Title: Old Souls

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not now. Not ever.

Chapter 21: Jim Ross

Jim Ross has never been a big believer in divination.

He had been more than mediocre when taking the class at Hogwarts and had no interest in pursuing it after graduating. He and his best friend had even set up a business to sell falsified dreams for those who couldn't remember their dreams and were in desperate need of dreams to decipher for their dream journal. But that had been the extent of his interest in the subject.

He was now on his bed, a few days after the incident, looking at the ceiling and thinking that he should get up. He was alone and the house felt horribly lonely and cold. Or maybe it was he who was feeling horribly lonely and cold. It was hard to tell. After some time analyzing the ceiling he found the strength to get up and face the day.

Today was Malcolm's funeral and he has to meet Isobel early to help with the last minute arrangements.

The old should not have to bury the young.

He put a pot of water on the fire, waited for the water to boil and dropped a tea bag in the cup. He was off magic for a few days because it could interfere with his healing. He sat down on the dinning table, the same table Malcolm had eaten a few days ago, and tried not to think on the day ahead, which was not that difficult since his mind has been foggy and blank since the incident. After finishing his tea without really tasting it he went upstairs, feeling every one of his years in each step. He looked at his white and gold mourning robes and thought back to the last time he had needed them, his wife's funeral five years ago. He had thought that it would be the last time he would need them. The mourning robes smelled faintly like mold and dust and were a little too tight around his middle but they'll do.

He looked at the old man in the mirror and wondered who that old man was and what happened to the young handsome pureblood that had been Head of the Law Enforcement and on top of the world a 'few' years back.

A wolf padded along the room behind him. He did not think it unusual or worrying. It made perfect sense actually.

He wondered if he should have said yes when the boy with eerie blue eyes asked. But he had been just a boy, no older than his own grandchild. What could he have done to help? It was simply not logical to let a child do magic to his grievously injured grandchild. He had been sure that Healers would be coming soon. It was just a matter of time.

It would have been crazy, illogical, and irresponsible of him to hand over a wand to a child. Crazy… irrational… unreasonable… to expect a child to know how to cure an injury of that magnitude. Even his basic knowledge of healing had not been enough.

A chicken asked him if he shouldn't be getting up now. He ignored it. Chickens were always so pushy and troublesome.

He had never been good at divination. Had received a week's detention and a Troll on the class when his business of selling dreams had been discovered.

Silly things dreams are.

Now he's having silly dreams of blue eyes. Blue as fire eyes.

Because it was illogical, irrational, unreasonable… The Healers will soon be arriving.

-0-

Ross woke up with a start, confused, with a buzzing in his ears and a massive headache. He could almost taste the tea on his mouth and smell mold. He looked around and still failed to understand where he was or what had happened. Something about this felt familiar, as if he had already lived it or like a half forgotten dream.

He tried to swallow but his mouth was painfully dry and only managed to cough. Big coughs that rocked his body and made him dizzy. His whole mouth and lungs felt as if he had swallowed a bag of sand. With some difficulty he pushed the table that was painfully pinching his legs and after a few fail tries, got up, supporting his weight mainly on his left foot and cradling his hand close to his body. His muscles trembled, reminding him that he was quite past his prime. His wand was miraculously still unbroken on his robe pocket.

The first person he found was Isobel, she had been the closest to him when the roof collapsed. He cried in relief when he found her with her eyes open and blinking. She did not seem to be able to hear him but he figured that his raspy calls were not helping either. She looked confused and disoriented and did not seem to notice that a wood splinter was sticking out her back.

Jim's careful examination told him it was a shallow wound, easily taken care of. His heart on the other hand, had trouble believing it and drummed like a humming bird inside his chest, promising a heart attack. He helped her up with much difficulty and they started looking for the children and her husband, in the process helping others out of their traps.

There were many calls for help and wails of pain that seem to come from everywhere and get louder by the second. Dust and smoke blinded the way and made it impossible for him to see more than a few feet. Some parts were blocked by chunks of a collapsed wall or roof and others were inaccessible because of wild, sizzling magic that zapped dangerously at anything that moved in the area. Still he kept going, fear for his family helping him push against his tiredness.

He saw three of the kids he remembers near his grandkids get out from under a table and stared. Something in his brain nagged him but it took him a few seconds to realize what was wrong with what he was seeing. They were completely unharmed. They were not bleeding or scratched or even dirty. Only one looked like he had been in the center of a tornado but otherwise looked unharmed.

He started making his way over there with hope in his heart that the part of the shop his grandkids had been last had been spared. But the rubble made his way slow and difficult. And in good conscious he couldn't stop himself from helping those along his way. Always keeping an eye for his family members.

