Chapter Ten -- White Byrony



Shall I attempt here to put it into words?

But really, the English language is ill equipped for describing such things.

Not poisoning; the hideous, sluggish, possessing torment of it – no, not that.

I'm speaking of death.

Of death I can only describe it as what it is not. It is not peace, nor is it pain. It is not love, despair, remorse, or joy. It is neither freeing nor binding. There is no tunnel of light, no ferryman, no choirs of angels or pits of devils; none of those mythical or religious adornments.

There are those who will say that death is what you believe it to be, desire it to be. Perhaps. I admit I had no preconceived notions of what happens to a soul once it passes over, and therefore one may say I experienced that which I had anticipated. All I know is that it simply was.

There is no thought in death. There are no feelings attached to death. When pressed, however, I will say that at best there is a dull consciousness, a pale flickering of self-recognition and of the space around you. Voices are half-whispers delivered as a shushing, never-ending drone. Things are seen, but only from afar, as though softly veiled in ether. You see people you knew and fragments of places familiar, though you don't remember their names. A spinning, far-off carnival. You watch these pass by for months, years, eons, who knows? You are a ghost and yet less than a ghost. You are a soft mark in the fabric of time, a fading breath of all that is.

Yes, death is a funny thing. Pardon my irreverence.

I don't know for how long I existed in this way (if in fact it was the act of existing). But I know that at some point the whispers became louder and the veil thinner on those fragments of sight. The colours grew brighter and began to take form, like the slow focusing of a camera. Eventually – and again I couldn't say exactly when -- I could remember things. I could once again know myself. I was aware.

I heard a voice and knew it to belong to Octavia. I felt a pressure on my hand. I felt a coolness on my brow. I could distinguish the sounds of footsteps and my own heartbeat. I could smell organic and pungent things. Faceless people stood over me and then were gone. Sunlight slanted onto the white sheets covering me and then quickly faded to moonlight. And slowly, ever so slowly, these things became vibrant - almost painfully so. I had returned to the world.

And yet I could not move, nor could I speak. I could only watch, a silent spectator, as things were done to and around me; liquids were forced down my throat, gowns were changed, fresh flowers brought in to replace the dying ones. Octavia never left my side while the sun shone. She gripped my hand and talked gently to me as though I could answer her, and I could do naught but blink mutely back. And when night fell she would bring the bed cover to my chin and leave me in the candlelight.

It was at these times, when I was quite alone and with only the lamenting sound of the wind at the windowpane for company, that I would attempt to piece together what had happened. It was like awakening from a dream, the remembrance of it. Images came to mind flashes, really – the potions master and his acidic eyes, the high tune of a breath whistling high between pearl teeth, and the livid, unearthly pain.

It had been water, a simple glass of water on my nightstand. Hadn't it been water? I had poured it myself before retiring to my bed. Yes, I had poured it, I remembered. And I recalled how, upon rising the following morning, I had taken a drink from that very glass.

And I remembered what had followed. Oh yes, I remembered that.

In Hollywood films poisoning is a very dramatic – as I suppose is wonting in films – sequence of events: there is the immediate choking and flailing about, the hands are brought to the throat in desperation and panic, perhaps then copious retching, if the victim doesn't first stiffen like a board and, with eyes rolled up into the back of the head, fall over dead as you please.

I experienced none of these things. In fact, I was unaware that anything was amiss until much later in the day when, while observing a sloppy test run of energy-absorbing molecules found in certain magical metalloids, a sharp pain lanced through my abdomen. This in itself wasn't cause for alarm; I had been eating poorly for some days. What surprised me was the sudden rapidity of the sensation. Within minutes my lower intestines were clenched in spasms of unspeakable agony, and I dropped my quill to press my hands into my stomach. It was indescribable. My spine suddenly felt aflame, and a hot sensation of paralysis spread sleepily into my joints. But my brain – that was the worst of it – my brain felt as though it were literally bubbling within my skull. My entire body was in an unnatural uproar, and I at once realized that I had lost complete control of every part of it. To say it had been terrifying wouldn't come remotely close to how it felt at the time.

I recall being unable to breathe, for my lungs had seized, and more so recall the fresh wave of panic that had coursed over me in the wake of the realization that I was about to die.

And I will tell you something else.

