40. Darkness.
Scott glanced around him quickly, the alarm blaring in his ears and drowning out all other sound. He would not be beamed out form here, that was for sure. Guards' footsteps could already be heard thundering down the corridor and it would take the Enterprise a few moments to allow the damaged transporter to regroup itself. He was officially alone, and about to be caught.
Thinking quickly, he took cover against the wall next to the door, back pressed flatly against it, phaser held out of sight from anyone who could happen to see him. He quickly set it to stun, having no wish to kill anyone on the ship. He didn't need more lives on his conscience.
The footsteps thumped louder, backed up by the wailing of a siren, and he wondered if Ehlette was coming with them. He had no more time to consider – a guard hurried into the room, weapon held before him as though itching to shoot someone down, and stopped in shock. His fellow ran into him, knocking them both forwards, and the door closed behind them.
No one else was coming, and Scott resisted the urge to sigh in relief.
Before he could decide otherwise, he lifted his gun and aimed it at the two Gaarans before him, glad that the alarm at least drowned out his muffled movements. Two jets of light later, and the officers lay unconscious on the floor, eyes still wearing an expression of shock and wonder at how the prisoners managed to escape.
He had no time to lose.
Moving forwards quickly yet quietly, he dragged one of the guards out of sight of the door and began to strip him of his uniform. Scott did not have the classically Gaaran features, but at a glance the uniform could save his life, if only he could keep moving fast enough to not be seen properly.
Instead of discarding his own uniform, he placed it on the Gaaran, slightly surprised that they were roughly the same size. The trousers came up to the Gaarans ankles, but at a quick glance it might not be noticeable. He was counting on it.
Taking the gun the officer held in his slack grip, he pocketed his own, keeping it in a place he could easily reach, and slinked out the room, muscles tensed for flight.
The door closed behind him with a quiet hiss, cutting the two unconscious Gaarans off from the world around them. The corridor stretched before him, filled to the ceiling with smoke – the ship was in worse shape than he had imagined. Technicians ran backwards and forwards, tools grasped in their hands as though they were their only lifelines.
Scott set his jaw and walked brusquely down the corridor, desperately hoping that he looked enough like the unconscious crewman to avoid being stopped. Mentally drawing up the blueprints for the average Gaaran battle cruiser, Scott was able to walk confidently through the smoky haze, his vision obscured and hampered but his identity hidden.
A small explosion rocked the ship, sending Scott flying into a wall, the move jolting the wound in his arm. He allowed himself a small hiss of pain, his probing fingers telling him that the wound was still bleeding. He blocked it from his mind, focussing instead on the task of getting out alive.
He pushed himself away from the wall, congratulating the Enterprise on their tenacity. Several more well aimed hits like that, where the Gaaran shielding was weakest, and they might be within sight of an equal fight.
If Star Fleet answered their distress signal, even better – at least in the short run. Scott really didn't want to consider what would happen to them afterwards.
A Gaaran crewman rushed by, long hair flying behind him in his haste to reach his destination. Scott turned around and pretended to inspect a control panel – which actually happened to be spitting out smoke, much to Scott's relief. The footsteps faded away quickly, lost in the rising sound of chaos, the figure disappearing into a cloud of smoke.
Luck was on his side. Gaarans kept their machines and controls in the centre of their spherical ships, the transporter rooms around the outside along with the quarters. Perhaps unluckily for them, they were symbolism enthusiasts. The commanders' quarters and Bridge sat atop the sphere, cargo at the bottom. It made the ship that much easier to navigate, easy to break into. But, to their credit, difficult to hide in. With all the circular walls, there were very few alcoves.
Scott had been lucky in the brig, and even luckier in masquerading as a Gaaran. He only hoped his luck would hold.
Looming out of the smoke before him, Scott could see the door, the lifeline, the entrance to his link home. He reached it in a desperate lurch, his breath coming in harsh puffs, his legs beginning to feel shaky. He could practically feel the blood flowing out of him and dimly wondered if there was a trail of it behind him.
To his immense relief the door opened, apparently programmed to do so in cases of emergency when the crew needed a quick escape.
