21

Sephiroth was certain he was dead. At least, he was supposed to be dead, the baleful yellow-eyed stare of the Chamber's monster permanently etched into his mind. The final slam of a judge's gavel, a dying man's last rasp of breath, it was a blare of golden he couldn't escape. Sephiroth wasn't supposed to be alive.

Given how he couldn't remember how he died last or what it felt like, he wasn't sure if death was supposed to feel like that. It was confusing and not at all pleasant, not that Sephiroth had expected death to be a pleasant thing. He didn't fade from the world of the living and there was no tunneling of his vision. He didn't even hear his heartbeat slowing in his chest. Nothing he expected to experience in his final moments of life, admittedly sooner than expected, happened.

He was plunged into a world of memories, both known and foreign, new and old—good and bad.

There was a glimpse of a blond boy—or maybe a full grown man, he couldn't tell through a blurred haze—staring down at him, pale-faced. He was caught in grief or rage, perhaps even both, calling something over and over. Sephiroth didn't hear what he said before the memory was snatched away, lost in a torrent of other images, flashes of memories.

He couldn't cling onto a memory long enough to view the entire thing, forever falling down, down, among a fractured playlist of memories his subconscious threw at him. The harder he tried to hang on, the more of them slipped away, the faster they disappeared, until even the memories he knew—of Hogwarts, of his friends and Cloud, Zack, and Aerith—were sliding right passed him.

For a terrifying moment, Sephiroth thought he might forget everything. That he wouldn't be able to recall Harry's face, or how his voice sounded, the grounds at Hogwarts and even Hagrid's inedible rock cakes. Seconds past by, or it could have been a full eternity, and Sephiroth stubbornly clung to the memory of his brother and everything else that was important to him. He held on until he realized the memories hadn't and weren't going to fade.

That was when his surroundings started to bleed with color, turning into a wide azure sky and a forest of towering evergreens. He still felt muddled by a plethora of images and emotions that weren't his own, akin to reading words off the pages of a book. He was distracted from any deeper thoughts by the babbling of a nearby brook.

He lay on his back on a bed of pine needles, in that sanctuary-like place Aerith always told him about. The forest had grown and there were heavy clouds crawling across the sky, blotting out the sunlight. Little had changed, aside from the flowing water he heard. He didn't remember there being water last time.

"You would be surprised by how frequently things change here."

Sephiroth shot to his feet, launching a good dozen meters away before he'd even gotten a good look at the newcomer. It definitely wasn't Aerith.

The man was tall, grand in every way Sephiroth felt he wasn't, lounging against one of the trees. His hair was long and silver, green eyes didn't so much stare at Sephiroth as they looked straight through him, smirking as though he knew a secret and wasn't going to tell, just to be infuriating. He was all black leather and carefully poised, so Sephiroth didn't believe for a second he was actually as relaxed as he looked.

It was as though Sephiroth was looking at himself, only warped and different. And not necessarily in a good way.

"Who are you?" asked Sephiroth, glancing around in hopes of catching sight of Aerith. There wasn't even the faintest hint of pink to be seen.

"That you would even voice such a question means you've already failed," said the man, climbing to his feet languidly. "I shouldn't have expected anything else, miserable and weak as you are."

Sephiroth drew in a breath to protest loudly, deeply offended, but it turned into a startled gasp as the man dissolved into shadows, scattering to nothingness. The forest was once again deserted, barring Sephiroth, hardly a lonesome breeze to rustle the pine needles.

When a minute had passed and nothing else moved, Sephiroth took an experimental step forward. Somehow, he couldn't shake the suspicion that man was incredibly dangerous. He was half expecting an attack from nowhere, only this world didn't act like the real one. Noises seemed to be more muffled than usual, the heavy clouds making the forest dim and dreary. He headed toward the rushing flow of water, coming across a narrow brook, and followed it downstream.

Usually he was pulled here by Aerith, or because something shocking had happened and he needed a moment to recuperate. If anything warranted a trip to his inner sanctuary, he supposed it was Slytherin's monster attacking him. Except he was calmer now and the odd, unwelcomed flood of memories had stopped. And Aerith still wasn't appearing, which bothered him more than anything else. Something could have been blocking her and the only thing conspicuously different was that man—if he had something to do with the reason Aerith hadn't showed up, Sephiroth wasn't going to hesitate grilling him for answers.

