Disclaimer: not mine. All Rowling's but I like to torture her characters a little bit…
Important: All written in italic is from Rowling's HP6, chapter "The Secret Riddle"
xxxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxxx
1979-1981
sss
"Lily, take Harry and run! He is it! Hurry! I'll stop him –"
Today was the day.
sss
Albus Dumbledore sat silently at his desk, looking into nothing.
He felt old.
It had been years ago since he had participated in a war and this time around, everything seemed to drag out. He couldn't remember fighting this long in the last war.
He sighed.
"Albus?"
"I'm fine, Alastor," he said. "Just tired. This war… all those deaths… they seem so useless right now."
Albus shook his head.
Maybe, he was delusional with age, but sometime wondered if he had gone and done something wrong when it came to handling Tom Riddle's education.
The boy back then, had been a bright boy, Albus remembered, a bright yet already badly influenced boy.
Even before lying his eyes on the boy, Albus had already known that. The boy's caretaker had ensured that he knew what the boy was capable of before he even entered the room or met the boy himself...
"He scares the other children." She had told him.
"You mean he is a bully?"
"I think he must be. But it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents… nasty things… Billy Stubbs's rabbit… well, Tom said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"
Then there had been the story of the two children in the cave. They had never been quite right afterwards.
It was a sad story. A child, bright, intelligent – and yet already cruel with a penchant for secrecy and domination.
"I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to. I knew I was different. I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."
The boy had been a bit more open back then – and yet, Albus had come too late to safe him… but he had tried, even though the boy had already shown that he wanted independence – that he wanted to be different.
"I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips – they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?"
"It is unusual," Albus had answered, after a moments hesitation. "but not unheard of."
He had tried to play it casual, not hiding his curiosity… But in the end, the interest he had shown to the child hadn't been enough.
Being prefect and having perfect marks hadn't been enough.
Being head boy hadn't been enough.
And Albus had been forced to sit by and watch the child grow into a cruel man – a man who had been capable of murder at the tender age of fifteen, even if Albus had never been able to prove it.
"You look distracted, today, Albus," Alastor said in that moment, pulling Albus out of his memories. "I somehow get the feeling that it doesn't do you any good."
Albus sighed.
"It's getting worse," he finally said, giving his friend something, even if it wasn't the answer the other man wanted to hear. "Voldemort is on the rise, and no matter what we do, we're incapable of stopping him. Instead, the fight seem to drag out longer and longer."
Alastor sighed.
"There are people who are following him – and they drag more and more people with them into the abyss," he agreed. "You're right, it's getting worse – but we're not alone. The Ministry is doing what it can and there is this other group Black is crushing on… we have help, even if it's not enough."
Albus frowned.
"The other group… they're ruthless. They don't help with the death count at all, Alastor," he pointed out with another sigh and closed his eyes.
"They're efficient," Alastor countered and Albus felt something twist inside his stomach.
Death.
He simply couldn't condone death.
Especially not when it came to killing others just because they were of a different belief than your own side.
"Alastor," Albus said with a frown. "Killing them isn't the answer. They're misguided. If we can show them that they're wrong, they will change."
Albus was a firm believer that people could change if you just gave them the chance and means to do so. If you killed them then that potential was lost and Albus didn't want that.
The magical world needed them just like it needed the muggleborns…
Even Tom was just misguided once – and Albus had tried to correct his behaviour...
"The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes."
It hurt that later on, he had been forced to admit that he hadn't managed to change the path Tom had stepped on before he even turned eleven years of age…
"People can change, Alastor," he added, pointing out that fact to his friend. "We just need to ensure that they do. They need lenience to do so. Voldemort… he–"
"He has charisma," Alastor agreed, stopping Albus mid-sentence. "He can talk… but if his people really wanted to change, they had already done so years ago because no matter how much you talk – your actions speak more."
Albus just shook his head with a sigh, disagreeing wordlessly with Alastor.
The other man was an Auror and maybe therefore didn't understand it.
They could be saved, Albus was sure – after all, even Gellert was starting to change now, after he had been imprisoned in Nurmengard.
Albus knew that the Death Eaters would be able to do the same if you just gave them the time to do so.
No person was quintessentially evil, after all. Even Tom had started out as a young and misguided child…
But he also knew that this was a point he and Alastor would always disagree on. The other man was far more inclined to see people as through and through evil than as someone who still had the potential for goodness.
That didn't stop Alastor from bringing up the argument time after time.
"We shouldn't try to spare them," Alastor said and leaned forward. "If we do, we will continue to lose."
Albus sighed, but before he could say anything else, the door opened and James Potter stepped inside with a frown on his face.
"You wanted to speak with me, Headmaster?" he asked.
Albus send his former student a slight smile and then gestured for the chair next to Alastor.
"I did," he agreed. "It pertains to the message I delivered to you a few months ago and they safety measures we have taken to assure your family's protection."
James frowned.
"We talked about my family's safety last week," he pointed out to Albus. "I don't understand what else there is to say about it."
"It pertains to the healer Salazar that Sirius is so fond of," Albus explained and while James frowned, Albus still thought that the other man would listen to reason, in the end. After all, in times like that, trusting strangers was the worst thing you could do if you were hunted by the opposition…
xXxXxXxXx
"My Lord."
Voldemort looked up from the table he had been working on. On the surface were maps and parchments full of names.
"Any reason why you're interrupting me, Lucius?" he asked casually.
Lucius bowed.
"Yes, my Lord," he agreed and Voldemort couldn't help but look the other man over. Lucius Malfoy was as immaculate clothed as ever. He looked like those lords of old, Voldemort had only read about in school – and acted like them as well. "There are news from the Potters. There's rumours that they're going into hiding through the means of a spell nearly lost in time."
"A spell lost?" Voldemort asked while his mind dwelt on the fact that after years of work he was finally able to actually command his troupes without fearing objections.
He remembered that at the beginning, it had been harder.
"Shouldn't we ensure that our world is safe from the muggles?" he had told his peers back in Hogwarts. "Just look at them right now: they kill each other indiscriminately, not even bothered by the fact that they don't just kill themselves but us as well! We're not involved in their pitiful grievances – we have our own battles to fight – and yet, if they come across us, they kill us all the same!"
It had taken some time – nearly all of his years in Hogwarts since third year – to find a support base. The time before… Voldemort didn't like to think about it. When he had come to Hogwarts, he had expected peers, but as a muggleborn in Slytherin, it hadn't been easy. He had been forced to learn what others had grown up with as fast as possible. Under the watchful eyes of Dumbledore and the man's negative words in the previous Headmaster's ears, the boy Voldemort had been back then, had nearly drowned in his first years of Hogwarts.
"Do you think it's wise to try and impress your peers reading these books and trying the spells contained in them, Tom? Books like that… they talk about things that shouldn't be read by young, impressionable children."
Of course, it didn't help that the man showed open distrust towards Voldemort wherever they met.
"Tom. I can't remember you owning this book," there had been a cool and reprimanding look from the teacher who wasn't caring that they were in the Great Hall and all of Tom's peers were listening in. "How about you give it back to the person it belongs to? Or do you want to spend your time cleaning the trophy room?"
Voldemort had hated it, had resented the other man more and more over time – especially with his hands-of approach when it came to anything else, but the things he personally witnessed.
"But, Professor! Umbridge tried to rip up my homework! I was just–"
"I understand, Mr. Riddle. Nevertheless, I doubt that Mr. Umbridge would have destroyed another person's work like that," the Professor had looked at the Gryffindor student until the boy shook his head.
"I wouldn't," he said.
"There you go, Tom. Spells like the one you tried to use aren't necessary. Twenty points from Slytherin."
Voldemort had hated that man and he had been happy when he had finally found proof of an inheritance that Dumbledore could have told him about years earlier – an inheritance that finally gave Voldemort the edge he needed to establish himself in Slytherin and start his path upwards in the magical world.
Of course, finding the right initiative hadn't hurt as well.
"We're held back just so that the mudbloods are able to catch up! This is our education, we're talking about! Shouldn't we try to get the best there is – and not being held back by those who aren't even inclined to learn about our world!"
Over time, it had been Dumbledore's agenda that had further helped his own – especially after Dumbledore had made headmaster.
"They actually went and changed Samhain into Hallowe'en! Yule into Christmas! Our traditions are lost to accommodate the Mudbloods! Lost for a world that shouldn't even be considered when it comes to our own – nevertheless dominated!"
It had taken time and some insurances, but in the end, Voldemort had gotten where he needed to be to ensure his visions came true.
Of course, then, when he was finally about to reach his goal, another obstacle ended up in his way.
A prophecy – and two little boys that could be his downfall.
And while Voldemort expected the Longbottoms – a long line of purebloods – to finally see reason and change sides, the Potters – Charlus, Fleamont, James – were known for their stubbornness, their utter belief in what they thought right.
Voldemort had never met a Potter, except on the battlefield, but he knew the tales.
Henry, against the dark wizard Morgan.
Fleamont, the Unspeakable.
Charlus, the tactician against Grindelwald.
And James, a man he had crossed wands with and who had actually managed to hold his own for a while.
Dangerous.
Destructive.
Unwilling to bend.
Only one other person had ever showed the same traits had been a healer, Voldemort had once met on the battlefield.
He was ripped from that thought by Lucius.
"We haven't found out what kind of spell they're planning to use, yet, my Lord," Lucius said. "But, some of us who know a bit about obscure magic fear it might be the Fidelius."
"The Fidelius?" asked Voldemort, his mind turning to his knowledge of obscure spells as well.
"It might be more than a bit of a problem if they do," Lucius agreed. "To get the secret–"
"Will be nearly impossible," Voldemort concluded. For a moment, he looked down towards the maps and lists in front of him. Then he turned back around and looked at his servant.