Scott staggered into the room beyond, the quiet swooshing of the door drowned out as he whipped out his phaser and stunned the only two guards, ducking to avoid their surprised shots before they slumped to the ground.
He surveyed his larger, more alien weapon, noting the alien inscriptions and was grateful he'd used his phaser out of instinct. A death through mistranslation was exactly what he didn't need. He placed it down, no longer needing it to maintain his Gaaran charade.
The control panel for the transporter pads before him were all in Gaaran, as he suspected.
"Uhura?"
Static.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he tried again, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the malfunctioning intercom. "Uhura? Lass?"
No reply.
He allowed himself the small luxury of swearing, forcing himself to remain steady as he regarded the controls before him. They were completely alien; a multicoloured rainbow of confusion spanning long blocks of simple metal. A single screen was set in the middle, glowing green, begging to be investigated.
He squinted through the smoke and spotty vision, finding alien text scrawled before him in the type generated by their computers. Despite having befriended Tohn, he had never learnt any of the language besides pleasantries, having never had the linguistic aptitude.
He mentally cursed himself.
Now, struggling to decipher one button from another, he wished he'd paid more attention to Tohn. If he had, this wouldn't be happening. He wouldn't have cost his friend his sanity, his career, his family pride. But, most important of all, he would not have his sister hot on his trail, bent on a revenge best served with the cold and tasteless flavour of death.
Word after word floated past him, none of them making sense. No helpful diagrams, as used in Star Fleet, illustrated the screen. This gadget was foreigner-proof.
A soft sound caressed his ear and he ducked reflexively, finding cover just as a part of the console exploded.
"You're not going to get away that easily, Monty."
Scott didn't dare move, crouching instead behind his newfound cover, immensely relieved that it created a barrier between them. He spied his discarded Gaaran weapon lying close to him, and snatched it up, forcing to keep his voice neutral. "Ehlette?"
He could practically hear the predatory smirk. "Who else?"
A footstep.
"You really must stop this hair-brained scheme of yours, Monty. It is becoming tiresome. I do enjoy a chase, but this is ridiculous."
"Ye expect me tae just give up?" Scott snapped.
"Naturally. That is what you do, isn't it, give up?"
Scott sidestepped the question. "Yer killing my crew."
Another step.
"Aren't we just brimming with intelligence today?" She asked sweetly, her tone patronising. "Perhaps I shall award you a gold star. I hear you humans enjoy your childish rewards."
"How about my life as a reward?" Scott asked sarcastically.
She ignored him completely, her tone falsely considering. "I remember you having an obsession with sandwiches, Monty. Perhaps that'll be a more appropriate gift than a star."
"This will nae work," Scott told her flatly, his hand tightening on the large alien weapon.
"The just always prevail."
"I know," Scott said, trying to keep his voice level, "that I failed Tohn-"
"Completely."
"-but," he added, ignoring the interruption, "revenge is nae the way tae deal with things. Even when I am dead, Tohn will still be insane." He doesn't dare to add that he thinks she will be, too.
Another step.
"Your death shall bring him solace. It will give him comfort, knowing that the man responsible is no longer at large."
"You mean it will give you comfort," Scott corrected.
"That will be an added bonus."
"And what will ye do when I am dead?" Scott pressed. "Wallow in yer victory? Get back yer family's honour?"
"My, my, don't we learn fast," Ehlette purrs.
"Ye disgraced Gaar," Scott said ruthlessly. "Yehr family name is dishonoured. This is nothing but personal revenge tae make ye feel better for a few minutes. After that, ye will have nae direction or goal. How many more will die tae try tae correct what you saw as wrong?"
Ehlette's voice became hard. "Your little speech is over-zealous and lacks accuracy. Your death shall not last for mere minutes, Monty. It shall last for an eternity."
Another step.
"And when I am done with you, a few more deaths might be in order. A few more lives sacrificed to fulfil another. The future dead will have a purpose, which is more than you ever allowed my dear brother to have. In a way, I am doing them a favour."