Stuck as he was, he figured that meant his body was in a coma of some kind, or simply Petrified. Unless it was walking around in a sort of dazed, zombie-like state. He got a fleeting mental image of himself walking over and over again into the same wall and hoped desperately he was wrong.

The small river eventually fed into a large pond, reflected black against the darkened canopy. Pure white lotus flowers were stark against the surface, blooming in full the moment Sephiroth stepped near the pond. It was a quiet, peaceful scene and definitely hadn't been there the last time Sephiroth visited. He knelt by one of the flowers, reaching to poke at the petals gently, wondering what else had changed.

As soon as his finger touched the petal, he yanked back as the water erupted into flames. He had taken two whole steps away from the pond before he realized the water hadn't really burst into fire, but was reflected with the image of a burning town. Sephiroth had seen that burning town before, in dreams and nightmares, and he knew how it was going to end. He looked away before the bodies started piling up, hands bursting through the soil to drag him into darkness.

He couldn't bring himself to watch. He knew all too well it involved his past and he wanted nothing to do with it. Everything about it was so foreign and distant, but sickeningly nostalgic. Sephiroth thought if he stared long enough he might start remembering, and that scared him more than anything else.

"Given enough time in isolation," came the voice of Sephiroth's older double, melting out of the shadows, "even the greatest man will become a monster. Wouldn't you agree?"

"What did you do?" Sephiroth demanded, pointing to the pond and telling himself firmly that his hand wasn't shaking. "This place is supposed to be peaceful. How is this peaceful?!"

"Oh, what did I do?" It was a rhetorical question if there ever was one. Genesis would have been jealous by the amount of silky condensation hidden under flawless innocence. The man prowled forward, the air turning chilly as he moved closer. "The mind is truly exquisite—malleable and changeable. Plant the smallest seed and it will take root, fester. A parasite becoming the host."

Sephiroth understood less than half of the words coming from the man's mouth, but he knew a threat when he heard one.

"So, you're a . . . plant?" he said, grasping for the parts that made sense—sort of. The man didn't resemble a plant. Of course, he was a figment in his own mental world, so he could have been some sort of plant creature who resembled a human. Sephiroth stamped out his train of thought before it could turn into an uncontrollable avalanche.

The expression on the man's face reminded Sephiroth of the few times Professor Snape tried to reason with one of his worst students' potions. He found the potion he viewed utterly hopeless. In this case, it wasn't a potion—it was Sephiroth.

Instead of sneering or drawling a venomous insult, the man broke into throaty chuckles. It was rusty and unnatural, and Sephiroth didn't believe he was really amused for a second.

"What?" said Sephiroth defensively, edging away from the man. It brought his heel to the pond, the image of fire and tumbling houses playing across the ripples. An icy sprawl crept over the water's surface, crackling softy and sealing up the flames under a thick barrier of white. Sephiroth could still see the hot glow of flames through the ice, but the nightmare was no longer entirely visible.

"Are you thinking clearly now?" asked the man.

"Did you do that?" said Sephiroth, forcing himself to look away from the frozen pond.

"Did I?"

Sephiroth hardly had time to react, throwing himself back onto the iced-over pond to avoid losing his head. The keening song of a blade followed him and Sephiroth met Masamune for the second time, only he wasn't the one holding the weapon. The man hadn't even moved, Masamune materializing in his hand—a lazy flick sent Sephiroth scrambling to save himself from dismemberment.

His feet periodically slipped on the ice, prompting him to make a dash for solid ground—the crack was a clap of thunder in his ears, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Hairline fractures, like a spider's web, branched out from under his feet. Under the ice, the hellfire of a nightmare blazed.

"Careful," said the man. His amusement was all too genuine now. "That seal is breaking little by little. And look where you're standing."

Sephiroth didn't need to be reminded, his mind tugged in about a thousand different directions. The man circled around the pond as if Sephiroth was his prey. He was unsure if he should panic more over the breaking ice and lifetime of possibly traumatizing memories under it, or the gleaming blade that could slice him to pieces at any moment.

"It's a seal?" said Sephiroth. "The ice—it's keeping the memories away?"

"Did I say that?" said the man evenly, so Sephiroth couldn't tell if it was another rhetorical question, or if he was being sarcastic.