At that precise moment – the moment when you know you will die – you mind does a strange thing. It bursts. Not literally, though I wouldn't have been surprised had mine done, but rather it feels as though a gate is flung open and every thought, every memory, every feeling comes rushing out of it at once. You are besieged by utter sensation in every atom of your being. I actually remember thinking briefly of crackers and cheese before another thought popped in to replace it within a microsecond. And then, like a hurricane abating, there is an odd calm that steals over the mind. An acceptance. It is a languid, comforting darkness.

Not unlike the darkness that now covered me in the bed where I lay. I knew I must still be at Hogwarts, knew I was in the hospital wing. I could smell it, see it. What I didn't know was for how long I had been there. I had spent what felt like an eternity in a state of non-existence, and yet it seemed that time had not passed at all in this still room. No calendars hung, finger-curled and X'ed, on the walls as would have in university; no whirring, cogged, magical contraptions to herald the date. Neither could I ask, and the frustration in that simple fact was almost too much to bear. I couldn't live like this, I knew, and yet I lived. It was complete and utter misery.

As I lay immobile, looking at the ceiling (for I could look nowhere else), the curtain around my bed was pulled softly back, and there was Remus.

Oh, the inescapable humiliation, the horrible knowing that he could see me like this; an invalid, a fixed, never-changing motion. I lowered my eyes and wished with my very soul (if I in fact had one at all) that he would walk away, would not look upon me with eyes round and soft with pity, would close the curtain once again and leave me in peace.

I felt him pull a chair close to the bed and then felt his warm hand engulf mine. I kept my eyes closed, though hateful tears of shame began to gather and threatened to spill down the sides of my face.

He sat for some time watching me, merely holding my hand. He brushed my hair from my shoulders and over the pillow, and then there was only the sound of his rhythmic breathing. When at last a tear broke loose, he brushed that away as well.

"Davina."

I remained still.

"I . . .I'm so very sorry." A sigh.

Another tear ran across my upper cheek and plopped onto the pillow with a muffled thud. Ah, my own self-pity is undoing me.

"Look at me. Please."

I lifted my lids slowly and looked at the whiteness of the ceiling, the many-veined stone that spread patterns over it.

"This won't last," I heard him say. "It's a symptom of the poison. Do you hear me? This is only temporary." His hand squeezed mine tightly, and I let my eyes shift to where he sat.

He looked so tired, I thought, so soul-weary. "Ah Davina, I know how you must feel," he said, and the despair in his voice was strange to me. "To have no control, to be unable to govern even the simplest of actions. It's . . .it must be . . ." and his voice broke off and dispersed into the room. He was looking over me and staring at the emptiness beyond, his face the picture of hopelessness. A part of me wanted to squeeze his hand in reassurance, to give him words of relief, perhaps even to make him smile. But of course I could do none of those things.

He shook himself free of his thoughts and once again looked down at me. "I can't begin to imagine what you've been through," he said to me gently. "It took Severus weeks to identify the substance you had been given, and even then he couldn't find the exact match. It was some sort of peculiar foreign toxin. He says it is one of the rarest poisons he has ever come across, and was lucky to come up with an antidote. He wasn't sure it would work at all. You were, for all intents and purposes, dead."

My eyes must have widened somewhat, because he smiled kindly and reached out to stroke the hair from my brow. He abruptly stopped when his fingertips touched my face, perhaps feeling awkward with doing something so familiar, and returned his hand to his knee. "Oh Davina, I'm sorry to sound so clinical, and Octavia would be furious if she discovered I am telling you this, but I think you should know, would want to know. You had no heartbeat, no oxygen. Your blood had begun to settle and your muscles to suffer from rigor mortis. Octavia was absolutely devastated. Your family was going to be notified – I offered to visit them myself – but Dumbledore suggested an inquiry before any action was taken. A glass was found in your rooms, and Severus was able to determine how you had . . .well, died. Someone had wanted you gone, simply put."

I closed my eyes again. Katrina Dratch. Katrina Dratch had poisoned me. I wanted so desperately to speak, to tell Remus what had happened, tell everyone, yell it from the turrets of Hogwarts. Screw fighting my own battles, I thought, this has gone far beyond a grudge. The woman needs to be stopped. Uncharacteristic rage, bile-filled and seething, rose in my throat.

Remus leaned forward, placing an elbow on his knee, and ran his free hand tiredly over his face and through his hair. "The odd thing was, the poison was acting as an individual agent within you – a sort of . . . parasite, for lack of a better term. It was what was forcing your body to exhibit death-like symptoms. You were dead, and yet alive. I know," he shrugged helplessly, " it sounds impossible."

