Chapter 3
He floated in a sea of darkness for a long time. He was warm and he didn't hurt. Lovely scents permeated his senses, the only things that did: lavender and beeswax, calendula, slippery elm, goldenseal and mint. It was pleasant and painless, and he wondered if he was finally dead.
Unbidden, his mind started reminding him of torments that Voldemort rained upon him, very similar to these. Soon, he would wake and find himself in that cold, dank cell, another beating, random and brutal.
But - for the moment, he tried to enjoy himself. Even though this was simply another game of Voldemort's, the sensations were pleasant, and who knew how long it would be before he could enjoy another moment like this.
In time, a long time, he thought, but perhaps it was but a moment, he felt himself pulled from the dark place he enjoyed. He was still warm, but he felt the pain coming back, dull and throbbing. The scents were still there, but now he heard a voice, soft and serene, humming.
He didn't dare open his eyes, for fear that the illusion would vanish, so for the moment he catalogued the sensations. He couldn't move his hands or his feet, so he guessed that they were bound and bandaged. A warm blanket was tucked under his arms, and his head lay against a soft pillow. The humming was a bit louder, and he wondered who Voldemort had chosen to gift with such a lovely voice.
He laid there for several long moments after, and listened as the humming drew closer then withdrew with the sound of a door opening and closing. Still, he remained and eventually, the pleasant darkness beckoned him and he gratefully returned. For the moment, he was safe.
He retched and coughed and felt a thousand blows beat against his body. He threw-up as he was kicked in the stomach, although there was little there to void. He tasted blood. The pain was unbearable, and he hoped against hope that he would just pass out from the pain. It was useless, though. He remained awake and aware of his surroundings, although he still could not see. Finally, when the beating stopped, he laid on the floor of his cell and he panted with ragged breaths that sent pain through his body. He wanted to return to darkness, but couldn't, quite. It sat back, calling to him, asking him to return. He told it to wait for a moment, wait while he caught his breath, and maybe then he would have the strength to go to it. Or, if it was that anxious to have him back, perhaps it could come to him.
At length, he finally drudged up the energy to crawl to the dark place, pain suffusing every limb and breath. He could feel the darkness reaching out to him, gently returning him to that beautiful, wondrous void, where it smelled of lavender and calendula.
But this time it was wrong. He still smelled the sour bile of his vomit, and the voice that had been humming lullabies of his childhood stilled, then spoke in worried tones. He couldn't make out the words, couldn't understand them. There was something wrong, something horribly, definitely wrong. These were not the usual tactics of Voldemort! What was he doing?
There was suddenly a sensation of a bubble bursting. The scents were sharper, the sensations more graphic. The pain he felt was intense, but not in the way that the beatings had been, where one set of bruises ran into another. This was different, cleaner, some how. He took a deep breath, and sharp pain stabbed into his lungs. The voice became more frantic, then another voice, softer, one that he recognized more readily than his own: Dumbledore.
For the first time since he started having these dreams, he opened his eyes - only to find that he couldn't quite. It was still dark, and he couldn't see. He panicked for a moment, for this, too, was wrong. He was shown everything. Only by his own choice was he not permitted to see. Why was this different?
That deeper, soft voice said something to him, over and over again, and eventually the syllables started making sense. "Severus."
Severus! Yes, that was his name. He had forgotten it in his time in the dungeons. Severus. Oh, how wonderful, to know his name. He held on to it for a moment, savoring the sound of it. Severus.
But this was a trick. Why did Voldemort give him his name? He would only take it away again. He had best forget it, as soon as possible. No, there is no Severus. Severus is gone.
He tried to explain this to the voice, but his own voice wouldn't work. He couldn't see (again, this was wrong!), and he couldn't tell if he was being clear or not. It was difficult to communicate when you couldn't see and couldn't speak. How to do this. How to do this, indeed.
But the voice was insistent. All it said was Severus, over and over again. He felt a cool hand brush against his cheek, and for a moment leaned into it, smelling the soap that was used, and enjoying the simple sensation of contact with someone who wasn't trying to hurt him at this moment. Later it would, later this creature of Voldemort's creation who sounded like Dumbledore and smelled like him would cast him aside.
The name again. Still calling him Severus. Severus, Severus, Severus. When would it stop?
He moaned, and even he heard how pitiful it was, and he hated himself for his weakness. The sound was hoarse, raspy, and the sound of someone who was very deeply alone, in pain and utterly mad.
The voice stopped for a moment. No sound that he could hear from anywhere, then the name again.
Another voice joined, but said something different. He couldn't understand it. A hand was placed over his eyes, which were useless, and then he realized why. A bandage covered them, and it was being removed. He held himself utterly still for a moment, daring not to breathe. Maybe if he could see, he would be able to communicate better, tell the apparitions to go away, that he didn't want their torments. They never listened before, and he didn't expect them to now, but he could hope.
The pressure against his face was removed. He opened his eyes eagerly, and felt a moment of disappointment when he couldn't see anything. He turned his head to see a glimmer of light, two lines, perpendicular to each other. He realized that he lay within a darkened room, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see two figures, one sitting on his bed next to him, long white beard unmistakable, and the other hovering matronly.
Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey. He knew them. Albus was his mentor. Pomfrey - what was Pomfrey doing in Voldemort's creation? She had never been in them before, never before been a part of his fantasies or his torments.
He put that aside for the moment, for they both were looking at him with hope and fear.
Dumbledore said something, ending with "Severus."
What was that? He wanted to tell them that he didn't understand the words, but his voice wouldn't work. He rasped at them. Pomfrey seemed to understand and brought a glass of water to him. Dumbledore held the glass while Madam Pomfrey supported his head and shoulders, allowing him to drink. She laid his head back down, brushed the lank hair back from his brow. He looked dully at her, and tried to remember what he wanted to say.
"Do you know me, Severus?" Dumbledore asked him after a time.
It took a moment for the words to register; his mind wasn't working as quickly now. There was too much to consider, too much to think about, and the thoughts were coming to him and leaving him too quickly to be able to concentrate on one for any length of time.
"Severus, do you know me?"
Here. Here and now. "Yes, Albus," he whispered. "I know you."
Tears sprang from Dumbledore's eyes. "Oh, thank god, you're home safe. You're home."
Voldemort, he thought, why must you torment me like this?