"Does that mean the pond is my memories?" asked Sephiroth, risking another step. The groaning of the ice made him flinch.

"Does it?"

The line of questions, answered by another teasing, possibly serious and possibly not serious question, was absolutely infuriating—Sephiroth barely contained a yelp when Masamune cut through the air in front of him. A flash of silver and the man landed on the ice, towering over Sephiroth.

He abandoned all care and dove for the edge of the pond, reaching solid ground without breaking through the ice by some miracle. He wasn't given time to breathe as the man—some kind of evil double his mind had cooked up and he wished he could have words with his mind, but that seemed too much like talking to himself for his tastes—followed him. He crossed the icy pond without leaving so much as an extra fracture, which was so utterly unfair. Sephiroth was lighter than him and still managed to inflict the damage of a charging bull.

"I wonder how long you can keep dodging," said the man, cutting through a tree in an attempt to impale Sephiroth. The tree crashed to the ground, soon joined by several more. Instead of moving around them, the man seemed content to raze the forest to the ground. "You don't need food or water here, so we can do this for a long time indeed. . . . Unless you're finally ready to stop playing games."

"You seem to like playing games," said Sephiroth irritably.

"Playing innocent?" said the man. "Now that is a game. Why not go ahead and do it, though? Masamune is yours to use."

Sephiroth was actually fairly sure Masamune was in his double's hands, out of his reach and ability to use. Even on the offhand chance he could summon the blade, he didn't think his concentration level was nearly steady enough to pull it off. And if he did summon Masamune—what then? Last time he used the blade, it hadn't even been his own victory. . . .

"You," said Sephiroth, breathless. "You possessed me last year. You're the reason I couldn't move on my own or—or stop."

The laughter resounding through the forest, seeming to surround Sephiroth, wasn't a confirmation or a denial. He didn't really need any other answer, the pieces lining themselves up and they made perfect sense. From his nightmares to the occasional migraines—he had assumed it had something to do with Voldemort being on the back of Professor Quirrel's head, and then Slytherin's monster stalking the halls. It had been that man playing games in the back of his mind.

"Found you," said Sephiroth's double a second before he drove Masamune through Sephiroth's spine and out his stomach.

He went blank, gaping breathlessly, his heart giving a painful lurch. Masamune's gleaming blade was stained red again, but this time it was Sephiroth's own blood. His lungs burned and he strained to breathe, choking—drowning in his own blood.

"Familiar?" said his other.

In the blink of an eye, the world warping around him, they stood before the pond again. The ice had melted, the burning village gone, leaving only a dark, glassy surface. Sephiroth could see himself reflected in the pond and it felt like a passive sort of revenge. His double stood above him, Masamune lodged in Sephiroth's stomach and the wound bleeding out.

There was something familiar about it and if he hadn't been struggling to pull in a full breath, he might have taken the appropriate amount of time to panic. He was more concerned over the fact he coughed and blood trickled out the corner of his mouth.

Faster than it happened, it ended.

As though running from his double's attempts to kill him were nothing more than an illusion, Sephiroth was back on the pond. He had fallen on his hands and knees, gasping for breath and pawing at his stomach, looking for a gaping hole in his body. There was nothing but the creaking of ice under his hand, fractures spreading even farther outward. It was more fragile than ever, the slightest move sure to plunge him into the depths below.

He didn't know if it was real or not, if it was a trick of the mind. Perhaps the man had completely taken over his mind and was tormenting him. Either that, or he really was back at square one. He wasn't sure yet if that was a good thing.

"Attachments are curious," said the man, Masamune nowhere in sight. He ambled along the shore, long silver hair swishing by his knees, his hands clasped behind his back. "The attachment of one's friends. Of family. Of a brother."

Sephiroth flinched despite himself, causing water to seep through the cracks and chill his hands to the bone. Danger screamed in his veins when his brother was mentioned. Harry wasn't called out by name, but Sephiroth wasn't about to think it wasn't coincidental.

"They are a source of strength to some," said Sephiroth's double, "and weakness to others. There is joy when attachments are near. And when they are taken, the grief is . . . palpable."

A threat.

"If you even so much as think—" Sephiroth snarled, going to stand—the ice shattered.