Scott snorted. "The court will nae see it that way."
"We shall see."
The sharp scrape of metal against casing, a heavy step forwards. A quiet breath of anticipation, the lungs savouring the moment.
"Your little hiding place is quite useless, Monty. You have no escape."
Scott knew she was right. She stood between him and the only door. Glancing at the larger weapon, he made his decision reluctantly and stood up, coming face to face with the crazed form of Ehlette, a woman he had once loved as his own sister.
The demented eyes danced, taking in Scott's rumpled and blood stained appearance before settling on the gun.
A smirk. "You're surely not going to kill me are you, Monty? I assure you, I have no intention of letting you do that."
"I do nae want tae," Scott admitted truthfully. "I can get ye help-"
Ehlette laughed, the sound striking Scott as unhinged. "I'm afraid it's a little too late for that."
She raised her knife, the blade glittering ominously in Scott's dimming vision. She cocked her head to one side, considering him for a moment, a slow smile spreading across her face.
"I think," she murmured, "that this is going to be fun."
Before Scott could let that statement sink in, she had lunged, swiping at his chest, and he jumped back quickly, the blade giving him a light cut only.
She pouted.
In response, Scott lifted the Gaaran gun and pulled the trigger, knowing he could do nothing else if he wanted to save the lives of the people aboard his ship. She had refused his help, his explanations and his apologies. He wasn't going to let her destroy his crew.
Nothing happened, and Scott frantically pulled the trigger again.
Ehlett laughed at him. "No charge," she explained. "You really should have paid more attention to our language, Monty. The gun's display has been telling you that for a while."
Feeling trapped, Scott shifted his hold on the gun and wielded it as a club, successfully distracting her from the phaser he had in the pocket of his alien uniform.
"You will be no match for me, Monty. I saw your trail here, the little drops of blood. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" She mocked, stepping closer. "The colour of your blood gave you away, Monty. You might as well have advertised your location."
She twirled the knife between her fingers, eyes never leaving Scott.
"Red blood is so beautiful," she said softly. "Such a perfect colour to speak of violence."
She stopped twirling the knife, her eyes becoming serious.
"Ever since that day," she told him, "when you betrayed my brother, red has been my favourite colour."
She lashed forwards after a mere heartbeat of silence, her moves frenzied in their intensity but speaking of years of training. As Scott dodged lunge after lunge, every breath screaming fire through his lungs, he tried not to think of how long she must have been planning this moment.
He barely escaped a well aimed jab at the heart.
Swinging the gun as a club, he tried clumsily to knock the weapon out of her hand, his movements weak and slow from loss of blood. She avoided the blow with almost embarrassing ease, and Scott fell to one knee, brought down by his own momentum.
With a feral cry of victory, she had pounced on top of him, knife raised to stab him, his hand desperately clenching her wrist, keeping it inches from his skin.
Her warm breath blew into his face, down his own mouth as he gasped for air, and he could smell her alien scent, transporting him to another time, another place, where he had sat beside her on a sofa as she showed him Gaaran cinema.
Feeling the cold floor against his back, unrelenting, marking his future grave, he dropped the alien gun, scrabbling in his pockets for the phaser, sliding it out from beneath her crushing weight.
Her eyes widened as she felt the movement and he took that moment of distraction to pull the trigger, his arm giving out as she collapsed on top of him, knife clattering harmlessly to his side.
He pushed her off, groaning at the pain flashing through his arm, and rolled out from beneath her. Her gaze was vacant. Unfocused.
To his immense relief, she showed none of the all consuming hate she had allowed to fester for years, none of the adrenalin from the fight. She looked almost innocent, almost normal.
He gently reached out a hand to feel for a pulse, finding none.
A single round black mark on her uniform showed her cause of death – a heavy stun to her heart. It would never beat again, and Scott was grateful he had at least managed to give her a quick death.
Even if he'd wanted her to live.
A roaring in his ears reminded him that he needed to move and he forced himself over to the transporter controls, hitting the first red button he laid eyes on, neither caring nor knowing if it was the right one.