"Do everything possible to find them and stop them from hiding," he instructed. "Find the others of their little resistance. Back them into a corner. We will step up our plans. Let's draw them out!"
"What about the other… resistance?" Lucius asked. "What about the Nightwitches?"
"Bring them down, if you can," Voldemort answered and turned back to the maps. "If you can't, try to distract them. Until we kill the Potters and either kill the Longbottoms or they're changing sides, they are of lesser importance."
"Yes, my Lord," with that, Lucius left him to his plans.
XxxXxXxXx
"Don't forget, mummy loves you, daddy loves you!"
The door was blasted open.
sSs
"You don't understand, James! It's dangerous! Do you really want to endanger your child that way?!"
Sal felt frustrated.
He knew what would happen.
He knew that Tom Riddle was obsessed with the Potters.
But he had no proof.
And without proof, there was nothing he could offer to explain his anxiety.
"I'm aware that it's dangerous," James replied with an eye roll. "The Dork Lord is after us. We've been in conflict with him at least three times – and now he's definitely trying to kill us–"
Sal threw James a frustrated look with his vagueness.
"I can't help you if you–"
"We've got it handled," James replied and waved it off. "Don't worry about us."
But Sal worried.
Sal had worried for months, since Harryjames had been born.
And while his worry had been dismissed by Lily and James as too much, at least Sirius had gotten a bit more paranoid.
Sal wondered if he was the reason why they'd change the Secret Keeper to Pettigrew in the end – a man, Sal had never met and therefore couldn't judge.
Sal balled his hands.
"Alright," he said, closing his eyes. "Alright. But, James… be careful, will you?"
"We will," James agreed, now sounding a lot softer than before. "I understand that you're stressed. We all are. There've been attacks everywhere. We're barely able to counter them anymore – even with your group and ours working on it."
They weren't coordinating, because that would have meant to work with Dumbledore, but they definitely worked on it.
Sal rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Let's go with this," he agreed, not willing or able to try and tell them the real reason.
James reached out and squeezed his shoulder.
"We've something planned. Lily found the spell," he tried to reassure Sal. "We're going into hiding under it in a few days' time."
Sal didn't even need his foreknowledge to know which spell they were talking about.
"You plan to use the Fidelius," he gathered.
For a moment, James looked a bit taken aback, that Sal had combined that conclusion out of his words, then he appraised Sal a second time.
"I'm surprised you came to that conclusion," he said and Sal sighed.
"Lily was researching spells for hiding. No matter what, if you don't try to build layers of wards over wards within days – something that's impossible – the only way to hide something fast and securely is the Fidelius," he pointed out. "It's also obscure enough, that the opposition might not know it."
It wouldn't matter.
They would be found anyway.
"Sirius will be our secret keeper," James said and Sal looked at him sharply.
"I wouldn't go around and announce that in public," he reprimanded the other man. "You'll never know who will overhear."
James pressed his lips together and then looked pointedly around the empty field they had met in. It had been suggested by James to meet here and Sal was keenly aware that he hadn't been invited to James' and Lily's home like normally.
"We're also going to move," James added and didn't look at Sal. "Sirius and Lily are currently doing it."
Sal closed his eyes at that admission.
"You're not going to tell me your new address," he concluded.
James grimaced.
"Sirius is against it," he said. "He trusts you. But… I know… no, I think I know that you're not a bad kind… but I can't risk it. I'm sorry."
Sal couldn't help but stare at James as if he was mad.
Then he tipped his chest, displaying his healer's oath.
"I think," he said dryly. "That this should definitely tell you the answer."
James just looked at the oath for a second, before he looked up into Sal's eyes again.
"Lily told me there are differences in your oath compared to others. She noticed it," he commented calmly.
Sal closed his eyes.
Of all the times…
Of course, Sirius had known that as well… but he also knew that the other man had kept it for himself, and Sal had never expected Lily to see it...
"Yes," he agreed because he couldn't deny the truth. "But not one of those differences would give me the right to hurt you – or kill or betray you."
"We can't risk it," James said calmly, apologetically. "Not with Harryjames. I'm sorry."
Sal closed his eyes.
His hands balled to fists.
Of course.
When James turned around, Sal couldn't help but speak up again.
His heart arched.
"Tell me," he said tiredly. "Is this you, speaking – or are those the words of somebody else?"
For a moment, James hesitated.
In the end he sighed.
"Dumbledore doesn't know of the difference in your oath," he said and apparated away.
Nevertheless, those words had answered Sal's question.
Dumbledore might not have known of the difference – but it was his mistrust speaking, nevertheless.
Sal curled into himself.
It hurt.
He had known that he wouldn't be able to change it, but he hadn't known that he would be thrown out of James' and Lily's life like that. Never like that.
He understood their fear.
He understood their caution.
And it hurt to know that their actions had been logical – they couldn't know the differences and what they changed with Sal's oath – and yet, so utterly unnecessary.
Sal didn't know how long he sat there after he had curled into himself and lost his footing, but in the end, it was Ana who found him.
"Pater?" he asked and Sal shook his head.
"I'm alright, Ana."
The vampire sighed and sat down next to Sal.
"Somehow," he said dryly. "I have the feeling that you're anything but alright. You're grieving."
Sal took a deep breath and wanted to deny it – just to stop and understand that that was what he did.
He was grieving.
He was grieving for the loss of three of his friends.
He was grieving for the living – and that hurt the most.
Because in barely a week's time, he would be grieving for the dead instead.
xXxXxXxXx
"You didn't do it just because of whatever Dumbledore said, did you?"
James pressed his lips together.
"Sirius..."
"No," his brother in all but blood shook his head. "I want to hear it from your lips, Prongs. Tell me you had a reason and maybe I'll understand."
For a moment, James had the urge to look away, but then he squared his shoulders and returned the other man's gaze coolly.
"His healer's oath is different. Lily noticed and–"
"So?" James stopped dead at Sirius's reply.
"That… that's your answer to that?!" he stared at his best friend incredulously.
Sirius shrugged.
"I've always known that his healer's oath is different. But, as much as I hate my family, I was also taught that differences don't matter. It's the similarities that do."
James frowned.
"What are you talking about, Sirius?" he asked. "A difference like that could stop it from working–"
Sirius snorted.
"You and I both know that it wouldn't. It's an oath. No matter what, it's binding – even if it might contain a bit of a difference, it's clearly a healer's oath, which means that no matter what, he's sworn to save lives and not endanger them."
There was a sort of reprimand in his voice that actually stopped James and made him scrutinize his brother in all but blood closer.
Sirius returned the gaze seriously and calmly.
"An oath is an oath," he repeated. "You can't just go and put your distrust on that alone."
James frowned.
"You know something," he concluded. "You know something about him that makes you trust him – absolutely and without question."
Sirius sighed.
"I do," he agreed, not elaborating.
James frowned.
"Is there a reason why you never said anything?"
Sirius sighed.
"Because I forced him to speak about it when I panicked after you and Lily ended up buried in that cave," he confessed. "He… well, he calmed me and also distracted me with it."
James frowned, but he connected the dots immediately.
"Whatever it is, it ensures your trust in him," he concluded. "And it also ensured your loyalty in such a strong way that you keep his secrets even from us."
The 'you normally don't' was implied.
Sirius sighed.
"Does it matter?" he countered. "You already decided that he's not worthy of your trust."
James winced.
Even if Sirius hadn't said anything, the reprimand was clearly heard.
"We're not trusting Remus. We're not trusting anybody but you and Petey," he pointed out. "I think that trusting somebody we barely know… is risky at that."
"You're also trusting Dumbledore," Sirius countered. "He has a slip with the secret on it."
James sighed.
"He's the leader of the light," he countered. "And while Lily doesn't really like it, she agreed that it was best that somebody had a slip of the secret just in case."
Sirius looked a bit surprised at that.
"She doesn't like it?" he asked astonished.
James sighed.
"She's been a bit different when it comes to some things about the Order of a few months now," he said with a sigh. "I guess, it's influenced by Salvazsahar."
Sirius shrugged.
"It's Lily, I doubt she actually lets somebody influence her even a bit if she hadn't found reasons to see it their way," he countered.
James agreed with amusement in his eyes.
"You want me to change my decision, don't you?" James finally asked. "You want me to add Salvazsahar to the wards."
Sirius winced.
"I understand that you want to keep Harryjames safe, but… I know he's no danger for my godson, believe me, Prongs."
For a moment, James looked at him solemnly, then he closed his eyes and sighed again.
"Give us a few days. I will think about it and talk with Lily… not that I think that she won't agree. She's more on your side than on mine in this case even if she's cautious."
Sirius smiled.
"That's all I can ask."
James nodded, and decided to bring it up with Lily after Samhain.
It was only another day, after all...
xXxXxXxXx
"You tell me, you can lead me to them?"
"Yes, My Lord," the rat-like man whimpered, his head bowed low while he shook with fear. "I was made their secret keeper today."
Voldemort looked at the pathetic man in front of him.
The Secret Keeper.
They had done a Fidelius Charm.
For a moment, Voldemort was actually impressed by the ingenuity of his opponents, then he sneered at their deep-sitting trust in the people they called friends.
For a moment, he contemplated his fortune.
They had basically been served to him on a silver platter.
Samhain would be tomorrow – and killing the Potters and his prophesied defeater on such a day… making his final Horcrux on such a day… would be fortunate, indeed, for him.
For a second, that thought actually made him recoil when he had it.
He had thought that before, two years and one day ago – and had ended that Samhain night nearly defeated by a man he had never met before.
A stranger.
A healer.
Somebody who shouldn't have had the power to fight back at all.
Voldemort shuddered at that thought, his mind drifting back to that moment – that one moment when he had been so sure of his victory...
xXx
It had been a raid in a mixed – magical and muggle – village near the Forest of Dean that ended in a battle against Dumbledore's men in the middle of the woods. And while their precious leader had been occupied elsewhere, Voldemort and his troupes had triumphed on the battlefield.