There was no moment of weightlessness, the world didn't slow to allow Sephiroth to analyze the smirk that crawled across his counterpart's face. He plunged into potent darkness, swallowed up by it. He was so cold he was sure he'd never feel warm again.

He waited for a tsunami of memories to engulf him, only to be left suspended in nothingness. It was only after he dared move, reach a hand out into the oppressive, stifling darkness, that he realized he was no longer in his mental world. Entering and leaving had been fairly seamless in the past, but he hadn't even known he'd left that time around. There had only been himself falling, the fathomless darkness, and the fear of learning secrets he felt were better left unknown.

Whether it was coincidental or not, he'd woken up just in time. He didn't know what he intended to try and do to his counterpart—punch him, strangle him, or try cursing him—but he'd rather be awake. He would also have to talk about Aerith about his so-called sanctuary. Last he knew, sanctuaries were supposed to be peaceful and evil twins were far from peaceful.

Sephiroth reached out, the sheets coarse on his skin, feeling around for his wand. It was night, probably a cloudy and moonless one, going off the pitch-blackness. He didn't remember the moon phase when he'd last been awake, but he was knew it wasn't a new moon.

"How long was I asleep?" he said to no one in particular.

There was a shriek and a clatter, the sound of glass shattering on the floor. A rustle of the curtain being torn aside alerted him to Madam Pomfrey approaching, hands pawing at his face and eyes. Next thing he knew, she was mumbling spells, undoubtedly waving her wand around like a crazy-woman, leaving him with one very important question.

"Madam Pomfrey, why haven't you got a candle burning?"

Her voice faltered and there was no reply. Sephiroth, undeterred, moved on to the next—much more important—topic. The one that could possibly save the school from suffering the loss of another student.

"I saw the monster," he said quickly. "It had these eyes—yellow eyes—you can't look at them, I think. I looked at them and everything kind went . . ."

Insane. Everything went insane, but Sephiroth wasn't about to explain his inner world and evil counterpart to Madam Pomfrey. That was for Aerith to explain, when he wrote her.

"Well, the point is that it's some kind of snake," he said. "And it moves fast. I think it's also got some way of moving through the walls. Hagrid might know what to do—you should call him up to the castle. He might even know what it is . . ."

He hesitated. Madam Pomfrey hadn't said a word.

"Madam . . .?"

"Hagrid—Hagrid isn't here at the moment," she finally said, her voice hoarse.

"He's not?" said Sephiroth, sitting up and ignoring her when she told him to lay back down. "What happened? Is he hurt? Was he attacked, too?"

He fell unconscious once and everything changed. He really wanted to know how long he was out and what happened—knowing Hogwarts as he did, it was nothing good. Hagrid being attacked by a monster, taken down even, seemed impossible. There was nothing Hagrid loved more than magical creatures and he knew everything there was to know about them. Surely he'd have been able to protect himself.

"Professor Dumbledore, then—"

"Sephiroth," Madam Pomfrey cut him off sharply. "Not now. You're in the hospital. Do you have the slightest clue how long you've been?"

Sephiroth wracked his mind for a sense of time, but came up with nothing. Everything seemed to happen within minutes.

"You've been Petrified for nearly nine weeks," said Madam Pomfrey, followed by a snap of fabric being shaken out and the thump of a cup being set on the bedside table. Then something was being shoved into his hands—a cup—and she was telling him to drink up, it was going to be a long while healing.

"Healing?" he said in bewilderment, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

"Your eyes," said Madam Pomfrey, pausing. When she continued, her voice was softer, "There was a significant damage done to them by the monster—whatever it is. Nothing irreversible," she added quickly, "but it'll take a while to heal."

"My eyes?" said Sephiroth, surprising himself by how calm he sounded. He couldn't detach himself from the idea the room was only blanketed in the darkness of night. Or that all the shudders were closed and no one lit a candle.

"Yes."

Hands pushed the cup toward his mouth, urging him to drink.

"You'll need this to heal, Sephiroth."

"So—so," Sephiroth swallowed, willing himself to stay calm. "So if you light a candle . . ."

The silent that fell was heavy, staunching him.

"It's midday," said Madam Pomfrey, her hand resting on his shoulder. There was another rustle of curtains and a beam of warmth settled on his shoulder. "Around two o'clock. Your brother and friends are in class."