From out of nowhere a portal opened and his heart sang with hope. He doesn't know who had the power or the resources to open a portal, but the important thing is that they can all get out of here and into the hospital before the wild magic released from the wards starts attacking. Since there was nothing anchoring the wards, everyone counted as an intruder as far as the wards were concerned. He jumped over three feet of fallen concrete and was close enough to hear the conversation the children were having, which in all honesty, was the weirdest he had ever heard. And he has three grandchildren that almost always speak gibberish.

"Take care of them, ok?"

"I'm going to take great care of them just so I can hold it over your head and make you act grateful later."

"How lucky I am to have a friend like you."

"Blessed is what you are. Just…come back."

"Of course. Go now. Bye princess, yes, I'll be there soon enough. Take care of Charles the chicken if you get too lonely. Let the House Elves make the food but don't try to feed them; it makes them nervous. Love you, Abby. Yes, yes, go now. No, don't cry. I'll see you soon, I promise. Go now."

He was almost there. Just a few more steps, a jump and he would reach the portal. He could smell the fresh snow, feel the cold air on his bloody and sweat-damped skin and see a peaceful snow covered valley but as quickly as it appeared, the portal disappeared.

His agonized scream must have been heard because the boy with striking blue eyes turned back and faced him. Blue eyes held his plain brown eyes for a second and then turn to something on the floor and the boy kneeled and went out of Ross' view. Ross doubled his effort to cross the stretch that separated him from where the portal was last and after climbing half a wall he made it.

He stopped and dropped to the floor, his legs finally giving out on him. He covered his heart with his left hand because he felt his heart will fail him soon and his mouth with his right hand to stop the scream that never came. Some horrors were beyond screaming, beyond crying.

"He will die." The boy stated with no infliction on his tone, nothing to betray he felt sadness, or horror, or any feeling at all. The surety of the statement was like a slap to the face and denial quickly rose to his defense. His denial or maybe inability to accept the truth must have been clear in his face because the boy said, "His major organs will start failing soon. His magic will try to keep him alive and protect his brain by sending him into a deep coma, but it will not be enough. Then his magic will become violent, thinking is under attack and reacting negatively to any outside magic; he will be beyond help by then." This too had been said in a matter-of-fact tone and it made shivers run across his back. If the boy had red hair or purple skin, he would never know because all he could see was blue eyes. Blue as fire eyes.

"I could help him but I'd need your permission and wand."

No, no, no. He'll be ok. The Healers will come soon. Letting a child hold a wand was dangerous. Crazy… irrational… unreasonable… He cannot help. He's just a child.

… robes that smelled faintly like mold and dust… has to meet Isobel early to help with the last minute arrangements…

He remembered having a dream but like water escaping his hands he only remembered vague impressions. His intuition was screaming at him to trust the boy with the too-calculating eyes. Without meaning to he was sucked into the boy's thoughts. It only lasted a few seconds, just enough to see an elegant hall full of beautifully dressed people and lots of children dressed in simple white garments.

The fragment of memory didn't hold any meaning by itself, to understand it he would have needed to see the entire memory and maybe have some background information on the place and people. But he had sensed a lot of guilt and regret. For the boy to be thinking about it right now meant that it somehow connected with his grandchild, but he had no idea how. He was no Legimancer, had only heard about such thing maybe once or twice in his entire life and the fact that he could do it now could only mean that the magic in the air was beginning to affect them in unpredictable ways. There was not much time.

He did something stupid. Probably the most irrational thing he has ever done in his life, counting marrying Rose, and passed his wand to the child. He had been Head of the Law Department; he should know better than anyone the dangers of leaving a wand close to a child. He should know that a Master Healer was the only one who had any chance at succeeding. He should know that to expect a child to do a miracle was unreasonable and unfair to the child. But for some reason -a gut feeling, a forgotten dream, an inexplicable hope- instead of taking back his wand he asked, "What are you going to do?"

The boy passed his fingers along the wand, as if inspecting it for flaws and passed it gently along Malcolm's jaw, a few sparks angrily hissed at the wand. "His magic is already becoming violent. Curses are the only thing that will cut through the magical barrier he's creating around himself. There is a curse that could save him but it's brutal, I will not do it without your consent."

"What does it do?" If a child could be calm and rational about this he could be too. He would ignore his trembling heart, constricted chest and jelly legs until this was over and he could stop pretending to be strong.

"It was invented as a torture curse. It keeps the victim alive while destroying everything but the essential and regrows it again. With the amount of damage he has it is probably for the better. If we can get the spikes out of him and his legs out from under the wall while simultaneously encasing him in a sterile, oxygen rich bubble he might survive."

"Side effects?" He rasped, taking a small, black and blue, three-fingered hand on his own and caressing it gently, glad he didn't have any food for his weak stomach to vomit.

"He will have no muscle strength and will need extensive muscle therapy, his immune system will be non-existent and no-one, absolutely no one can wake him from the coma until he naturally comes out from it. Forcing him to wake up before the damage is repaired will cause brain damage. The rest depends on him not getting complications."