There had been bleeding and dead order members all around.
There had been nobody up to a fight anymore.
Nobody who could have stopped Voldemort anymore.
At least, that was what he thought until he had seen a healer kneeling above some hurt order members – members who had battled Voldemort themselves that day and had only lost by chance.
They had given a good fight.
They had been strong.
But then, they were the Black heir, the Potter heir and his mudblood lover…
Voldemort had expected them to be strong and he hadn't been disappointed at all.
He hadn't killed them, instead chosen to let them bleed to death while being forced to listen how the rest of their people died or fell around them. Now, barely twenty minutes later, not one of them were conscious anymore.
What a pity.
Nevertheless, when Voldemort had returned to them – intending to at least give the Black and Potter heirs another chance to join them – he hadn't expected to find a healer kneeling over them, assessing their injuries and stabilizing them.
He hadn't expected someone to ignore him and his men to heal people.
Voldemort inwardly scoffed at the less than careless way the healer was acting.
He was kneeling in front of the heirs, his back vulnerable and unprotected.
An easy target, with no shield to save him and nobody to watch his back.
Stupid.
Well, Voldemort wasn't about to disregard an easy win.
He pulled his wand and shot a simple cutting curse at the healer and his patients.
Oh, theoretically, Voldemort knew that healers were protected and shouldn't be harmed – but Voldemort never cared about useless traditions like that, so killing the healer wasn't something he felt sorry for.
The curse came hurling at the Black and Potter heirs and their healer, and Voldemort expected to be left with a few enemies less within the next two seconds.
A white flash.
The curse rebounded from a barrier that surely hadn't been there just seconds before.
The healer turned.
Their eyes met – and the world fell away.
The green eyes of the healer were the same shade as the killing curse.
A cruel smile played on the face of the healer.
The next second, a splitting headache nearly overwhelmed the Dark Lord.
Memories of dozens of raids, memories of a childhood in an orphanage, memories of hundreds of dark rituals flooded the Dark Lord's mind.
Voldemort cursed and fought against the mind attack the healer was conducting on him.
How had that man managed to breach his Occlumency shields?
Who was he that he was able to do what nobody had ever done before?
Until a second ago, Voldemort had been sure that the man had nothing on the Dark Lord. His magic was barely tangible and his spells had been anything but powerful.
But this attack – this battle – showed a different thing to Voldemort.
This healer...
He might not have the magic to defeat a powerful being like Lord Voldemort – but he definitely had the will and the skill to be a danger, nevertheless.
With that thought, Voldemort brought out his magical power to overwhelm what he couldn't defeat with just skill alone.
A malicious smile from the healer was the answer to his increasing magical power.
Then a burst of magic came from the being in front of Voldemort.
Flames erupted from the earth in between them, reaching for the Dark Lord.
Voldemort hissed a counter, but the flames just grew higher and wilder.
The Dark Lord's eyes widened.
Fiendfyre?
As if the healer knew what he had been thinking, he barred his teeth at him.
"Something worse, I assure you," he replied as if Voldemort had spoken his guess aloud.
The Dark Lord shivered.
"Leave my mind!" It was a demand, but his voice shook and for the first time since his descend to the top of the Wizarding World fear ruled the Dark Lord's thoughts.
The healer just bared his teeth further.
It was as if he was mocking Voldemort.
"I'm not in your mind, Tom Riddle," he countered.
Voldemort snarled.
"Don't you dare to mock me, Healer!" He replied, hurling another curse toward the healer in front of him.
The curse splashed against a shield Voldemort had never seen before.
Again, a white flash showed the moment the curse collided with the shield.
The healer laughed, his laugh harsh and without joy.
The fire surrounding Voldemort burned even higher, making him retreat another step.
"I'm not mocking you, Tom Riddle," the healer replied, his green eyes closing before opening to a poisonous green – a green that Voldemort had never seen before; a green worse than the killing curse could ever be.
Something reached for Voldemort's body, slowly but surely stiffening it, turning it into stone.
There was no counter, no way to stop that gaze.
Voldemort couldn't turn his eyes away.
He couldn't overwhelm that magic, couldn't counter it, couldn't defeat it.
For a bitter second or two, Voldemort tasted utter defeat at the hands of a man so much less powerful than he.
Then, with an act of utter, fear-induced strength, Voldemort managed to rip his gaze away from the being's in front of him.
The feeling of turning into stone vanished, but the terror stayed.
Voldemort had ripped his gaze away, but now he didn't dare to look into the eyes so much like a basilisk's anymore. Something deep inside him was sure that he was just still alive because the man in front of him was standing behind a barrier which filtered the deadly gaze of his...
Voldemort shuddered.
Fear was clutching his heart in a way he had never felt before.
This healer was a monster...
"I'm more than just a monster, Tom Riddle," the healer assured him, his voice showing a kind of strained amusement that Voldemort couldn't comprehend. His face was amused and Voldemort was sure he hadn't said any of his thoughts aloud.
"Stay out of my mind!" Voldemort screeched, the fear now so deeply integrated in him that his body had started to shake.
"I'm not in your mind," the healer repeated, bitterness in his voice and when Voldemort opened his mouth to protest what he knew was a lie, the healer continued with mock in his voice.
"No, I'm not," he repeated. "It's you, who is in my mind."
It was as if those words finally opened Voldemort's mind to comprehension.
The healer was right.
He wasn't in the Dark Lord's mind.
No, it was Lord Voldemort who had somehow entered the healer's mind – a mind so different, so alien that the only thing Voldemort had been able to do to protect himself was to use his own memories to shield himself.
With a curse, Voldemort tried to withdraw from the vast darkness that was the healer's mind, but something stopped him, forced him to stay.
And now, that Voldemort knew what had actually happened, he was aware and at the mercy of the mind that surrounded him.
The stranger's mind clung to Voldemort's, holding onto it and poisoning it with a darkness that even one of the darkest Lords in history couldn't bear.
Voldemort's mind shuddered under the onslaught of power – a power made of sureness and the knowledge of the integrated abilities and danger.
The healer in front of him knew himself in a way that Voldemort had never managed to do – and was dangerous just because of it.
His mind was like a trap – a trap that Voldemort had slithered into and was now hard pressed to escape.
"I will kill you for this, Healer!" Voldemort threatened the man. The answer was another laugh without joy.
"Kill me?" The healer repeated but his mouth didn't utter a word. It seemed that the healer wasn't bothering to speak out loud anymore now that Voldemort knew what had happened and how he had been trapped. "Kill me? Try it! Find me and kill me if you can – you won't win anyway!"
Voldemort's eyes involuntarily returned to the green ones and again, his body stiffened, slowly but surely turning into stone.
He ripped his gaze away, loathing the fact that he couldn't look the man in the eyes and was instead forced to look to the floor like a servant.
There was no way to intimidate a being you couldn't look into the eye while threatening it. It was like a child, looking at the floor in front of their parents' feet threatening not to do whatever the parent said.
"I will kill you!" Voldemort repeated, his eyes locking on the healer's feet.
"Do it," the healer repeated. "But until then, understand that you aren't worth my aid any longer. You went against everything my oath stands for, you went against everything our powers stand for – and I won't recognise you any longer for it."
At that, a shiver ran down Voldemort's back.
His wand immediately snapped towards himself, his magic in search of the curse he could feel running through his body – and yet, there was nothing different.
Nothing had changed.
The healer sneered at him.
Then there was a mental shove and the next moment the part of Voldemort that had been trapped by the healer was finally free of a mind that had been about to swallow him whole.
A headache even stronger than before hit Voldemort and for a moment he saw a rune glowing in the darkness of his own mind, before the image faded, leaving the desperate feeling of flight behind.
"Leave, Dark Lord of this time," the healer said, his voice strong and old, so old. "I have no time to kill you right now. Leave – and I will let you stay alive for now."
And Voldemort knew that this was his only chance of survival.
He had no defence against the poison in the other man's eyes.
He had no defence against the wickedness of the other man's mind.
And he had no way to circumvent whatever witchcraft the other man had used to surround his patients and himself with.
"One day, I will kill you, Healer!" with that, Voldemort turned and apparated away, defeated for the moment.
"One day, you will try," was the last thing he heard before he left. "One day, Tom Riddle, you will indeed try – and that day isn't that far away anymore."
xXx
Voldemort ripped his thoughts away from the past.
It was over.
It had happened two years ago and he was even stronger now than he had been then.
"I will go there on Samhain," he told the winding, whimpering man on the ground in front of him. "Call Bellatrix and the others. I need them to create a distraction for Dumbledore and his cronies."
"Y-y-yes, M-m-my Lord," the worm of a man whimpered and then scurried away like the rat he was.
Voldemort leaned back on his throne and closed his eyes.
Green eyes met his own in his memories.
He had nearly been defeated back then – but he was stronger now.
He was stronger now, and this time around, he would win.
Harryjames Potter.
In Voldemort's mind, a rune glowed golden.
xXxXxXxXxXx
"Stand aside, girl! Stand aside and I won't kill you!"
Today was the day.
sSs
Sal was tired.
A few months ago, the attacks had suddenly started to pick up and from then on, they had barely gone a day without another raid or attack somewhere.
Sal and his people were exhausted.
But they weren't the only ones.
Even the Death Eaters looked exhausted – and normally, Sal didn't notice the state of the opposition if they worked against life.
Walking the battlefields, searching it for wounded, working on the dying, those were Sal's days in the last months.
But he wasn't the only one.
Spread over the battlefields, Sal met others like him – healers, helpers and potion's masters.
Most were people he didn't know or had expected to find when it came to walking the battlefields and healing the wounded.
"I'm not blind, Ana, I can see you from over here."
"I'm not fighting!"
"At least something. If you're already here, you can do the assessments. I know you know enough about healing to at least ensure that the dying are stabilized and treated first."