It wasn't permanent. He latched onto that fact, repeated it over and over in his head. It was alright, because it would soon be over and he would be healed. He'd be able to see again just fine. He could get through it—there would be no finishing his homework and that had to be piling up, but he was certain someone could help him with it. They'd help him—Madam Pomfrey's hand left his shoulder.

Panicking was foolish but he did it anyway. He could hear her heartbeat, knew exactly where she was, and somehow that only made it worse. Sephiroth's hearing was good, but he'd never really payed it that much attention. Now he couldn't stop hearing her heartbeat, his own heartbeat, and there was nothing comforting about it.

The doors to the hospital were pushed open and hurried footsteps approached, followed by the scent of lilies and plum trees.

"You're awake!" said Aerith, her relief palpable. She wasted no time crushing him in a hug, which he latched on to with more desperation than he intended.

"You're already here?" said Sephiroth in confusion, blinking his eyes repeatedly. It didn't make the world any less nonexistent.

"Already," she laughed. "We've been here the entire time you were unconscious. Apparently you couldn't hear us. . . . Fred and George will be disappointed, they made a huge effort to make noise."

Madam Pomfrey audibly gritted her teeth. Sephiroth could imagine fury rolling off her in waves.

"Students aren't allowed to visit anymore," said Aerith in explanation. "They sneaked in and caused quite the ruckus."

That almost brought a smile to Sephiroth's face. Almost.

He could hear the smile in Aerith's voice, but couldn't see it. The warmth of the sun seeped into his shoulder after that long fall through the darkness. He couldn't see that, either. It was only temporary. He couldn't see who walked through the door next. It would be fixed soon. Whoever came in had a heavy footfall, but that could have been any number of people.

He didn't really care how soon it was fixed. He couldn't see anything.

Sephiroth only started hearing what everyone was saying around him when Harry was mentioned. The one who entered was Cloud, keeping a gloved hand on Sephiroth's shoulder the entire time, as if to reassure Sephiroth he hadn't left.

"I'll be right back," said Cloud, squeezing Sephiroth's shoulder. "I'm getting your brother."

The protest rising in Sephiroth's throat abruptly cut off, and he nodded quickly. When the warmth of Cloud's hand had long faded from his shoulder, Aerith sitting by his side, he brought a hand to his eyes. There was no rubbing away what was wrong, he knew that, but it didn't stop him trying.

"We've been looking for the monster," said Aerith, idly pulling his hair out of his face and tying it back—probably with the black ribbon she got him for Christmas. "It stopped after you. No one else was attacked."

"What about Hagrid?" said Sephiroth. "He's not here right now? Where is he?"

Aerith's hand paused tying off the ribbon and Sephiroth braced himself for the bad news. Nothing could have prepared him for what he was told.

"He was arrested," she said quietly. Before he could get a word edgewise, she added, "He was falsely accused. We're sure of it, we just don't have any concrete evidence."

"What about Professor Dumbledore?" said Sephiroth, unable to stay calm any longer. "Did he just let Hagrid be taken away? Why would they think Hagrid attacked anyone, anyway? It's Hagrid and he's—he's . . ."

Always been there, from the very beginning. Sephiroth wanted to believe the day could not get any worse, but he knew from experience that was asking for misfortune.

Aerith regaled everything, from Professor Dumbledore being suspended to Harry writing in the diary and learning of Hagrid being falsely accused. Hagrid has said they should follow the spiders and it would shed more light on the mystery. He was tantalized by the certainty he'd seen the spiders moving toward something, but unable to remember where. Worse still, he chased his thoughts in circles trying to remember, looping back to darkness every time.

It was hard to ignore being blind. That Aerith could startle him by resting a hand on his shoulder, meant to be comforting, served to pound another nail in his coffin. What little serenity he had left was fast being buried under turmoil and fear.

"Don't worry about it," said Aerith soothingly. If anyone else spoke those words, it would have been laughable. "What happened?"

He was unconscious for nine weeks, missed his brother talking to someone who might have purposefully led him off course, and Hagrid and Dumbledore were taken from the school. The monster was no closer to being stopped than it was before he was attacked and without their resident expert on magical creatures, he couldn't think of a way to identify the monster. And then there was the lookalike in his head, laughing mockingly and relishing in the grief of those who'd lost their loved ones.