Impossible? I was beginning to believe there was no such thing.

"Even Dumbledore was puzzled, you know. But once Severus was able to determine the chemical structure of the substance, he though he could come up with a counteractive antidote. He said you would starve to death before the poison actually killed you, if in fact that was its purpose. So while he worked – and I don't think he slept for near a month – Poppy and Octavia watched over you, taking all the necessary steps to keep you from, well, from turning into an actual corpse, really. The trick was knowing when the poison stopped and actual death began. They had no way of knowing until the antidote began working. Dumbledore thought it was worth the chance. And it was." He gave a limp, uneasy smile, and I found myself nauseated at the images that came to my mind. A corpse! Was the intent of the poison then to have me buried alive? It was unthinkable, terrifying. And oh, a lifeless body; having to feed and bathe such a thing! How my heart warmed at the thought of my dear friend Octavia watching over me! And the potions master – well, no doubt he enjoyed the challenge. I wasn't about to fool myself into thinking it was anything more than his professional curiosity that pressed him into pursuing the matter. And dear, sweet Remus. I felt myself unaccountably overcome with emotion, with endearment. I wished so much to return Remus's squeeze of my hand, to embrace him and feel alive.

"They said you had recovered somewhat," Remus continued, "and so I wanted to come see you, talk to you. The paralysis will eventually wear off, but I don't know when. Severus said it may be some days yet."

He stroked my hand and I could feel the tears welling up once again, but they were tears of gratitude, of relief. Ah, I would not remain forever like this, trapped in my own body.

"I would understand if you decided to leave Hogwarts," he said. "Given the circumstances, no one would blame you. But . . .I for one would be reluctant to see you go, especially so close to start of term."

My mind jarred. The fall term was starting so soon? I must have been in this bed for weeks! To see Penelope again, to kiss her blonde head and hold her in my arms! I felt suddenly renewed, voraciously alive, and so very grateful to know life was still before me. Oh, I would never, never again take it for granted!

Remus bent forward then, and whispered to me, and his voice was filled with solemn promise: "We will find out who did this to you, Davina. We will." He placed my hand gently back to my side and stood up. "I will come see you again tomorrow, if that is all right."

I couldn't answer, but I may have indicated something with my eyes, for he bent quickly over me and planted a halting kiss on my forehead. Before I could blink again, the curtain was falling closed around me and I was once again alone.

There is no need, Remus, I thought as I watched the shadows curl into the ceiling. I know who it was that did this to me, and I can assure you my vengeance will be sound.

I had only to wait my time until I could act upon it.






The weather was fine and the windows had been thrown open to allow the early harvest breeze into the hospital wing. Curtains billowed like sails into the space of the room, and I fancied that I could hear the sounds of many beings out on the Hogwarts grounds – preparations being made for the students' arrival four days hence. I was playing a game of wizard's chess with Octavia, and numerous were the times she had to stop and wait with a heavy sigh for me as I scrutinized the pieces, turning them over and over again for signs of mechanization.

"Would you just move already?" she snapped peevishly. "Honestly, I'll grow lichen before this game is over."

I smiled sheepishly and moved a piece, reveling in the joy of the simple movement, of the weight of the object and how my fingers stroked the crown in passing. It had been six days since the paralysis had begun to wear off, and though I still could not walk unaided, the ability to once again speak and move was, to my mind, nothing short of a miracle. Poppy was constantly there, prodding and poking me, taking my temperature with odd accoutrements and wrapping my head in foul-smelling white bandages, but I took it all with a sense of appreciation and wonder. Since Remus had first visited me and told me that I would soon recover, I had thrown all of my energy into the process. Every waking hour was spent trying to detect the slightest movement of my fingers or the grating feel of my voice in my throat. One day I had awoken and found that my eyebrows could move, as was evident when Remus had finished telling me a truly pitiful joke.

"And so the goblin says, 'What, sir? That's my nose, thank you very much!'"

My eyes rolled and, before I could register what had happened, Remus was on his feet with a look of alarm on his features. I thought to myself that surely, he had had this response to that insipid joke before, but he remained wide-eyed and motionless.

"Davina! You moved!" he sputtered. "Your eyebrows just moved!"

I widened my eyes in surprise, and then immediately attempted wiggling my brows again. Remus clasped my hand. "You can move them! Brilliant! Wait until Octavia hears, she'll be done up! And Dumbledore as well!"