"On it, Pater!"
Some people he met were surprising.
"Healer!"
Sal looked up – just to see silver-blond and long hair. Malfoy hair.
"Tell me where to begin and I will at least be able to treat those with lesser wounds."
Sal's gaze ran over the dark robes that clearly showed him to be a Death Eater even though the mask was missing.
"I can't accept help if the help prioritizes their own fraction in the conflict."
For a moment, the Malfoy – Lucius, from the looks of it and the time line – hesitated, then he nodded curtly.
"Equal treatment," he agreed, just grimacing slightly.
It might have been the first time, Sal would work with Lucius Malfoy, but by far not the last – and he wasn't the only Death Eater who partnered with Sal over the last months to treat the wounded.
Of those few who actually decided to help the wounded, the most of them kept to themselves and Sal only saw them from afar. The most, also only treated their own colleagues.
Nevertheless, every little bit helped, so Sal let them be and turned towards the rest of the wounded to help them instead.
It were a busy kind of months, and it was only in the end that he was reminded of the date – by James, who told him that he wouldn't be allowed to see the new home.
The weeks after were even busier – and no matter where he was, he never saw James, Lily or Sirius.
"I knew that I couldn't do anything about it," he reasoned with himself tiredly. "No matter what, the past – even if it's a past only happening now – can't be changed."
"Are you alright, Pater?"
Those words actually made Sal look up.
He had been in their planning room, looking over the intelligence they had collected.
"I'm not sure," he answered and rubbed his eyes. "The nightmares haven't stopped and the whole last months haven't helped with my health at all."
He could see his son's concern when he said that.
"Pater..."
For a moment, the other man hesitated, then he stepped closer and went down on his knees in front of his father.
Ana's eyes searched Sal's, then the other man closed the distance and buried his head in Sal's stomach while hugging him.
"It's getting worse," Sal confessed. "There's no night I'm not having nightmares anymore… there's no day we're not fighting and walking the battlefields anymore… and there's no minute I'm not thinking about the fact that I'll be losing friends tomorrow."
His son drew him closer.
"I'm sorry, Pater," he whispered. "But you and I know, there's nothing we can do."
Sal returned the hug, curled over his son.
It was only a few minutes later that he became aware of the tears streaming down his face.
It hurt.
Losing them hurt.
There were nightmares.
There were raids and chaos and fight.
But, the worst thing was still losing them – even if he had never really seen them as his parents.
XxxXxXxXx
"I heard, there are some of you who went behind my back after the raids over the last months," Lord Voldemort said and looked across the room.
The Death Eaters surrounding him, exchanged concerned glances.
A few years ago, Voldemort would have ignored their doings. He would have turned a blind eye on their actions, condoning their neutral treatment of the wounded on the grounds that on the other side weren't just mudbloods, but also blood-traitors who were as pure-blooded as his own side.
But, over time, Voldemort had seen the light.
They couldn't be lenient.
They couldn't just ignore blood-traitors only for them to never learn and change.
Over time, Voldemort had seen the truth. Blood-traitors where blood-traitors – no matter the purity of their blood, they were different from them. There was no reason to try and keep them alive.
So, his Death Eaters actually helping them… was something that he had to correct.
"So," Voldemort continued. "Explain to me why some of you decided to go against everything we stand for and treated mudbloods and blood-traitors."
Some of his Death Eaters looked nervously at each other, some showed disgust and there were a few who just stared back at him, emotionless.
Snape was the most obvious.
Voldemort knew the other man had treated blood-traitors, yet, there was no remorse at all.
So Voldemort turned to him first.
"Snape," he hissed. "As far as I know, you are one of those who thought that treating blood-traitors is a good idea."
The younger man didn't flinch at that accusation, just returned Voldemort's gaze calmly.
"I'm a sworn potion's master," Snape said, not even flinching when Voldemort narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm not about to break my oaths – and they include everyone."
Admittedly, the other man had guts, nevertheless, Voldemort knew he couldn't tolerate it.
He raised his wand.
Snape just stared back, not moving, not saying anything.
It was Lucius who spoke up before Voldemort could do anything.
"He's right," he said, not looking at Snape. "As a sworn potions' master, it wouldn't be a good idea for him to break his oaths."
For a moment, Voldemort wanted to punish them both, then he reigned himself in. There were some things he couldn't do and going against the tradition of swearing potion's master in by magic was one of those things.
The oath would have to go. Sometime in the future, Voldemort would ensure that oaths like that would be changed… but that would take some time.
Nevertheless, Voldemort took it into his own hands to punish the rest of those he knew had done it as well, while Snape stood by, right next to Malfoy.
XxxXxXxXx
"Healer!"
Sal looked up from his patient to see Malfoy striding towards him.
"How far along are you here?"
When Sal raised an eyebrow, the other man elaborated.
"There's a man over there who's about to bleed out. A potion's master is trying to stabilize him, but..."
"A potion's master isn't a healer," Sal concluded and broke down his dome of wards he used for his work.
"Yes," the other man agreed while Sal stood up. "Follow me."
When they reached the patient, a dark haired man was kneeling next to him.
Sal guessed that it was the potion's master.
For a second, he wondered why the man looked so familiar, then he dismissed the thought and sat down on the opposite side of the bleeding Auror.
"Tell me what you know," he instructed and noticed the short spike in his oath that told him it had taken a hold of the potion's master's own oath.
The man straightened, clearly feeling the power resonating through his own oath that told him to listen to Sal's instruction.
"Most likely internal bleeding," he said. "He's paling rapidly and showing clear signs of blood-loss without an obvious reason. There are potions I could try, but it would be guesswork and might end up more dangerous for him than helpful."
Sal nodded and started to draw up his wards.
"I will take care of it," he promised.
"Tell me the potions you need," the potion's master agreed.
It took some time, with the potion's master treating other wounded all around them and Malfoy doing the same, but in the end, the Auror was stabilized and Sal could move on.
It was only when he nodded towards the potion's master just before leaving that he recognized him as the man who would end up teaching potions to his young self.
Severus Snape.
Well, Sal guessed that he shouldn't be too surprised that he actually met the man. Sal, after all, had already reached a time when the people he knew back then, already lived…
xXxXxXxXxXx
Albus Dumbledore was frowning.
He was sitting in his office and staring down at the grounds of Hogwarts.
Something was different tonight.
He couldn't say what, but something was different.
It felt, as if the world was holding its breath.
It didn't make sense.
Albus frowned.
Yes, it was Samhain.
Yes, a lot of the traditionalists believed that Samhain was one of the most important days in the year.
Nevertheless, it shouldn't feel like something important was happening tonight.
It shouldn't feel like something was amiss, like something was changing, warping the world into a way that Albus's mind couldn't follow.
Whatever was happening, whatever was changing, it was happening – and the dark grounds of Hogwarts couldn't tell him what was going on.
The air felt charged with magic all around him.
It felt as if the wards were pressing down on him – as if they were charged in ways that had never been before since Albus had started at the school as a young student.
He vaguely remembered headmaster Dippet telling him that there had been a case of charged wards when a student had stood up to the dark lord of that time.
The man had never told Albus what had happened back then – or why it had happened…
And tonight there was as much explanation as he had been given back then when Dippet had made that absent comment.
Albus sighed and shook his head.
Maybe, he was just overly tired.
Midnight had passed.
It was close to one o'clock in the morning and something had changed since midnight.
Something had happened.
Or maybe, that was his father's superstition Samhain that had influenced him.
Nevertheless, dread settled into his stomach, more and more since midnight.
Only when the clock finally stroked one, the tension was finally released from one second to the next.
The wards stopped humming.
The magic volatilized.
Whatever had charged the night, vanished.
And the world breathed again.
It was only a few minutes later when he was warned of the Fidelius collapsing on the Potter's home that he finally understood what happened.
Voldemort had attacked the Potters and started the prophecy – no wonder the world had held its breath that night...
xXxXxXxXxXx
"Salvazsahar," Sal turned. He had been in the middle of the battlefield, healing people left right and center.
He knew that voice.
It took him a moment to see Sirius, swaying on his feet.
The other man didn't look good.
His clothing was bloody and sooth spread over half of his body.
It looked like a blasting hex had hit him in the side and some cutting curses were evenly spread over his body.
He didn't look good.
Sal frowned and then turned back to his current patient.
The man was stabilized and would live, nevertheless, Sal wasn't done, yet.
There were potions...
He stopped his train of thought when he saw a black-clad potion master working on one of the wounded.
"Potion master!" Sal called, invoking his oath.
The man looked up immediately and Sal was surprised that he actually recognized him.
Severus Snape.
A man, Sal hadn't seen before and who he hadn't thought of for thousands of years.
"Healer," the man agreed, showing that he had taken his oaths. A potions master's oath always worked with a healer's oath, correlating with it for the best treatment of the patients.
"I need you to take a look at this man as soon as you're done with the one you're treating. I stabilized him, but he needs some potions to ensure his survival," Sal instructed. Normally, he used his own potions, but with a potion's master near and the way Sirius was staggering towards him, Sal guessed that it was better if he didn't, this time.
"Of course," Snape replied, before the sour man turned back towards his own patient.
Sal knew, that Snape was a Death Eater.
Sal also knew that the man he had been treating was an Auror.
But it didn't matter.
If Snape still reacted to his oaths, it meant that he hadn't broken them – which also meant that he had at least not poisoned others deliberately while they asked for his treatment. While the Auror in Sal's care hadn't asked for treatment, Sal had – and as a healer, his word would stand for his patients.
"Thank you," with those words, Sal checked his work on the Auror one last time and then stood up and walked towards Sirius.
He was barely in time to catch the man.
"What, by wind and fire, are you doing here?!" He asked the other man with a frown.
"'S my house tha's burnin' over there," Sirius slurred and then pointed at one of the burning buildings all around them. "I should be here at least an' watch it burnin', don'' you think?"