A lot happened and he didn't know where to start. He was entirely sure he had the full right to start panicking, but he didn't even know what to panic over first.

"Something's in my head," said Sephiroth, a terrible way to begin if there ever was one, and he hurried to continue. "He looks like me, but taller . . . and evil."

Sephiroth remembered being impaled through the stomach very clearly, except he'd ended up back on the pond as if none of it occurred. After leaving that mental world, sitting next to Aerith (in the dark), he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it or not.

He waited for a reply, but Aerith seemed to have fallen silent again and he didn't appreciate it. Even if her expression was telling, it wasn't as though he could see her face. Just as annoyance was starting to bubble in his chest, she finally broke the stifling quiet.

"He looked like you?" she said. Her heart beat a fraction faster and Sephiroth knew she was truly worried.

"That's what I said," Sephiroth replied waspishly. He instantly felt a prick of guilt for being short-tempered, but it was drowned under inability to find his mug full of potion. Aerith pressed it into his hands, leaving Sephiroth trying his best not to feel utterly helpless.

"There shouldn't be anyone besides yourself in your mind," said Aerith. "He was dangerous?"

The man had stabbed Sephiroth through the stomach and taunted him.

"Yes," he said. "Can you . . . get rid of him?"

Preferably before the man killed Sephiroth for real. He didn't know if it was possible to die in his own mind—perhaps he'd go brain dead?—but he didn't want to risk it.

"I monitored your mind the entire time you were asleep," said Aerith, "and there was nothing like what you said."

"He was there," said Sephiroth immediately, wondering if he'd made a mistake saying anything. If he was going insane, he didn't want anyone knowing. "I saw him. He tried to kill me."

"It's possible," said Aerith after another long, unwanted pause, "that your mind created what you saw. Hostile mental invaders aren't impossible, but I don't sense anything off with your mind. . . . It's complicated, but yours in a mind with many nightmares."

"So, what you're saying is: if anyone's mind is gonna try and kill its body, it's my mind," said Sephiroth, doing his best to stare woodenly at her—he didn't know if he succeeded or not. That frustrated him almost as much as being unable to find a mug. "My brain hates me."

"That's . . . not what I meant," said Aerith.

Sephiroth was pretty sure that was exactly what she meant.

"If it happens again, I'll have to peer deeper inside your mind," said Aerith, and he couldn't quite tell if her tone was somber or not. If he could see her expression—

The mug burst in Sephiroth's hands and Aerith jumped slightly.

"Sorry," he mumbled, internally reeling. He grasped around for his wand, hoping a simple repario would do the trick, and prayed Madam Pomfrey wouldn't be too furious at him for wasting a potion.

Instead of letting him fumble around, Aerith pulled the sheets back, taking the shards of the broken mug with it. Right before she left to retrieve new sheets, she set his wand in his hands. His wand was a reassurance, even if he had to feel for the right end, making the inescapable absence of everything a little more bearable. The door banged open with the force of a charging elephant after she returned, a roar of overlapping voices following. Sephiroth thought he heard Oliver Wood in the mix, which was baffling to say the least. Before he could be certain, Madam Pomfrey had ran most of them out of the hospital.

He found himself surrounded by his friends—although not before Madam Pomfrey had given them a stern talking to—as they all tried to talk at once, often plowing right over each other. Sephiroth was pulled into a hug and he didn't even need to hear Harry's voice, giving a near unperceptive shake, to know it was his brother. Genesis was warm as the fire he wielded, Hermione smelled of ink and books.

"It's good to see you, mate," said Ron.

"Ron," Hermione hissed.

"What?" he said.

She sighed.

There was an unspoken conversation going on and Sephiroth wished he knew what they were communicating via facial expressions. He also wished they wouldn't, because he couldn't participate.

"So," said Angeal, settling by Sephiroth's side, with Harry was on the other side, "are your eyes really . . .?"

"We're going right into the sensitive questions?" said Genesis. "And you all say I'm blunt. Honestly."

"It's only temporary," Sephiroth parroted what Madam Pomfrey said, more for himself than them. "I'll be fine soon."

"Yes, but are you feeling well?" said Harry in concern, hovering so close Sephiroth could nearly sense his proximity. "I'm not taking 'fine' for an answer, Seph. How are you feeling?"