"And you are sure you can do it? You can show me and I can do it myself."

"He has ten more minutes before his brain runs out of oxygen, think you can manage successfully on your first try?" The boy said, not critical as he would have expected, only questioning and curious.

"No…no…I have never been a fast learner…" Ross responded faintly. For some reason he thought he should be feeling more panicked than this, but a numb feeling was settling over him, blocking all feeling.

"Then you have two options, trust me or at least take him out of his misery with a quick killing curse."

The strange thing was that Ross knew, with absolute certainty, that if he decided to…something his mind was still not quite able to process, the blue eyed boy will simply nod and cast the killing curse without hesitation or calmly walk away and let Malcolm…go.

The body, lean and wiry, told him about an active little boy, one that might run a lot or maybe play Quidditch…but the eyes…the eyes spoke of a warrior and not a Stupefy kind of warrior but the kind that fought to the death or victory. The sensible, adult, thing to do would be to ask for his wand back and let him walk away.

But. But he still tasted tea in his mouth, black and bitter, a faint background to the dust that still did not let him breath properly, "Do it then. Save him, if you can." He was not the ex-Head of Law Department right now; he was a scared and confused grandfather that was seeing his favorite grandson die –mutilated, bleeding to death- while he was powerless to help. He was an old man with his hopes pinned on a boy. A boy that was telling him that he could save his grandson.

Funny thing dreams are, as chaotic as the conscious mind but you never seem to remember more than a few impressions. Broken fragments that once told a story but became no more than a passing thought, condensed into a few words.

He has never been a big believer of divination magic.

With movements so fluid, so graceful that Ross could never follow, never hope to imitate and a string of words that sounded like a softly spoken prayer a blue light disappeared all the spears and boulders that had imprisoned and forked Malcolm, followed by a scream of pure anguish, then a red light that stopped the scream and finishing with a brilliant purple light that, for a few seconds, illuminated the ruins with a purple glow.

He was offered back his wand; handle facing him, as it was proper. He dropped it and when he automatically tried to reach it, he felled awkwardly on his side. His hands and legs were failing him when he needed them most, the curse of old age.

Small hands eased his fall and handed him back the wand. He looked up and knew that his face must be showing his desperation, his need, his anguish and his hope. But he couldn't help it no more than rain can help falling. The eyes that starred back at him did not mock his weakness nor did they pity him they held him and gave him back his strength.

"Hold the spell, keep it going and don't let anyone wake him." The mouth, because surely the boy had to have a mouth but his eyes never strayed from the blue to confirm it, "He will not suffer, he will not feel it," The boy assured him, making Ross suspect Legimancy but he still needed to hear it, to believe it.

"Listen to me," the boy called his mind from its wanderings, "look at the runes," he pointed to the runes that littered one side of the bubble that covered Malcolm or what would be Malcolm. "It will tell you his health and when you need to increase or decrease the oxygen. If this one changes to its counterpart it means it needs more magic than what you are supplying and you need to have someone else sustain the spell. Understand?"

No, he did not understand. He did not take runes. He took Divination. And failed. He nodded anyway. His confusion must have been apparent because the boy looked exasperated.

"This one is for the heart, below 70 is bad and more than 130 is bad. The next one simply tells you he is breathing; if a line appears across the S shape it means he stopped breathing and you need to cast a force breathing spell." He did not know a force breathing spell but nodded anyway, "The fourth rune, three lines down, indicates oxygen level, red is more, blue is less. Follow my finger, the one I am pointing, that looks like a 77, tells you if the spell is running out of magic. One hour is the longest any normal wizard can hold the spell, after an hour let someone else feed the spell. Tell the Healers that he was cursed with the Renatus Curse. They will know to leave him be until the curse runs its course and then stop it. The curse is prohibited and it's a one way ticket to Azkaban so tell them you didn't see who cast it."

"I didn't see who cast it." He repeated dumbly.

"All right, I'll be going now."

"You are leaving?" He asked and was not ashamed of the panic and pleading in his voice. He was past that.

"Yes."

"Don't go, please. Don't leave me. I don't know what to do. I still have to find the rest of my family..."

"I'm sorry, I have to run." And he proceeded to do just that. He ran.

"Wait, what's your name?" He screamed after him, but the boy either heard and ignored him or was too far to hear.

He realized, also too late, that he never asked about the portal.

Like a door opening, he remembered the entirety of his dream. He had said 'no', told him to walk away and Malcolm had died. He had no assurance that he would live now, but he had hope.

After almost a century of taking Divination in Hogwarts he finally realized an important truth and the real reason he failed the class. When before Divination seemed to talk about a pre-destined path, in which you have no choice but to walk on, he now knew that you always have a choice. And that it is your choices that form a path not the other way around.

The choice had always been his to make.