourish. Potter shot him an annoyed look, before lashing out with his elbow and smacking Lockhart right in the face. Several teeth fell to the floor followed by Lockhart in a heap of ostentatious gold-coloured robes.
"Sorry," Potter said, not sounding sorry whatsoever. "Guess you won't be winning any awards for your smile any time soon."
Snape resisted the sudden urge that welled up
inside of him. It wasn't often he
got the compulsion to laugh, and now was not appropriate.
Potter looked as if he'd done some very dark magic.
Expulsion could be the least of Potter's problems…
"Malfoy!"
Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Potter reached inside the tight black sleeve of his jumper, pulling out his wand in preparation to do some other expulsion-gaining black spell, but put it down as another man skidded into the area.
Blond, tall, clad in the same tight black uniform as Potter, it took Snape a few seconds to realise that this twenty-odd year old with sarcastic ash-grey eyes was none other than Draco Malfoy. Malfoy had a scar running down his cheek that looked quite old, and another above his right eye which looked a lot fresher.
"Sir, yes sir," Malfoy snapped, coming to attention, his voice as brisk as Potter's had been.
"You seen Milly, Thomas or Finnigan?"
"No sir." Malfoy edged a glance at the professors and students mutely watching them in astonishment, and then looked down at Lockhart. A grin crossed his face. "I haven't seen them sir," he added, obviously quelling the urge to laugh.
"Oh, well." Potter looked at the wall, resignedly. "I guess we'd better get this over with, then."
"Get what over with?" McGonagall managed, before Malfoy flung his arm up. A jet of purple bubbles lurched forwards from the tip of his wand, before solidifying into a sort of barrier, which Snape recognised as a seventh year defence Charm.
"You ready, Potter?" Malfoy moved over to Potter with all the grace of a panther stalking his prey, lighter on his feet than Snape could ever have imagined possible. Malfoy rested his hand briefly on Potter's shoulder, a gesture which did not go unnoticed. Potter looked back, eyes burning, his lightning-bolt scar never seeming more prominent than in that moment. It seemed to literally burn, a pulsating crimson, clashing with the dark green of Potter's heated gaze. Snape very abruptly hoped he would never be at the receiving end of one of those glares. Potter wasn't just guilty in whatever this palaver was, he was dangerous. Snape knew Potter had always had that quality within him, but had never believed Potter would ever have the gumption or tenacity to go through the difficult training necessary to pull that characteristic into prominence.
"Never readier." Potter smiled, a flash of white teeth, before turning back to the blood-streaked wall. Malfoy lifted up his wand in readiness, and Potter opened his mouth to speak, but instead of English the sibilant hissing syllables of Parseltongue came sliding out of his mouth. Snape shivered. Hearing those words, with the chilling sensation accompanying them, always gave him bad memories. Remembering he-who-shall-not-be-named speaking those heady and dark syllables, watching the melodic lilts of the language bend snakes to his will in seconds , was something Snape did not like to remember. It was something he remembered now, in an abrasive flash of memories, of his initiation ceremony, of the writhing floor of snakes they'd stood in that night, knowing their lives were truly in their Master's grasp. Knowing then in that moment that you could never be free, you could never get away from the Dark Lord...
With a renewed, trembling fear, Snape kept his gaze on the spectacle, feeling Minerva's hand grip his arm in blind panic. Several people inhaled sharply as the giant snake broke through the wall, fangs bared.
Snape recalled enough of his Care of Magical Creatures lessons to identify the giant snake as a Basilisk, before Malfoy and Potter both slashed their wands in the air, and it dropped lifelessly to the ground. Only part of its body had crashed through the wall, and the thing must have been huge.
Potter paused at the carcass, and used his wand to pull out one of the fangs. Delicately wrapping it in a cloth yanked from his pocket, Potter nodded at Malfoy.
"They used a time distortion Charm," Dumbledore breathed.
Tearing his gaze away from Potter and Malfoy, Snape jerked his gaze over to the headmaster. Dumbledore looked suddenly and amazingly abashed at the attention.