The transporter pad sparkled to life and he crawled onto it thankfully, letting the comforting beam envelope him and take away his pain.
Now he was floating, his thoughts scattered across atoms, and he was neither here nor there, alive nor dead, until he felt something solidifying against his right side, telling him he was safe.
He barely had time to recognise the brig on the Enterprise and call out weakly for help before he passed out, the pain receding to be replaced by a comforting darkness.
He drifted in and out for what felt like eternity, the process an endless cycle. He hovered in limbo, dull echoes reaching his ears, sometimes a light shining before his eyelids only to be swallowed back up by a starless night.
He was in space, wasn't he? He was outside the ship, making repairs, he thought. Maybe he'd lost his spacesuit...but he was still breathing, he was sure of it. And where was the ship? It had been there a moment ago...
But now it was gone. He couldn't even hear anything to suggest where it might be. Perhaps it was cloaked. But...cloaks did not exist in the Federation, only in the opposing Empires. He knew they were being developed, but did not know how far along the process was.
"Meester Scott?"
He was sure that sound was important. He knew Scott. He knew the voice, and the yellowish blur that came with it. He tried to latch onto it but the darkness yanked it away abruptly.
Space was cruel, he decided.
But there were no stars. There should be, if he was in space. Little pinpricks of light – those floating orbs miles and miles away that no one could reach, no matter how high you jumped or how good you were at standing on the tips of your toes...
"Meester Scott?"
The voice was back. It was back, and so was the yellow – becoming more and more defined, brighter and brighter. He groaned, and the dazzling white light around the yellow dimmed, a red shape joining it.
Two colours?
"Scotty?"
Blearily, he began to focus and the faces of Chekov and Uhura swam into view, wearing twin expressions of concern.
Scott coughed and instantly found a bottle of water pressed to his lips by Doctor M'Benga, a soft hand tilting his heavy head so that he could drink a few sips before being lowered back onto the pillow.
He tried to sit up but his leaden limbs refused to let him and he accepted this with a twinge of annoyance. He had work to do.
"How long?"
"12 hours," M'Benga answered softly. "You lost quite a bit of blood, Mister Scott. I'm surprised you managed to get back at all."
Scott grimaced. "Someone has tae fix the engines."
M'Benga grinned at him before nodding to the other two officers, who were chuckling in relief. "I'll leave you to it, but no more than five minutes – he's still very weak." He walked out the room.
"How..." Scott's voice trailed off weakly and he cursed himself.
"How did ve find you?" Chekov asked quietly.
At Scott's small nod, Uhura continued. "The science station on the Bridge told us something had managed to beam through the remainder of our shields and materialised in the cell the prisoners were kept in originally. Sulu sent along a security team to investigate."
"The found you there," Chekov added, "and called the medics. Doctor M'Benga managed to patch you up-"
"With difficulty," Uhura said.
"-and here ve are now," Chekov concluded. "Sair...how did you operate the transporters?"
Scott attempted a shrug but winced at the shooting pain along his torso. "I pressed a big red button at random. I could nae read the language."
"And you couldn't contact me," Uhura deduced.
Scott nodded. "Star Fleet?"
"They sent the Trident to help us," Uhura explained, sighing. "The Gaaran ship was left dead in space and the crewmembers were arrested..."
There was a slight pause before Chekov spoke again.
"Sair...did you...?" He trailed off, looking reluctant to phrase the question bluntly.
Scott nodded. "I killed Ehlette."
Somehow, Scott got the impression that this did not surprise the officers before them. He turned to more neutral ground. "The repairs?"
"Ve are undervay, sir," Chekov replied promptly, glad at the change in subject. "As soon as ve are finished, Star Fleet vants us to go to the nearest base to avait trial."
Scott grimaced. "Until then?"
"The Trident is to superwise us, sair."
Scott groaned, closing his eyes briefly against the news.
Uhura snorted, seeming to share his sentiment. "Sulu is on the Bridge now, dealing with a very angry Admiral Komack. He wanted to be here," she added, "but the Admiral didn't show any sign of stopping his rant soon. He said he'd be down later."