Sal sighed.
"I think you have a concussion," he countered dryly. "Now, let me take a look."
Sirius grinned a bit loop-sidedly at him.
"You think?" he asked and Sal sighed.
"That just confirms it," he agreed. "Now sit down and let me take a look."
It would be a long night.
A very long night.
And that had nothing to do with the fact that it was Samhain – and there was nothing he could do but wait and grieve and treat the wounded.
No matter what he did, they were already gone.
Not yet, maybe, but gone nonetheless.
xXxXxXxXx
"Not Harry! Not Harry! Please! I'll do everything!"
Today was the day she would die.
sSs
Sal didn't know how long he had been treating the wounded, he didn't know what time it was when he returned home. There was just one thing he knew.
It was too late.
He had done his best.
He had healed Sirius and then send him on his way with a dire warning for James and Lily.
It didn't matter.
Sirius wouldn't reach them in time – not when he wasn't allowed to apparate thanks to his still healing concussion and the potions working through his system. Sal could have reached them, but he hadn't been told the secret and Sirius wasn't the secret keeper.
It was heart-breaking.
And yet, Sal had known for centuries now that he would never be able to help them.
So he helped those who were still in his power to help until he couldn't see straight anymore – it didn't matter if it was emotional exhaustion that was pulling him down more than physical – and the last people were treated, and then he returned home.
He stumbled when arriving.
For a moment, he was tempted to go to bed and sleep, but the next, he brushed that thought aside.
He wouldn't be able to sleep.
Not, with what he knew happening… with what might have happened already that night.
So, in the end, he decided to undergo the ritual he always did on Samhain.
It was only past midnight, when the runes were freshly carved into his skin and settling, that he was finally too exhausted to stay awake any longer.
Sal wasn't even sure if he actually made it to bed, when he passed out.
Sadly, instead of dreamless sleep, something else awaited him.
"The child," the stranger, leaning on the tree in a forest long since gone, told him. "You promised to take a look."
Sal looked at the man who looked so familiar, yet so unrecognisable at the same time.
"I can't remember," he told the other man.
The answer was a warm sigh.
"You remember my words," the other man pointed out warmly. "And you know yourself. I doubt that you actually need to remember your answer to know how you'd answer."
Sal had to admit that the other man was right.
There was no way that he would have opposed the idea of helping someone.
Sal was a healer – had been a healer for longer than some countries existed – and no matter his vows, he would have helped anyway. He had always been that way, after all.
"You're right," he agreed and looked into the silvery eyes of the other man.
A cave.
Danger.
And a young man, more child than man, drowning in a lake full of Inferi.
Sal shuddered when that impression reached him.
"The child," the stranger said. "Help him. You promised."
The next moment, it felt as if someone pushed against Sal's chest, shoving him backwards.
Then the pressure on his chest vanished, and for a second it felt as if Sal was falling but then he woke violently, his breathing fast and his eyes sightless in the dark.
"Help him. You promised," a voice seemed to echo in the dark around him and Sal shivered.
His sightless eyes searched the dark for eyes full of silver, but he couldn't see anything.
A cave.
Inferi.
A boy drowning.
Sal's thought process stopped.
One moment he was still in bed, staring into the darkness of the night at about one o'clock in the morning, the next he was apparating towards a destination he had never seen before except in his dreams.
There was an odd, twisting feeling, as if something was trying to prevent Sal from appearing at his destination point.
Most likely, everybody who had learned apparating in the current age would have been stopped, but Sal had learned an earlier, less-perfected than the current version. While the current version was mostly based on wand-magic just like nearly every other magic in the present age, Sal still used the wilder version which was less based on a wand and more solely on intent.
Of course, there was also the fact that Sal was also well versed in wards – even better versed than anybody else alive – and being confronted by wards even mid-apparation was less a thing of strength and more a thing of finesse. Unravelling those parts of the wards that would have targeted his own kind of apparation wasn't too difficult considering the wards Sal normally used when he healed.
So, while most people in the current age would have been repelled or wouldn't have dared to apparate through the wards, Sal ended up exactly where he wanted to with just a few seconds delay.
The place behind was the cave Sal had dreamed off again and again.
The cave was dark. There was a lake hidden in it with a sole little island in the middle of the lake. A single boat was currently situated on the island, but the moment, Sal's feet touched the earth right after the entrance to the cave where he had ended up, the boat made its way back to the entrance.
Sal stared at it for a second, before deciding to ignore it.
Instead, he stepped up towards the lake, as close to the water as he could without touching it and then send a light-spell at the ceiling so that he could oversee the water and the island a bit better.
He looked around.
The island, the lake... everything was coated with deadly silence.
A child.
The cave.
Inferi.
Sal's eyes narrowed.
There was nothing there, but his gut told him otherwise.
A child.
Inferi.
The LAKE.
Sal's eyes roved over the water, searching.
The water was still, no sign of any struggle.
But the boy was there.
Had to be there.
Where?
Before he could answer that question, a stranger stepped out of the lake in front of Sal.
The shore of the lake was steep, only five steps in and a grown man would have been under water while standing.
Seeing the stranger stepping out of the lake was unnerving.
Pale skin.
Dark, wild hair that Sal was convinced should have been white.
Pale eyes, glinting silver in the spare light of the cave.
And his clothing so light that all in all it made him look as if the man was more ghost than man.
It took a moment for Sal to connect the dark haired stranger with the white haired one of his dreams.
The man looked younger with the darker hair – younger, and yet, more dangerous.
His silver eyes were fixed on Sal's green ones.
"Salvazsahar," he said and took the last step out of the water.
His clothes, a white tunic and light grey trousers, looked dry to the touch.
Sal stared at the man.
"You're here," he whispered and then looked around. "This isn't real?"
The stranger looked at Sal in amusement.
"Just because I'm here, it doesn't make this unreal," he countered amused, before crooking his head to the side. "On the other hand, it doesn't make it real, either."
Sal frowned.
"What do you want?" he asked, ignoring the stranger's cryptic statement. "I came here – just like you wanted."
"You did," the stranger agreed, his eyes piercing Sal's own. "But this isn't the right way – not yet, at least."
Sal opened his mouth to object and tell the man that there was only this way into the cave, when he was interrupted by the stranger without uttering even the first word.
"Tell me, Salvazsahar," the stranger asked him. "Have you ever wondered why the killing curse took the colour of your eyes when it first manifested?"
"What...?!"
Sal was taken aback.
The killing curse...
It was green, yes, but it hadn't taken the colour of Sal's eyes.
The colour of spells was nothing that could be explained – even after hundreds of years of studying, the colours didn't match any kind of pattern.
"Don't look at me like that," the stranger said amused. "There's always a reason."
Sal frowned.
"I'm a Healer," he countered. "I'm a Guardian. I have nothing to do with the killing curse."
"You have deadly eyes," the stranger countered calmly. "You have deathly eyes."
Then the stranger's expression turned into pity.
"And it's time, that you'll finally understand it," he said, his silver eyes – eyes in the colour of ghosts – catching Sal's green ones.
With that, the scenery suddenly changed around them.
What once had been a cave, suddenly turned into black nothingness.
"What –?"
Sal's eyes left the gaze of the other to look around.
There was nothing there – nothing but blackness.
Sal shuddered.
A trap?
Had he walked into a trap – a trap he had managed to avoid for months until one thoughtless action had gotten him into the grasp of the stranger in front of him?!
For a moment, panic swamped his mind – then, as suddenly as it had overcome him, the panic left him.
Something in him trusted the other man – trusted him more than enough to calm down and stop panicking.
"Ah," the stranger said, his eyes on Sal's face. "That's good. You might not remember me – but nevertheless, you still know me."
Sal frowned, his eyes returning to the stranger's face.
"I'm not following," he countered.
The stranger smiled, one of his hands reached out and touched Sal's face like a parent would a child.
"You will," he promised. "One day, you will."
Sal startled, the moment the stranger's hand touched his skin.
It felt like burning.
It felt like fire, white flames and tasted of ashes.
He swallowed harshly.
There was sadness in the stranger's eyes when Sal's gaze returned to his.
"I'm sorry," the other man said, his voice soft and not quite there – more like the wind than an actual human voice. "I'm sorry, Salvazsahar."
The next moment, the darkness around them was swallowed up by a scene Sal had never seen before.
There were bodies all around them.
Romans, Egyptians, Spartans, Greek, Celts, Germanic people, soldiers of different wars, Thirty Years' War, Hundred Years' War, Falklands War, Trojan War, First World War, Second World War... and many, many more...
Sal couldn't help but look around, his eyes travelling from one body to the next.
"What –?"
The word was spoken nearly silently, a deep seated disbelief he couldn't fathom wedged inside his mind.
"The beginning," the stranger replied. "And the end. It's a decision that has already happened and that still needs to happen."
Sal frowned.
"You're not explaining anything," he said, his eyes landing on the stranger in front of him.
The other man smiled, his smile warm and oddly familiar.
"Sometimes, explanations aren't possible to happen," the stranger countered. "Sometimes you have to live it, to understand."
Sal swallowed.
"I lived enough," he countered. "I've lived more than enough."
"Not yet," was the cool reply. "Until now, you lived for your own merit – now, this night, on the other hand, will be mine. Tonight, you will be mine – and mine alone."
Sal stiffened.
"I'm nobody's," he countered while adrenaline flooded his system. To his concern, no matter how wary he immediately reacted, there was still a part in him that trusted the stranger without rhyme or reason. "I'm nobody's but my own."
"Not tonight," the stranger countered. "Tonight you will do as I say, tonight, you will prove me that you're either worthy or unworthy for this life."
Sal's breathing quickened at those words.
"It's my life," he countered while his mind fought between fear and trust. "It's my decision what I do with it."