"Sorry, I was thinking out loud," Dumbledore apologised. "A time distortion Charm. It's in the works now, at the Department of Mysteries. Sort of a bigger version of the Time Turner." He frowned. "But recent reports have labelled it impossible."
Half-expecting Lockhart to come up with a quip
on how he of course knew how it was done, only he was too busy saving a
village full of people from a vampire, or werewolf, or telesales operator, Snape
remembered Lockhart wasn't in such a state to be able to do such a thing.
Feeling slightly better, Snape quirked a look back to the dead Basilisk
and the older Potter and Malfoy.
"It would appear it's not as impossible as we currently think," Snape said
acidly. "May I suggest that the
children should go back to their dormitories until further notice?"
The Granger girl immediately nodded and flushed slightly, in mortification that she hadn't thought of that rule flouting beforehand, but the Weasley boy - Richard? Reginald? There was so many Weasleys, Snape could never really remember unless he checked it on the register beforehand - was flushing red to his ears.
"Oh, yes, the children should," Professor Sprout enthused, tearing her gaze away from the corpse of the Basilisk. A thick purple-ish liquid was seeping out from under the reptile's carcass, and she blanched. The Weasley boy flushed even more as, reluctantly, he let himself be led away to his dormitory.
"I- I'll take Gilderoy to the infirmary," Flitwick offered, after a meaningful glance from McGonagall, whipping out his wand and levitating the unconscious Lockhart in front of him, trundling away up the corridor with Lockhart floating idly before him.
McGonagall looked at Snape pointedly, and he glared back, immovable. She sighed, in that instant looking more fatigued than Snape had seen her recently.
Snape tuned into what was being said as McGonagall moved off, muttering something about getting the entire school off to bed in time to hear Malfoy say: "But what about the diary?"
"The diary will wait," Potter said
dismissively, looking across at Snape. "I
think, perhaps, explanations may be in order."
He stalked forwards, arms folded over his chest, all fire and candour and
bitterness, and looked almost as if whatever he'd been through, he'd been at
the edge of all hope. Potter lifted
his gaze up, and instead of looking at Dumbledore seemed to be looking straight
at Snape. "We used a time
replacement Charm. It was developed
in the early months of oh-five, possibly oh-six, using the same formulas as the
abandoned time distortion paperwork. The
theory was correct, it was only a matter of application."
"And then it was just a matter of morals," Malfoy said, smoothly taking over
the narrative from Potter. "Should
you even take the chance of using it? What
if you did something worse that made the future even more dreadful than it would
if we'd left it alone? The
Ministry of Magic decreed it should only be used in a dire emergency."
"Which is why you're here, I presume," Professor Dumbledore said, looking
grave and old but bright with a sudden hope.
The sudden hope that clenched like a fist in Snape's stomach.
Potter and Malfoy had come from a future where humanity was on the brink
of destruction by he-who-shall-not-be-named, and with their knowledge of his
tactics… This was the first
glimmer of victory that Snape had felt since his deferral to Dumbledore's side
during the war.
Potter turned his gaze away from Snape, almost burning a hole in the wall with his furiously saddened glare. "We were losing." His fists were clenched by his sides, trembling, and Potter didn't move even as Malfoy held comfortingly onto Potter's elbow. "So many died… Needlessly…" He turned to Dumbledore, almost pleading, which set Snape's suspicions going again. Why was Potter acting as if he were a merchant, trying to peddle his wares? "We need to stop Voldemort, Albus. Else our whole world will be lost. And we need to stop him now."
Snape looked over at the headmaster. Dumbledore's eyes were dark and unreadable, and the normally jovial man was replaced by a simmering person ready to fight for his beliefs right up until the end. Finally Dumbledore looked up, hope shining on his face amidst a deep-rooted fear that Snape sympathised with. "What do we need to know?"
As Potter began to outline his plan, Severus may have been able to believe it, if it hadn't been for one thing, that he presumed wasn't meant to be seen. Furiously telling himself that he had imagined it, that it was his rather inherent dislike of Potter that made him imagine these things, it still didn't stop the image cropping up in his dreams later that night: that of Malfoy sharing a brief smirk with a battle-wearied Potter before Potter began outlining the plan.
They were hiding something, and Severus doubted it was for any good outcome.