Before I knew it my bed was a-swarm with people, all urging me to stick out my tongue or wiggle my toes or perhaps let loose a good, healthy belch – that was Dumbledore's suggestion – and at the end of the day I could feel the first crusty sound of my voice deep in my throat.

It was beautiful.

Now, as I watched Octavia move her chess piece with military precision, I gave my toes a quick wiggle and knew contentment.

Well, contentment in a very loose sense. I had spent days in my bed struck mute as an invalid, which gave me much time for reflection and plotting. And I had at last decided to wait to tell of Katrina Dratch. I would wait until Severus Snape showed himself, and then I would tell him and everyone within range what I thought of the woman. I would have witnesses, oh yes, I would have witnesses to her unspeakable threat and execution of that threat. Hopefully even Katrina herself would be present. And then it would just be a matter of time before she was out of Hogwarts for good. The fact that Severus Snape apparently went sleepless in order to work on an antidote for me didn't move me one jot. He did what any man with Dumbledore as a superior would do, what his profession called for, despite his association with the Dratch woman. I remembered with crimson shame that night when I had been so wanton with him, had done no less than throw myself at him after my moral tirade, and likewise remembered his smooth refusal. If I hadn't already been so very grateful to be alive, the memory of that night would have had me praying for death, if only to escape the utter shame of it all. And I had noticed -- indeed it was a meddlesome, constant sentiment – that he had not come to see me once in the hospital wing, even for the simple joy of gloating over the success of his antidote.

My jaw worked itself as I made a clumsy move with my chess piece and, eyes sparkling behind her round spectacles, Octavia slid her white queen into place with a snide "Checkmate."

I threw up my hands and leaned back into the bed pillows. "I should know better than to outwit you," I smiled.

"Yes, you should," she replied imperiously, then went to work resetting the pieces. "Maybe one more ass-whooping would serve to have you remember that."

"Let's be having you, then," I grinned, and rubbed my hands together in anticipation.

As I moved my pillows to better support myself, I heard the faint sound of footsteps in the outer hall, and then saw a black shape fill the doorway. The potions master. Did the man always know when he crossed the thoughts of others? His timing was unnatural.

He approached Poppy at the head of the room and after a moment of conversation, she lead him towards my bed, all but singing his praises as she expanded on her methods of corpse care-taking. He was nodding solemnly, but his eyes were solidly fixed on mine.

No human being could possibly hold that gaze.

I felt a distinct blush bloom in my face, and my prior swarthiness dissipated in a millisecond. I looked to Octavia in silent panic, but she was already watching his approach with wary eye.

"And here is our patient!" Poppy grinned as she waved a vaudevillian, introductory hand at me. I might as well have been a chimpanzee with a fez hat and an accordion.

The potions master eyed me grimly and I sank further into the sheets. Could I have pulled them completely over my head I would have done. I had, inexplicably, forgotten the clout of his gaze; the piercing, unwavering burn of it.

"Ah. And how is the sickling sparrow?" he asked. The question was devoid of any emotion or authentic feeling.

"Oh she's recuperated beautifully," smiled Poppy.

Octavia had stiffened upon Severus Snape's arrival, which had not passed unnoticed by the potions master.

"Professor Blackchurch." He bowed his head marginally and Octavia gave only the briefest of nods in return. Then she surreptitiously reached over and grasped my hand.

"She's nearly recovered, Severus," continued Poppy in a state of medical euphoria. "She is moving once again, and speaking too, bless her. I have dealt with a few unusual medical circumstances, I'll have you know, but nothing like what our Miss Knight has been through." With this they then all turned and looked upon me with a mixture of curiosity and expectation, as if I were merely a thought-piquing lab specimen. I felt my ire rise to ungovernable heights.

"I am ever so grateful for your help in the matter, Professor," I managed. "I heard you worked rather diligently to find an antidote."

Severus Snape looked at me with hooded, unblinking eyes, and then his shoulders rose in a dismissive shrug. "I assure you Miss Knight, it was of little consequence, constitutionally speaking. Let us say it was a matter of professional interest. The poison was. . . a rather challenging riddle, an intellectual enigma. I found it all very . . . fascinating." He produced a polite lip curl for Poppy and Octavia, then turned to me once again. Boredom was etched into every feature.

I was stunned. His callousness knew no bounds. Suddenly, my best-laid plans were scattered to the wind in the face of my indignation. The bastard. The unfeeling, self-important bastard. Let's just see how you feel about this, shall we?