"Just within reason," the stranger countered. "And today not at all... at least, it won't be your decision what will happen with you tonight."
With those words, he raised his hand and the dead vanished.
For a second, darkness returned, before the scenery cleared again into another one – one that Sal had never seen before.
Sal looked around.
His breathing was harsh and fast.
He was standing in front of the gates of a citadel and it took a bit, but in the end, he recognized an old fashioned Rome.
"What?" he whispered to himself, his brow furrowing. "How–?"
"You're here for a decision," the stranger's voice answered his unfinished questions through the wind. "It's your decision – and yours alone to make today."
Sal frowned at that.
"My decision?" he asked. "What do you mean 'my decision'?"
"This is history," the other man replied. "You may have lived already at that time – but back then, you were nowhere near here. It's your decision now – just like you've decided in every battlefield you've ever been a part of."
"I… don't understand," Sal replied, his eyes searching for the stranger and not finding him. "What kind of decision should I make? And why should I make it? It's history, after all – long since over!"
"It doesn't matter," the stranger replied. "See it as an exercise, see it as training, as a trial, as whatever you want – it doesn't matter. This is your decision, my balance. You chose this. Once, twice – and maybe thrice. This is your decision – so you are the one who will decide."
"What?" Sal countered and looked around. "What is there to decide?"
He frowned, his gaze wandering through the empty streets of the city.
It nearly felt like a ghost-city like that.
"Do they live?" the stranger's voice in the wind asked. "Or do they die?"
Before Sal could ask 'who', he watched warriors swarming the streets. His instincts told him to follow them, so he did.
He ended up in the senate where some old men sat, wearing their best clothing and not moving at all.
When one of the warriors actually pulled at one of the elders beards in the belief the elders were statues, said elder slapped him.
The scene stopped.
Everything froze around Sal.
And then, the stranger was standing next to him, watching the scene as well with hooded eyes.
"Tell me, my balance," the stranger said, his hand gesturing to the elders. "Will they live? Or will they die?"
Sal turned and stared at the stranger.
"How should I know what will happen?" he asked confused. "I wasn't there – and I have no idea when we are so how–?"
"I'm not asking what will happen," the stranger corrected Sal and there was something akin to pity in his eyes. "I'm asking what you will decide. I am asking if you will safe them or let them go."
Sal turned and looked at the old men.
"It's not my decision to make," he countered and shook his head. "It already happened. There is nothing I can do now. Time can't be changed."
The stranger nodded.
"It already happened," he agreed. "Nevertheless, I ask you: will they live or will they die?"
"It's not my decision," Sal repeated pointedly, not willing to play the games the other one wanted him to.
The stranger nodded.
"Die it is, then," he said and waved his hand.
The scene came to life again.
The warrior drew his blade and slew the elder. The others followed suit.
Sal shivered.
"This… this..." he had seen a lot of gruesome things happening in the past, but this was the first time he stood by and watched something like this happening.
His integrated reaction didn't actually let him stand by.
The moment the warrior had drawn his sword, Sal had surged forward to intercept it – but the sword had gone through him as if he wasn't there… or as if he was a ghost himself.
The only thing he could do in the end, was stand by and watch them slaughtered.
"This… it's history… I couldn't have done anything about it anyway," Sal tried to tell himself, but something inside him rebelled nevertheless at that thought. He was there. It might not actually be real, but it felt like that and he hated the idea that he just stood by and watched. He hated it.
"Please," he whispered, turning to the stranger. "Make it stop!"
"It was your decision," the stranger countered merciless. "So you will have to stand by and live with the consequences – and you will have to watch what your decision resulted in."
Sal shuddered.
Finally, the last of the old men died by the sword…
But there was no break.
Instead, the scene dissolved and cleared again with the warriors now in front of the citadel.
Sal could hear the children crying inside and the people pleading.
The warriors in front of the citadel looked ready to go in and slaughter them all.
Sal shivered again.
"Will they live? Or will they die?" the stranger asked him, his voice only heard in the wind again.
This time, Sal didn't hesitate; this time, he didn't dare to say that it wasn't his decision.
"Live," he whispered. "They will live."
"Good," the wind said and Sal watched the weeks' long trial of the warriors to get in and the final decision when both – warriors and the people of Rome started to starve – of gold in exchange for freedom of the people of Rome.
Only then, the scene slowly started to dissolve again – but not without showing the future that was brought by the fact that those people survived.
"Your decision," the wind reminded him when he saw the destruction the Romans started to wreak upon the warriors' people. "And every decision has its consequences..."
The scene dissolved, just to return and show another time – a time that looked like it was centuries later...
There were people in old fashioned clothing walking in a formation through the swamp.
Their clothes… it took a moment or two for Sal to understand that they were wearing the typical uniforms of a Roman legion.
He shivered.
There was a storm brewing and the woods around them were dark and deep, nevertheless, the people in the baggage clearly weren't expecting anything to happen – and when it finally happened, it was too fast for them to react.
The attack was unexpected.
People, clothed in less sturdy clothes like the Romans attacked from the woods.
An ambush.
Sal's finger twitched, he shuddered.
He wanted to do something… he wanted to help, to heal, to… just do something!
"Choose," the wind whispered in his ear. "Who will live? Who will die?"
Sal shuddered again.
"I can't," he whispered back, nearly begging with his voice alone. "I can't! Please! I CAN'T"
A horse, blinded by panic, jumped one of the earth walls the attackers had to have built before the trap sprang.
The horse stumbled, there was a crunching sound and then the horse was on the ground, its neck broken – and yet, it was still alive.
Sal shuddered again.
"Who will live? Who will die?" the wind whispered and Sal turned his gaze away from the horse, his hands curling into fists.
"Ah," the wind said. "It is like you wish."
The panicky noise of the horse cut off.
Dead.
The horse was dead.
Sal pressed his lips together, in his head, his atr's voice echoed.
"You can't save everyone," it was the same thing that Sal's mother Morgana had always told him, it was the same thing that Sal had known to be true for centuries already.
You can't save everyone.
And sometimes, you had to let somebody die.
"Good," the voice in the wind said. "I knew you would understand. Now – who will live, Salvazsahar, and who will die?"
And so, Sal took a deep breath and closed his eyes again.
A Roman had fallen to his feet.
The man had been stabbed in the chest.
Sal couldn't heal him. Sal was invisible, unable to touch, unable to do anything but watch – watch and decide.
Who will live? Who will die?
The Roman died.
Another decision, another choice.
And with every choice, every look away, every decision, it felt as if something inside Sal was dying.
He couldn't do this.
He wasn't made for this.
He couldn't sit by and watched, but was forced to and no matter how much he tried for distance, it hurt – it hurt so bad...
And yet, Sal pushed on, tried to ignore the voice in his head which told him that this wasn't right, that he shouldn't do this... shouldn't stand there and do nothing.
Yet, the people died around him, one after another – and in the end, with the last decision, the scenery around Sal faded again.
When the scene returned, Sal felt sick to the stomach.
Dead.
He had looked away and let people die.
He had looked away.
He was a Healer.
He was a Guardian.
He was anything but made for looking away.
Sal wanted to throw up.
He wanted to cry, scream and rage – and yet, he couldn't.
Instead, he looked up again just to see another fight.
Human against human.
There was no difference between them but the colour of their clothes.
"You decide," the stranger's voice in the wind reminded him. "Who will live and who will die?"
Sal shuddered.
"This shouldn't be my decision," he countered, automatically returning to what he had said once before – the truth as he understood it – and his eyes on the battlefield in front of him. "I'm a Healer. I shouldn't decide who dies. I should try to keep them alive..."
He shook his head, his eyes clenching shut when he watched warriors go down after being stabbed.
His hands twitched.
He had an itch to heal – an itch to help.
His hands clenched when he tried to suppress the urge to reach out, the urge to help, to step in and heal.
He wouldn't be able to do anything – he was nothing but a ghost after all.
"All I've ever learned in my life was how to keep people alive," Sal said pleadingly, his eyes on the scene in front of him, but his thoughts by the stranger whose voice was carried by the wind. "This... deciding against life... it's nothing I can do. It's nothing I ever wanted to do."
"You're a Healer," the wind countered coldly. "Everything you've ever done was decide who could be saved and who couldn't. So decide!"
Sal shook his head.
"I always tried to save as many as possible – and I never gave up on anybody if I didn't have to!" he countered. "I never went and sat by while watching somebody die!"
The wind laughed.
"Sometimes, that's all you can do," he countered. "You're a Healer. You know it."
Sal's fists clenched even further until his palms bled.
"But that doesn't mean that I didn't try," he said with clenched teeth. "I always tried – even if I didn't manage it, in the end."
"Then try," the wind countered, caressing Sal's body. "Try!"
The next second, the wind pushed Sal from behind, forcing him to take a step forward towards the scene in front of him.
Sal frowned, his head automatically turning to look behind him even if he knew that he wouldn't see anything.
"I'm a ghost," he countered. "I already tried."
"No," the wind countered. "You went and tried to change your decision. You didn't try to decide in another way."
Sal stared at the scenery in front of him for the lack of another person to look at.
For a moment, he still hesitated.
Then he took a deep breath and stepped forward, in the middle of the battlefield. The scene parted for him, people stepping aside, leaving him to walk through their formation wherever he pleased.
For a moment, Sal looked around, surprised and a bit uncomfortable.
"Your way then," the wind told him. "Do it!"
Stepping into the fight, trying to preserve life – it felt like coming home.
Hands reached for wounds and while he couldn't bind them, or really heal them, he still could try and preserve the life as much as he was able.
His eyes, wandering over the wounded, automatically assessed the dying.
Some were beyond help.
Some were on the knife's edge.
And some lightly wounded enough that Sal knew the would live without his help.
He ignored the last.
He treated the second.
He looked away from the third except when he helped them to cross a bit easier.