"I do nae envy the lad."
Both Uhura and Chekov grimaced in agreement, obviously having had a small taster of what Sulu was currently going through. Against his wishes Scott felt his eyelids begin to droop, too heavy to hold up any longer.
As if on cue, Doctor M'Benga entered the room. "Five minutes is up," he informed them quietly.
Chekov and Uhura stood, though they looked reluctant to leave. Scott barely heard their promises to return; the dark void already dragging him into its depths.
oOo
Blackness shrouded the landscape around him, showing no sign of letting up. The sky was starless, a single moon cast feeble light on the barren land, lighting it just enough to allow Spock to navigate through it. His feet crunched on the frozen ground, the sound shattering the stillness around him. A cold breeze blew almost through him with no direction, seeming to have no purpose except to unnerve the visitor.
The horizon loomed before him, flat and unpromising, and Spock began to wonder if he was too late, if the owner of this mind had already retreated beyond reach. Gathering himself, Spock began to climb over the rubble littering the area around him, but could see no structures. There was no suggestion of how the rubble got there, just that it existed.
It was like walking through a land of ghosts. He kept thinking he heard voices, the tones unfamiliar yet familiar, trying to penetrate the blackness. Yet every single one of them failed, and with each attempt the wind seemed to grow colder.
Spock quickened his pace, thankful for his sharp Vulcan sight which prevented him from becoming lost. There was no point of reference here, nothing against which to measure his progress, no milestones. He could have been walking for an hour, a day, and he would not know the difference. His usually infallible sense of time had deserted him as soon as he entered the other's mind.
He tried not to let that fact unnerve him.
He stepped over a particularly large boulder, wondering not for the first time how such objects could have come to exist there. As he navigated through a particularly scattered mine-field of rocks, the moon was his only companion, seeming to glitter at him. It hovered there, distant yet close, the only thing successful in at least partially penetrate the darkness.
The boulders turned to shingle, and he was standing at the edge of water, appearing inky black and slick like oil in the moonlight. It made not a sound, did nothing to disturb the darkness surrounding it. It was almost as though Spock had imagined it, but it was there nevertheless. He gently pushed a piece of shingle into the water, watching as it rippled soundlessly, stilling almost immediately. The river was unperturbed to outside disturbance, showing no sign of what lay beneath.
Acting on a hunch – something that, as a Vulcan, he would never admit to but conceded that Kirk was having a larger influence on him than he thought – he followed the river, careful not to step in it. It was the only sign of life around, and he could only hope it led somewhere more enlightening.
Perhaps it would lead to Snape.
The cold air seemed to lessen slightly as he continued to follow the river, and Spock was grateful for the additional warmth, no matter how little it might be. The shingle too began to thin out, giving way to something softer, something less crunchy.
Spock paused, bending down to peer at the ground, noting that a sallow type of grass seemed to be growing there, untouched by sunlight. He dimly wondered how it could possibly survive, whether this darkness was a permanent aspect of this mind or just caused by the physical condition. Whatever the case, the grass was unhealthy, short.
He straightened back up slowly, walking forwards warily. Blackness of mind combined with the black clothes habitually worn by the Potions Master created a suspicion in Spock's mind. Yet without any information and only speculation at hand, he could only guess, a practice which, despite promotion on the part of his human comrades, he did not like to indulge in.
Black shapes loomed in front of him, spiking into the dark sky, cutting into the moon, which seemed never to move no matter where Spock walked. Trees began to come into view, twisted and gnarled as only trees out of ghost stories could be. They bent and crouched, as though they had not moved in decades. No leaves graced their branches – they were in a permanent state of winter.
They were dead.
Yet somehow they stood, and Spock knew without having to question his conclusion that he had to get through them and the barrier they created. The branches were intertwining, barely any gaps allowing entry, and Spock had to admire the craftsmanship of such a structure despite its implications. Clearly they had lain undisturbed for years, either no one able to or caring enough to break it down, and so they had grown and multiplied.