-----
Ginny looked up at the same time as everyone else did, as the portrait slid open and three familiar figures climbed through: a very shocked looking Hermione, a stunned Ron and a pale, overwrought McGonagall. Ron and Hermione edged a worried glance at McGonagall before moving over and sitting near Ginny.
McGonagall seemed to look heavily at Ron and Hermione, one of those glances marred by a stern edge that framed the accompanying sadness. She swept away without saying another word, but her expression said everything.
Something was going on.
Something big.
And whatever it was, Ron and Hermione knew what was going on.
As the portrait slammed closed, Ginny was amongst the first to turn to Ron and Hermione, one eyebrow quirked upwards in a silent question. Hermione paled at the attention, suddenly speechless, which was a bit of a first for her. Ron, however, got staunchly to his feet and gave a small shrug.
"Mrs. Norris has been Petrified," he said, matter-of-factly, in the way that only the youngest sibling of a very large family can say, with a hint of pomposity that indicated he was inwardly chuffed he'd found out first.
Muttering and whispers ran around the Gryffindor common room, wildfire in a very metaphorical sense that somehow seemed to tangibly burn the tension still hovering in the room.
"Petrified…"
"But what can do that!"
With a heavy shrug at his sister and a very alert Percy, Ron brushed past the amassed students to go up to the room he shared with his fellow second years. Mutedly, Hermione followed his example, running to her room and spending the next hour with her head buried in her hands.
Ron, however, didn't have an opportunity to sulk or wonder over it all.
The sight that met his eyes as he walked resignedly into the small, round room was one that could have made a lesser boy mad, but seeing his best friends abruptly turning old and destroying a giant Basilisk had numbed his senses somewhat.
"It's us, Neville," a tall, blond man was protesting, lean in a dangerous looking way, wrapped in tight black clothing. His thick, sandy-coloured hair fell over his face in a slanted curtain, but a sullen mischief lurked in the dark, alight eyes that Ron almost instantly recognised.
Seamus Finnigan…
The lump on Neville's bed of blankets that was obviously Neville hunched under
his blankets gave a terrified squeak.
"It's not a game, or a potion, Nev." Ron glanced over to a similarly tall, darker man, black hair cut short in an abrupt crew cut, black eyes shadowing Seamus' despair and humour at the situation. "We're real."
"They're real," Ron offered, his own
voice sounding alien to his ears, almost as if it was someone else speaking, a
braver Ron, a Ron that could deal with this.
Figuring it was shock speaking, he let himself continue, his voice
sounding distant. "It happened
with Harry too. He destroyed a
basilisk like it was a gnat, with Malfoy."
"Harry's here?" Seamus moved
towards Ron so swiftly that he didn't have time to blink, and he nervously
stepped backwards. Ron absently
noticed his hands shaking.
Maybe I'm not as numb as I thought…
Ron swallowed hard, feeling his face catch aflame at the sudden scrutiny. "They're with Dumbledore and Snape," he offered limply, resisting the urge to run and hide under his own blankets, like Neville was. Perhaps Neville was the real genius of the house after all. Something which had been plaguing Ron since it happened bubbled forth. "Will we get the others you back?"
Dean and Seamus shared a sudden, saddened, glance. Seamus shrugged slowly.
"I'm sorry, Ron. But it had to be this way."
Ron's shoulders slumped, and he looked away. "Right." His right shoulder was being squeezed by a much more powerful hand than he remembered, and he barely felt it as Seamus pulled away.
"We need to get out of here without causing school-wide panic," Dean murmured. "Seamus?"
Seamus frowned, obviously lost in thought. "Haven't got a clue. The windows, maybe…"
"Pipes."
Ron turned despite his fear to glance towards Neville's bed. A tuft of brown hair was sticking out, muddled by being shoved under his hot blankets, and Neville slowly pulled down the blankets so they could see his face. It was white, a stark white, with bright red splotches where his spots showed up painfully in his acute fear.
"I-" Neville swallowed. "There might be pipes you can get through. Gran- she said once she lost her cat down them while she was here. They used- used to carry water…"
A grin lit up Dean's face. "Ta, Nev."