Hermione, Genesis, and Ron had settled on the other end of the cot, going off the sudden sag in weight. Someone—definitely Genesis—nudged Sephiroth's legs aside so he'd have more room to lounge. And if Sephiroth didn't know better, that rustling was the sound of pages being flipped quickly. Hermione had brought books to the hospital. He wasn't at all surprised.

"Everything's . . ."

"Unclear?" Genesis suggested, followed by a yelp. "Just trying to lighten the mood—ow, Hermione I didn't mean it like that!"

"Genesis, two minutes is too soon to make puns," said Angeal.

"It's alright," said Sephiroth, making them all fall quiet again. He shifted uncomfortably, the inability to see what they were thinking borderline torturous. "It's better than you all . . . acting like something's really wrong, I guess."

"Are you kidding?" said Ron, snorting. "You're looking at a few more weeks of no homework. And since you can't help you skipped all those classes, you might even get a free graduation."

"Don't be daft, they can't do that," said Hermione. "Graduation is earned."

The conversation was idle chatter for a while, Hermione trying to fit nine weeks of education into one short lecture, Ron attempting to stop her, and Genesis only adding notes every now and then. It inevitably turned to the question they all had, but were too hesitant to immediately voice. When Genesis ever-so-subtly brought up the subject of magical creatures, Sephiroth couldn't help a sigh.

"It was a snake of some sort," he said, smiling faintly when they assured him he didn't really have to tell them right now—they could wait. He could hear their impatience. "It was very big, fit the entire hall I was in—and don't look it in the eyes."

"Hermione thought she might have had a good idea of what it was," said Genesis, "but there's no way to actually find the creature. All the books are checked out."

"All twenty copies of them," said Hermione, disgruntled. "Who went and checked them all out? They should have been returned by now, too. Madam Pince is furious."

"I think she's more annoyed someone else connected the dots before her," mumbled Ron into Sephiroth's ear.

"I can hear you," snapped Hermione.

"You wouldn't believe the new Defense professor we've got," said Harry excitedly. "Malfoy's dad's good for something, at least. Professor Lupin actually knows how to teach."

"Apparently Professor Dumbledore had already scouted him for next year," said Angeal, "but they brought him in earlier to take Lockhart's place. There's a huge scandal going on about the areas his books take place, too. Suspected fraud."

"Snape hates him, though," said Harry sourly, before adding, very sarcastically, "Big loss that is, right?"

"I don't think Snape likes anyone," said Ron sagely.

At the promise of a good class, Sephiroth was looking forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts. The last time he was eager for a DADA class was before his very first class last year.

They were made to leave by Madam Pomfrey soon after Sephiroth ate, his first solid meal in nine weeks. His body wasn't thanking him for the long fast, even with Madam Pomfrey managing to keep him alive with magic. Hermione had talked about it a great deal, admiration ringing in her voice, and Sephiroth knew she'd found a new subject of interest to study to death. There was a vacuum left in the hospital after they were gone, which Sephiroth failed to completely ignore.

Madam Pomfrey left him another dose of potion and he must have made a disgusted face, because she admonished him for being picky. As she bustled around the hospital, robes sweeping across the floor, Sephiroth fingered the cup reluctantly. He knew it was going to restore his sight (eventually), but that didn't make it taste or smell any better.

"It'll only take a few weeks at most," said Madam Pomfrey, "what with Miss Gainsborough's assistance. I've never seen magic of the likes before, but it certainly works miracles. It's speeding up your recovery."

"That's good," said Sephiroth, pinching his nose and gulping the potion all at once. He almost gagged, but kept it down.

"I'll say," said Madam Pomfrey. "Stay here any longer and you'll be striking up permanent residence."

The hospital slowly cooled as night fell, the windows left open at Sephiroth's request so he could hear the noises outside. He ended up regretting it several hours later, when he lay awake and didn't feel the slightest bit exhausted. It was to be expected, he supposed, after sleeping for over two months. Even if he was tired, there were some odd noises at night in Hogwarts, most of them originating from the Forbidden Forest. Normally he didn't notice, but being surrounded by nothing seemed to make his ears hypersensitive to everything.

He had tried to close the windows, but navigating the hospital without sight was harder than it seemed. Hearing heartbeats and breathing didn't help him locate chairs, or tables, or the odd book that had fallen out of place and ended up in the wrong place. Sephiroth just hoped the hospital didn't look like a tornado tore through it, as he suspected it did. Suffice it to say, the windows remained open.