Spock braced himself and then plunged into the immovable mass before him, using his own psychic energy to strengthen this physical representation of himself as he struggled through sharp branches, cutting through his clothing almost like knives. But he was not dissuaded, instead ploughing on despite the pain.
Above him, the moon twinkled in approval.
Branches clawed at him, scrabbled at his face, tugged at his limbs, tripping him. Spock fell to the floor heavily, hearing a dim ripping sound as one of his sleeves was torn off. His face was pressed into damp ground, the lumps of tree roots rising beneath him, creating an uneven surface. He could smell decay, the stench of something long dead, long abandoned, and this only served to strengthen his resolve.
Ignoring the razor sharp edges around him, he heaved himself to his feet, using a nearby trunk to steady himself as he found his bearings amidst the spider web of neglect. He could see a silhouetted hole ahead of him, set deep into a large, hulking structure, and he headed towards it, some instinct telling him that he would find Snape there.
He broke free of the trees with an abruptness that shocked him, and he tripped over a root that he had not seen, landing heavily on his knees but stopping himself at the last moment from falling onto his face. None of his training could have prepared him for what he had just come through.
Suppressing a very human sigh, he regained his footing for the second time since entering this man's mind, allowing his eyes to take in the sight before him.
A dim light seemed to emerge from the hole, barely strong enough to be seen, muffled by something. Around the hole was a sight he never thought he would see again, surprising him with its presence in this mind.
Hogwarts looked unchanged, as large and solid as ever, but at the same time appearing safe and soft after the tangled woods behind him. It beckoned to him on a subliminal level, drawing him towards it, and he allowed it to. But beneath the aura of safety was an underlying sense of depression, as though the mind did not want the building to be there but had grudgingly accepted it. The moon was brighter than ever here, and had moved for the first time to hover over one of the towers, looking completely at home in this unnatural position.
Quickly, Spock approached the light, his feet slipping over an expanse of grass that had suddenly become slick with dew, threatening to force him to his knees once more, propelling him away from the sight before him.
After several silent minutes of slipping and sliding he finally reached it. The hole became a cave, wrapped in black roses and thorns, the thin sheen of plants keeping him from getting inside. It was the last barrier he would have to face, he was sure. Inside the cave, he could dimly see a shape, indefinable, curled around something bright.
He wordlessly held out both his hands and parted the roses, uncaring of the thorns which tugged at his flesh, reminding himself that this was not physical pain, that he was in a mind meld. To his surprise, they came away, unravelling row by row until he was faced with a light so bright he could barely see.
Behind him, the woods were illuminated, looking even uglier in the face of the beautiful whiteness before him.
Spock stepped into the cave, feeling himself enveloped in warmth as he did so, and he became finally aware of how truly cold it had been outside, in the breeze. He noticed absently that the air was now still, but these thoughts were unimportant as he stared at the huddled form on the ground.
Severus Snape was lying on the ground, dwarfed by his own billowing robes, pressed against the only source of warmth in the entire expanses of his mind. A single lily forced itself through the rocky ground of the cave, shining its light around the cave, allowing Spock to clearly see every line around the thin man's mouth and eyes, every emotion as it flickered across his face.
Snape looked vulnerable, younger and yet older, as though his mind could not decide which one he was. There was an aura of depression about him, as though he had never been introduced to the concept of happiness, and he seemed not to notice Spock's intrusion even as the Vulcan took a few steps closer.
Spock finally risked speaking, though it felt wrong to shatter the silence of the moment. "Professor?"
Snape jerked to his feet, staring at Spock in a shock that he did not bother to hide. Or perhaps he was unable – there were no defences in a mind meld. For several long moments, silence stretched between them, tense and awkward, before Snape broke it.
"What are you doing here?"
The caustic snap was gone from the smooth voice, the sneer absent from the lips. Instead, the human sounded mechanical, dead, as though he was automatically going through the reactions expected of him.
Spock risked another step forwards, noticing that Snape seemed not to react to it. "You require healing, Professor."
Snape finally flinched, something unfathomable dancing through his eyes. "I need no help," he said quietly, voice heavy with some emotion Spock did not recognise.