Brave and a genius, Ron thought dazedly, watching Seamus and Dean lift up their wands and find an entrance into the piping. It was down near Ron's bed, a large walnut panel that came off with a bit of effort. Ron noted its location just in case before moving to stand near Neville, who could keep his head in a situation, no matter what anybody else said of him.
Seamus and Dean wriggled into the pipe, and Ron thoughtfully closed it behind them, before looking up at Neville. A half-nervous laugh broke out shrilly, and Ron wasn't too surprised when he found out it was his.
------
"I don't know what you're smirking at. This is all your ruddy fault."
If Snape had been expecting Potter to be more cordial when he grew older, he was sadly and roughly mistaken. The sallow-faced Potions master started, looking up at Potter in disbelief.
"Excuse me?"
"I said," Potter said slowly, in the manner of one talking to someone intellectually limited, "that I don't know what you're smirking at. This is all your ruddy fault."
Snape stared. Dumbledore was currently holed up in his office, writing furious letters to the Ministry of Magic, urging Fudge and who knew how many officials and theorists and tacticians to come out and sort out what was going on. "Excuse me?"
"I said- Oh, never bloody mind." Potter folded his arms, and got to his feet. Snape was about to object, but all Potter did was cross over to the window, blankly staring out it at the landscape below.
Snape watched slowly as Malfoy - the grown up Malfoy - shuffled over to sit next to Snape. Malfoy's voice was low as he started to talk. "Don't worry about him. He's been stressed about the mission for days. Last resort, you see. The Ministry ordered us to come, so come we did. Potter's been trying to get us out of it for days, but--" He trailed off. "Dark Lord's a right bugger when he wants to be."
"Why is it all my fault?" Snape snapped his mouth shut at the end of the question, furious with himself. Out of all the questions currently frothing through his mind, he had to ask the dumbest one.
"Ah. You brewed the potion to get us here. He asked you to mess it up, so there might have been an excuse to delay the mission a week further, but--" Malfoy glanced up to where Potter was stood stiffly at the window. "Turns out it was good you didn't mess it up. We would have died otherwise."
"And he doesn't see that as a problem?" Snape snorted, unsurprised. "I'm not sure whether that's un-Gryffindor or not."
"It's not Gryffindor wanting to die,"
Malfoy mused. "But then, he's not all Gryffindor."
Snape must have looked more surprised on the outside than he intended, since
Malfoy chuckled softly. "What's
so funny?" Severus demanded,
feeling slightly overwhelmed and somehow stupid against this svelte,
sophisticated Malfoy.
"You don't know?" Malfoy exclaimed, his voice echoing a tone that Potter would have found starkly mocking of an earlier time. "Yes, that's just like you, not bothering to find out."
"Find out what?" Snape didn't know how it happened, but it was bothering him. He'd woken up that morning in a remarkably chipper mood for him, and the day had promised to be a good one, with Potter doing so many exclusion-worthy things, but now the only high point that the day offered was that it had to eventually end sometime. He hated feeling inadequate and stupid, and that's what this whole debacle was making him feel.
"He's Slytherin. Only reason he housed in Gryffindor was because of the youngest Weasel, and because he was afraid of his dark side." Malfoy shrugged. "Being put in Gryffindor doesn't make you a Gryffindor, as you well know, sir."
That was clearly a sharp reminder of Severus' own placement in his time at Hogwarts, something that Malfoy couldn't know. He must have told him later on, somewhere in the future.
"Duffer," Malfoy teased lightly, a sleek grin on his pale, pointed face.
"Git," Snape returned, flushing quietly at Malfoy's delighted expression. 'Duffer' had been what Potter - the other Potter - had called him all year until he'd been able to transfer into Slytherin, and 'git' was Severus' usual rejoinder. The little twerp obviously knew that piece of horrific information, and Snape wondered that he'd been able to form a friendship with Lucius' boy. And not a boy any longer… Severus wondered vaguely how Lucius would react to the development, and found out he was quite eager to stick around and see. If Dumbledore was writing to the Ministry, the council would find out too, and Lucius would be one of the first to arrive…
… and the dogs of war would really be let loose.
-----
End of Part One
-----