There were sacrifices in war, and no matter how much it hurt, Sal knew that – had known that for most of his life.
When it was over, when there was finally nobody to treat anymore, only the dead and those who survived – the scene changed again, forcing Sal into the next battle.
It was horror.
One battle, after the other.
One war, after the next.
There was no break, no end in sight and it didn't matter that Sal tried his best, the more he did, the more he saw those dying around him instead of those surviving.
It shook him.
It hurt him.
And no matter how much he tried to step away from all of it mentally, he finally couldn't find the distance needed anymore to do so.
He was a Healer.
He was a Guardian.
But no matter what – even he had a breaking point.
And in the end, the death around him, were it.
Fury at the stranger who forced him though that horror story inflamed in his chest – before it spilled over into the blackness of the dissolving scene.
"Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!" Sal screamed into the darkness. "Whatever you want from me, I can't be it! I'm a Healer, not... whatever you want me to be!"
The stranger appeared in front of him, his silver eyes were fixed on Sal's green ones.
"I know who you are," the stranger countered, his voice calm in contrast to Sal desperation and fury. "I know what you are."
"And yet, you demand this of me!" Sal countered and gestured all around him.
The stranger looked at him, his eyes alight with a strange, silver light.
"Are you trying to tell me you aren't made for it?" he asked.
Sal's fury turned up another notch at that question.
"I'm a Healer!" The fury was making his voice hard and unrelenting. "I swore not to kill people!"
"Death is a part of life," the stranger countered. "Letting someone die isn't the same as killing somebody."
"Letting someone die isn't better!" Sal countered heatedly. "I'm a Healer – I'm not made to sit by and watch!"
"And what will you do if I continue to force you?" the stranger countered unimpressed. "After all, I doubt you have the power to free yourself from my grasp. You're too weak!"
The scenery swam around them, trying to turn from the utter darkness into a new horror scene.
Sal's gaze found the emotionless ones of the other man.
Fury in a way he couldn't remember ever feeling lurched through his body.
For a moment his whole body felt as if it had been lit alight by fire – his bones, his flesh, his veins burning with liquid fire. Then the darkness around him was lit alight by white flames.
The white flames lit up the darkness and stifled the appearance of the new scene of horror.
"No!" Sa whispered. "No! I'm not your puppet!"
He didn't know what he expected, but he definitely didn't expect the reaction he got.
"You're fighting," the stranger said, sounding satisfied. "Good, my balance, that's good."
Sal wordlessly snarled at the other man and his white fire reacted. It pushed against the darkness, tried to overwhelm its opponent, but before it could, the darkness fought back. Light and dark clashed in an explosive way, fighting back and forth, one not able to overwhelm the other.
"Tell me, my balance, how long will you be able to resist me?" the stranger asked, his silver eyes on Sal. "You and I both know you've only the maturity of a child. I'm grown, I'm strong – so how will you continue to fight back when I stop giving you the chance?"
With those words, the strength of the darkness doubled. Sal braced himself. His white flames – flames he was only controlling for the second time of his life and still not sure how he had even produced them – leaped up and attacked.
The clash was horrible.
Light fought against the dark.
Dark fought against the light.
There was power all around Sal, in ways he had never felt before.
It made him shiver.
His arms and legs suddenly covered in goosebumps.
And yet, something inside him told him that he couldn't give up now.
He couldn't give in now.
Darkness spread around him, surrounded him, closed in on him and yet, his flames were still countering the attack.
"Fight," the stranger said, his eyes locking with Sal's. "Fight, my balance. Fight me with everything you have!"
Sal could feel the flames around him. Burning like raging white fire, unforgiving, all-encompassing.
Powerful.
Dangerous.
Born of phoenix-fire and dragon-flame.
And yet, the darkness was winning.
"Fight," the stranger laughed. "You won't beat me. In the end, my balance, you will succumb!"
With that, the darkness crashed down on Sal, stifling his fire, drowning him in darkness.
From one moment to the next, darkness was everywhere.
It felt like drowning in darkness.
He could feel it entering him with every breath, with every blink of his sightless eyes, with every swallow.
He was dying.
He could feel his body giving in, he could feel the power of the stranger taking a hold of him.
Like the Imperius-Curse.
A loss of free will.
A loss of freedom.
The darkness entered him, deeper and deeper.
It surrounded his chest, filled it, reached for his hands and feet, for his brain, for his heart…
"You. Are. Mine!"
The stranger's voice seemed to resonate with the darkness and for a second, Sal felt himself bowing to him, felt himself loosing to him.
Then, something started to burn.
It seemed to start from his heart.
No, not his heart.
Deeper.
And yet, more on the surface as well.
Runes started to glow on Sal's chest.
Healer, they spelled.
Guardian, they pronounced.
Master, they called.
And Sal's eyes lit up in answer with a burning, deathly green fire.
"No!", the phoenix whispered in his blood.
"NO!", the dragon roared in his mind.
"No," Sal said aloud, his eyes piercing the darkness to find the silver ones of the stranger.
Ghost eyes met the eyes of the basilisk.
From within Sal, the flames started to burn anew. Runes that he had been carving into his body for thousands of years lit alight with white fire.
It felt like shattering.
One moment, Sal was burning with flames while drowning in darkness, the next, like a mirror, it felt like something in him broke down.
The darkness swirled around him, curled inside him and in front of him, the stranger's eyes turned unreadable.
In the next moment, the darkness shattered all around them in the same way, something had shattered inside Sal.
"I'm here to make a deal," the stranger's voice said – sounding like an echo, not real, but a memory that couldn't even compare to the wind when it whispered to Sal – while the space around Sal and the stranger in front of him was filled by a forest and the night sky.
"I don't deal with strangers," someone else's voice answered. There was nobody else, just voices in a forest with a night sky above.
The stranger looked at Sal, his eyes unreadable, his face serious and tired.
"A deal, for your life and the continuation of your line," the stranger's voice, built out of nothing but a memory, added and there was something in it that told Sal that he knew the other man would accept.
"What kind of deal?" the other one asked.
"I will ensure your line's life and success for the next two thousand years – if you will give me a mortal body for a time."
"A body?"
"A child's body – your child, with my soul. A hundred years of a child for you without me ever knowing who I really am. The rest of it, in my command for everything I need. One child, born from this body for your line – two children, born by me for my own. This is my deal – will you accept?"
The room around them shattered like the darkness had before.
Light flooded everything.
And suddenly, Sal found himself standing on a battlefield – a battlefield that definitely wasn't happening in the presence.
Sal knew that battlefield. It was in a clearing in the middle of the woods of the Forest of Dean.
He couldn't remember it, but he remembered the fear in Sirius eyes when he spoke of that day, the fear in a lot of people's eyes, when they remembered.
It had been the day, the Order had nearly been obliterated by Voldemort and his people – a day they had survived without ever understanding why.
On the floor, next to Sal, Sirius, James and Lily were lying.
Sal didn't even think about it.
He knelt down, his hands immediately starting to heal.
He hadn't planned on being attacked.
He hadn't planned on confronting Tom Riddle.
And he definitely hadn't planned for a Dark Lord entering his mind.
It felt odd, like an echo still cursing through him.
He could feel the darkness inside him reaching out for the Dark Lord in front of him.
He could feel the flames running through his runes, waiting to be used, waiting for finally being able to fight again – as if the fight just seconds ago hadn't been enough for them.
There was magic all around them.
Sal could feel Tom Riddle trying to fight the hold Sal and the darkness inside him had over his mind.
And suddenly, Sal understood what he had to do – what he finally could do, even if he had never planned to do it that way and had never found a way to do it until now in any other way.
He struck.
His mind used the connection to break into the other man's.
There was no mercy from his side.
He ignored the other man's memories.
There was no time.
The man in front of him might have been thrown, but Sal was under no illusion that it would last long.
So Sal did what he wanted to do, hid what he needed to hide and left the second he was done.
Their entire exchange only lasted a minute or two, but no matter what, when the Dark Lord finally tumbled away, shoved out of Sal's mind, there was fear in his eyes – and utter darkness in Sal's.
"Leave, Dark Lord of this time," Sal said and he could taste the darkness in his throat and the fire on his tongue when he spoke. "I have no time to kill you right now. Leave – and I will let you stay alive for now."
There was understanding in Riddle's eyes when he heard Sal's warning.
He retreated, still stumbling, still afraid – and yet, trying to appear like the strong Dark Lord he had always portrayed.
"One day, I will kill you, Healer!" with that, Riddle apparated away, defeated for the moment.
Sal knew the other man was right.
He didn't need to hear the other man's threat.
He didn't need to know the other man's fear which tasted like poison on Sal's tongue, send to him through a mental connection he had just re-established with a runic spell inside Voldemort's mind.
"One day, you will try," Sal said to the vanishing Dark Lord, bitterness and defeat in his heart as well. "One day, Tom Riddle, you will indeed try – and that day isn't that far away anymore."
Even less far for Sal who had come back from that day.
He shuddered at that thought and turned towards the wounded.
Sal didn't know how long it took him to heal everybody he could – quite happy that for whatever reason he could actually use his supplies unlike when he had treated the people while trapped in the scenes of the past.
It was confusing.
It was incomprehensible.
And yet, it was like that.
When he had finally assured himself that they all survived, Sal stepped back.
He was tired.
He wished he could go home.
But he couldn't.
This was the past.
He was back in the past.
Sal didn't understand it.
How?
HOW?!
"I see, you broke the circle," a voice Sal had gotten to know quite well over the last horror-filled days… weeks… centuries… whatever.
Sal looked up.
Flames rose around him as if called by his need to defend himself.
The stranger just looked at the white flames, not bothered at all that they had sprung from earth just a finger's breadth in front of him.
"You're here," Sal whispered and he suddenly felt cold, cold and exhausted. "Why are you here?"
"The child," the stranger, leaning on a tree of the forest surrounding them. "You promised to take a look."