I cleared my throat meaningfully -- perhaps a bit too dramatically -- then spoke: "Well, yes, I understand your interest in the matter, Professor, really I do." I then paused for effect, silently delighting in the secret I was about to unveil. "After all, I can only begin to think of the consequences this would have upon your relationship with Katrina Dratch. Murderers make for poor partners, do they not?"

If I had hoped for dramatic gasps or dawning looks of realization from those around me, I was bitterly disappointed. Their faces showed only a hint of puzzlement, and the potion master looked as though I hadn't spoken a human word. Octavia's brows drew together, and Poppy's features fell slightly, as if my quick recovery had been only too good to be true.

When I realized that my Great Revelation had sputtered out like a defective firework, I sought to make myself understood.

"Katrina Dratch poisoned me," I said, and I heard the desperation creeping into my voice. "She . . .she was the one who did this to me."

Poppy gave a slight, uncomfortable laugh, and Severus Snape looked positively amused.

"Katrina Dratch," he drawled. "I see. And tell us, Miss Knight, how you came by that particular conclusion?"

His patronizing tone had the effect of ice water being poured over my head. I looked from one face to the other, but was met only with embarrassed silence.

"She . . . she talked with me in the library. She was upset that I . . ." and with growing distress I realized that I hadn't told Octavia of my sessions with Severus Snape, nor of his late-night visit to my rooms. Her hand gave mine a friendly squeeze, and the guilt I suddenly felt was overwhelming. I had done something she had expressly advised me against, and I couldn't find the heart to tell her so. She had looked out for me from my very first day at Hogwarts, and I, like a thankless child, had flagrantly ignored her warnings and had done as I pleased, thank you very much. I couldn't possibly tell her of the jealous confrontation Katrina and I had, for then I would have to explain that I had discounted her advice as easily as if had been from a stranger. I felt roughly four inches tall.

Poppy interrupted my thoughts by smiling awkwardly and bending to straighten my bed sheets. "Now, now. No doubt you are still somewhat confused from your experience, and who could blame you, poor dear. It isn't every day that a person comes back to life now, is it?" She fluffed the pillows behind me before placing her hand on my brow to check for signs of fever. I watched it all with growing confusion and shock.

"But– I looked pleadingly at the potions master, hoping for some sort of signal that he had understood, knew the reason why Katrina Dratch would want to harm me. But he looked entirely unconcerned, as though merely enduring the ravings of a madwoman locked behind a barred door.

"Katrina Dratch is an exemplary scholar and fellow faculty member," he said lowly. "She would have neither reason to poison you nor would she have the disposition. Perhaps partaking in fewer . . . stimulants would serve to clear your mind." He gave me a knowing, if not wholly accusatory look, and then nodded to the others. "Madame Pomfrey, Professor Blackchurch." He shot me one last withering glance and then promptly turned on his heel and left the room.

I felt deflated; completely and utterly abashed. I looked to Octavia for comfort, but she swept the chessboard away with a flick of her wand and refused to look at me. Poppy gave me a glass of gray foulness and watched guardedly as I forced it down my throat before she left the wing for her own office.

The silence was unbearable.

At last Octavia set her chair against the wall and came back to my bed to look over me. "Get some rest," she said humorlessly. I could see that her mind was elsewhere, and somehow I knew that she was aware of my unspoken confessions. I looked away, toward the hallway door. She stood over me for several more moments, and then with a gentle pat she left the hospital wing, her Victorian skirts swishing their familiar melody upon the stone floor. I watched as her train swept around the doorframe's corner, and then I sank back into the pillows.

Suddenly the hideous, suspended state of death seemed very comforting.



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You were a tooth, said the cat, a tooth in the mouth of the god. The cat walked beside me and his mouth was a crescent. You are pleased, I replied. I saw the flaking of the sky and you are pleased. Circles within circles, said the cat. There is a dead light in the forest and it is the light of a dry land. Black is the color of the god's mouth and black is salvation. He walked with his paw in my hand. The sky stretched above and roared its grandness. The flowers were bent and the equations no longer took wing. You walk with light step, I said. You are pleased. Black is the grave, smiled the cat, and white is the womb. But mud and bone is the between. What did you find in the wood?

I found a dead light.







When the birdsong roused me from my slumber with the first fingers of the dawn, I knew what I had to do.






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Author's Note: A heartfelt thank you to Rickfan37 and Elizabeth for beta-reading this chapter and for their suggestions and comments.