It was times like that, when he was blind and not quite sure if he'd left his wand on the bedside table, he remembered the scary movies Dudley used to watch when Vernon and Petunia weren't home. And the horror games he played on his computer. They weren't real, but that didn't stop Sephiroth's brain helpfully picturing a grotesque humanoid creature crouching under his bed. Or outside the curtains. Or peering through the curtains—

There was a muffled thump somewhere outside—Sephiroth made a scramble for his wand, missed three times, knocked over his cup again, and finally found his wand. He heard two voices cursing and, straining his ears, he recognized them as Fred and George.

When the twins' voices had faded from hearing, the steady drip-drop of his spilled potion stopped, Sephiroth laid back again. That was around when he noticed it. A buzz, fainter than the static electricity sound he used to hear, vibrating so quietly he almost thought he was imagining it. But he wasn't and the longer he focused on it, the louder it became.

It was in the walls, the ceiling, the floor—flowing in Sephiroth's veins. Tightly wound in the wand in Sephiroth's hand, a slipstream of energy that wasn't so much contained within the wood as it was channeled. It was like an early memory, half forgotten but surely there.

Magic.

There was magic—and it was everywhere.

It was as though a switch was flipped in his mind, and he wondered how he'd never noticed in the past. The magic wasn't exactly trying to be quiet, saturated into the flagged stone floors and falls. Sephiroth had heard the story of how the founders of Hogwarts build the school with magic countless times, but he'd never realized how much magic was used in the magic until now. It was a beacon, loud and chaotic yet calm and clear.

His eyes were no more useful than they were minutes ago, but magic might as well have been a sixth sense—even if he still tripped over that one chair, because apparently magic wasn't used to make it.

Sephiroth would have immediately headed for Gryffindor Tower, but Madam Pomfrey had come to investigate the clamor he made trying to close the windows. She directed him back to his cot and didn't seem to take relief in his assurance he could get there on his own.

"I can see magic," he said. "I'm fine."

"What dose did I give you again?" said Madam Pomfrey. "Are you feeling woozy?"

"I'm fine," said Sephiroth, chipper despite waking up mere hours ago completely blind and desolate. "Magic solves everything!"

"Oh dear."

A/N:...Yeah I just had Remus Lupin instated as professor early. It doesn't technically count if he only teaches half a year, so the jinx is moot. (In my head.) Honestly, there's a lot of mental-games going on in this chapter, because everyone seems inclined to keep the truth dangling just above Sephiroth's head and he doesn't even realize.

Guest: "Something tells me Draco is the one to check out all those books from the library." Not exactly, but I can't really explain (at the risk of my own health, you see, the person responsible might hurt me). However, Draco definitely is the type to sit and try to make a strategy. Now whether some people (looking at Genesis here) will listen is another story...

Kit: Yeah, Aerith does have a sort-of connection through the lifestream, so she knows if something's up. The person who actually sensed something was wrong with Sephiroth in particular was Cloud, though. They've still got that mental connection thing going on, even if Cloud doesn't use it and Sephiroth doesn't know about it. And I'm explaining this because Sephiroth is an oblivious child and probably won't even ask. And even if he does, Cloud will just skirt around the answer. (Making my job so much harder, guys, jeez).

Jaron: Well, the crossroads weren't Jenova... tbh, it's more of a metaphorical thing this time. And Older Seph playing mind games. He likes doing it wayyy too much, and it doesn't help I like writing that kind of weird stuff. XD I'm pretty sure Cloud's got a glare for everything... Though that was mostly because he probably doesn't trust hospitals if he doesn't know the doctors. ...Oooh, Aerith's theme! Makes me cry every time T_T And thanks! I actually have considered writing an original work, but it takes a lot of work and I've never managed to develop a plot that fully takes my interest enough to stick to it. (I get distracted by fanfiction too easily XD).

Toby: Yeah, Cloud's pretty much managed to move forward from the past. Plus Sephiroth's a little kid and I'm pretty sure he's got a soft spot for kids... Lucius Malfoy's another one of those gray characters, some of his actions seem deplorable, while they sometimes work out in the end. Intentionally or not is up to perceptive.