Sal stared at him.
"I tried," he said coolly.
"It wasn't the right time," the stranger countered calmly. "You wouldn't have been able to help him by then."
Sal's stare hardened.
"The child," the stranger said, before Sal had time to object. "Help him. You promised."
A cave.
Danger.
And a young man, more child than man, drowning in a lake full of Inferi.
Sal shuddered when that impression reached him.
He had promised – and he had tried.
For a moment, he wanted to tell the stranger this, then his eyes caught the light emitted from his healer's oath.
He was a healer.
He was a guardian...
A cave.
Inferi.
A boy drowning.
Sal's thought process eyes roamed the battlefield all around him.
Healer.
Guardian.
The oath on his chest.
The phoenix in his veins.
The basilisk in his blood.
And the dragon in his mind.
He had promised.
Sal apparated.
There was that odd, twisting feeling, as if something was trying to prevent Sal from appearing at his destination point again, but Sal by-passed it like the first time.
He ended up in the same set-up like he had been last time.
The cave was dark. There was a lake hidden in it with a sole little island in the middle of the lake. A single boat was currently situated on the island, but the moment, Sal's feet touched the earth right after the entrance to the cave where he had ended up, the boat made its way back to the entrance.
Sal ignored it in favour of stepping up towards the lake again, as close to the water as he could without touching it and then send a light-spell at the ceiling so that he could oversee the water and the island a bit better.
He looked around.
The island, the lake... everything was still coated with deadly silence.
A child.
The cave.
Inferi.
Sal's eyes narrowed.
There was still nothing there, but his gut told him otherwise. Something – supported by the healing oaths he had sworn – told him that somebody was there and that it wasn't yet too late for the person in question.
A child.
Inferi.
The LAKE.
Sal's eyes roved over the water, searching.
The water was still, no sign of any struggle.
But the boy was there.
Had to be there.
Where?
In that moment, Sal finally saw him.
Robbing towards the water, coughing and thanks to the distance silently sobbing, the boy was making his way towards his damnation.
Sal growled.
He took a deep breath, twisted on the spot and apparated again.
The wards tried to stop him, catch him and throw him out, so his mind, exploiting the runes he had known for more centuries than he wanted to remember, broke through the barrier of the wards not once, but twice.
It took him less time than to utilize the boat, yet, too much time to save the child from the water and the Inferi in it.
When Sal reached the island, the boy was already pulled under water. There was still some struggle, but the boy couldn't be seen anymore.
Sal cursed.
He hurried towards the water, stepped into its shallow end and reached out towards the boy.
A hand grabbed him.
Cold, wet and lifeless.
Inferi.
Sal didn't think.
Fire erupted from his body, and the hand caught fire, no matter that it was still entrenched in water.
Sal reached into the lake.
"Accio!" A word he hadn't used for centuries fell from his lips, supporting his already exhausted magic when his empty hand reached out with magic and intent to grab the boy and save him.
Power cut through the water and caught the drowning boy.
A minute, two.
There were more Inferi at Sal's legs, yet, they all burned.
The cave was land, Sal had never stepped on before.
The cave, no matter its placement, wasn't a part of the Isles that Sal had ever explored – his links to the land nearly non-existing in the surrounding area for at least another mile or two.
The only way to empower his spell therefore was Sal's own nearly depleted reserves.
Sal was sure he would pay for it later, but at the moment, the boy had priority.
His magic reached further, brushed over something living – barely living – and he pulled.
It was Sal's intent more than the word he had uttered that pulled the boy from death's grasp and towards Sal.
It took another minute and the life Sal could feel nearly fading before he had the shoulder of a still living being under his hand.
Sal tightened his grip and pulled the boy out of the water.
His stumbled backwards, the Inferi trying to drag the boy back with them from the other side and Sal struggling to keep his hold while knowing for sure that if he lost the boy now, he would never be able to get him back.
But the Inferi – beings cursed through magic – were stronger than Sal and his hold lessened.
Sal gritted his teeth.
There was nothing he could do but one thing.
Like he did with healing, he flooded the boy's body with his own magic, and then lit his magic up into flames.
He could smell the burning flesh of the boy when the fire hurt him as well and for a moment, Sal's oaths surged up.
They reached for Sal's magic, his intent, ready to destroy him for the fact that he was about to break them to hurt an innocent.
"Then I bless you child. You are a Healer, you are a Warrior, you are a Guardian. May you heal others, may you judge their hearts. May you guide others, may you protect them from harm. Today, I name you a Guardian Healer – born to protect, born to judge, born to heal."
But no matter the hurt he caused, the fire left the Inferi screeching and giving up their hold on the boy.
Sal stumbled backwards, onto the island and dragged the boy with him.
His oaths settled.
Healer.
Warrior.
Guardian.
Even if he had to hurt others to protect them.
The moment, Sal had managed to drag the boy far enough up the island so that the Inferi couldn't follow anymore, he drew familiar runes into the earth.
Familiar protection wards rose around them – wards that Sal had used for a thousand years to heal and to protect.
His hands shook, he felt bodily exhausted from the fight with magic and intent even if he was sure it hadn't been more than ten minutes between the first Inferi grabbing him and him finally managing to drag them to safety.
He shook the thought away and turned towards the boy.
The child wasn't breathing.
Sal cursed.
Most likely, the child had breathed in water already – not even adding the fact that the boy clearly hadn't been well before he basically handed himself over to the Inferi in the lake.
Sal cursed again and then turned the boy so that he could manually reanimate him.
Oh, there were spells for that, Sal knew, but he also knew that with the wards of the cave breathing down on him maliciously, it would be best to spare magic wherever he could. He didn't trust the environment around him and as good as his wards were, chances were that there was still something out there that could breach them.
Nevertheless, when the boy didn't react after nearly five minutes, Sal growled and then took out his wand to give magical aid, even if he had wanted to avoid it.
For a second, it looked that even the spell wasn't enough to rescue the boy's life, but then the boy suddenly made a gurgling sound.
Sal immediately turned the boy to the side, relived when the young man threw up the dirty water onto the ground. He was less relived when he noticed the blood that was thrown up with the water.
"You want to make it difficult, don't you?" he asked the boy rhetorically with a tired sigh.
The barely conscious and soon back to unconscious boy didn't answer, of course.
Not that Sal expected an answer.
In that moment, the first Inferi threw themselves against the shields that surrounded Sal and the boy.
They burned, but Sal also knew that there was no way that they would survive the attack of the Inferi if they stayed here. His wards were good, but even they wouldn't hold against an army of Inferi indefinitely – especially not without the advantage of a connection to the land.
Sal pressed his fingers against the base of his nose.
"You really want to make my life difficult," he told the unconscious and barely breathing boy. Sal guessed that the only reason the boy breathed on his own was the magic that Sal had used to reanimate him, currently.
He needed to stabilize him.
He needed to get him to safety.
More Inferi threw themselves against his shield.
Sal sighed.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, then he opened them again and reached out to take a look at the boy's eyes, before smelling his breath.
He pressed his lips together.
Poison.
Of course, it had to be poison.
And of course, it had to be one that was one of the hardest to deal with in the whole world!
Sometimes, Sal really hated his life.
He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes again and then took a deep breath.
"Alright," he said to himself. "Alright."
He couldn't treat it right now.
By wind and fire! Treating that potion would take years!
He doubted that the boy would wake up anytime soon.
So, the only thing Sal could do at the moment was to stabilize him and get him away from here.
Sal slit his wrist and then started to draw runes on the boy's wrists and neck and ankles, binding the boy's life to his own.
It was the best he could do, for now – at least until they were out of danger.
In that moment, the shield around him wavered, the Inferi throwing themselves even further against the wards.
Sal wanted to curse, but he also knew that he could spare his breath.
He needed to get out of there before the Inferi reached them.
He closed his eyes.
His reserves were low. He knew that he couldn't spare a lot of magic anymore – not if he wanted to keep the boy alive… but, they need to get out of here.
Sal gritted his teeth.
"Alright," he said tiredly. "Let's do this."
He reached towards the boy, checked him over again and then pulled out a bezoar.
He ensured that the boy swallowed it down.
It wouldn't save him.
Sal knew that the poison wouldn't be stopped by the bezoar, but he also knew that he could at least slow the poisoning down.
It was the best he could do for now.
In that moment, the ward surrounding them, broke.
Sal cursed.
The Inferi reached for them and Sal could feel his magic reacting.
White flames burned their hands.
Sal didn't even think about what to do next.
He grabbed the boy and apparated.
There was no thought as to where he apparated to.
There was no thought about danger, fear or the future.
The only thing he thought about was safety.
He felt the world vanish around him, felt the wards try to work against him, but he slipped through like he had done before.
There was a different kind of wards at the end of his apparation, but those wards, instead of trying to keep him out, reached for him like an old friend.
The last thing Sal saw before he lost consciousness was the dark stone floor in a barely lit chamber and the monkey-like face of a statue he was sure he had seen before – thousand and thousand of years ago… or maybe another few years in the future.
Sal reached out towards the boy, his own body stabilizing the poisoned one of the boy.
The boy was still breathing.
Sal's strength left him.
Then, red flames lit up just below the stone-ceiling of the cave.
It looked like a bird.
Sal lost consciousness.
Sss
"Avada Kedavra!"
And Lily Potter's eyes closed for the last time in her life.
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I guess this is one of the latest chapters ever posted by me... *sweatdrops*
Anyway, I had a lot of trouble with this one. The way it ended up now, is the first version I ever thought of - and I had about seven versions after that... I thought I'd end up using my latest, and I actually tried to go there (with Reg being older when he betrayed Voldemort), but I couldn't get it to work... and ended up writing that one idea that I had disregarded about a year or two ago... *sweatdrops* :D
I hope you like it anyway.
'Till next time
Ebenbild