Spock did not move. "I must contradict you, Professor."
Snape winced again. "Don't call me that." He seemed to avoid meeting Spock's eyes, his demeanour completely contrasting with the severe Potions Master that Hogwarts was used to. "I should not be at Hogwarts – I should not be a professor."
"For what purpose should I forgo your title?"
Snape seemed to struggle with himself for several moments, apparently debating whether or not it was safe to tell Spock, but when he finally spoke, it was not what Spock expected. It was as though the man was trying to rationalise something, or to understand it.
"You are the first to come here."
Spock's eyebrows furrowed. "To the cave?"
Snape nodded, eyes slightly hooded. "Yes..." there were a few more brief moments of silence before he spoke again. "No one has managed it before. They always wait for the trees to thin out," he explained, as though this made perfect sense. "But I can't let the trees move..."
For the second time that day, Spock felt out of his depth. "May I ask why?" He asked quietly.
Snape looked at him, surprised. "You are asking me permission?"
"It is your mind," Spock reminded him gently, trying not to push him into anything.
"If the trees move," Snape answered, "the light is visible. Hogwarts is visible."
"You are afraid that Voldemort-"
Snape seemed to shrink even more and there was a soft thudding sound, forcing Spock into silence. "Do not say that name," Snape whispered.
"I apologise," Spock said, inclining his head slightly. "You are afraid that he will discover Lily."
Snape seemed to freeze, his posture turning as rigid as stone, and he stared at Spock as though seeing him for the first time. "You know?"
Spock shook his head. "A hypothesis. We noticed that, while you consistently insult James Potter, you have made no reference to his wife, Lily Potter." He nodded at the lone flower in the cave. "Mind melds can be symbolic," he explained.
"She should not have married Potter."
Spock had no idea what to say to that, not having much expertise in emotional matters, and instead surveyed the man before him. Both occupants of the cave became lost in thought, silently weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of further pursuing the conversation.
"Have you visited Spinner's End?"
Spock shook his head, unsurprised that the question was unrelated to the conversation as of yet. "Negative."
Snape nodded once, something tugging his lips downwards. "I saw her there," he explained, "and nothing was the same ever again. She was sitting by the river..." he seemed to become lost in memories, forgetting for a moment that Spock was there.
"The river leading here," Spock deduced out loud, letting Snape know that he had come to the conclusion he was meant to.
Snape nodded again.
"It is surrounded by rubble," Spock added, hoping to nudge the man into conversation. He needed to know how to convince Snape to come back to the world of the living.
"I don't want to remember Spinner's End," Snape said simply. "I reached out because of her, but nothing worked."
Spock paused to absorb this. "You knew her at Hogwarts."
"She was the only one to talk to me."
And suddenly, the presence of the castle made sense. It had been more of a home to Snape than Spinner's End – the one place he could see Lily everyday, presumably without the troubles that his household home carried for him. But the castle was held there reluctantly, as though the memory of it was not entirely good.
"She stopped after I insulted her heritage," Snape explained as though he had read Spock's thoughts. "There was no one to defend me from Potter and his idiotic friends after that."
"You protect Mister Potter because of her," Spock stated, his mind whirring.
Snape seemed to come back to himself. "Why am I telling you this?" He questioned, apparently to himself, but Spock felt the need to answer anyway.
"I am the first to reach the cave."
The human had no answer to that, but continued to stare at the flower, his mind on other things. "I know why you are here," he said after a pause. "You wish to drag me back."
"You are needed."
Snape snorted. "I am needed only for the war, nothing else. Albus can find himself another spy."
He would never admit it later, least of all not to McCoy, but Spock took a wild stab in the dark, hoping that he hit the centre of the problem. "And your debt to Lily?"
Snape winced at the name. "It will be left unfulfilled."
"If you wish to atone," Spock said quietly, allowing his human emotions to lead him, "you must return. If you wish to right the wrongs which you did her, you are needed alive."
Snape did not look up. "I will consider it."
Knowing that this was the best he would get from the man, Spock nodded and turned around, making his way back out of the self-hating mind, hoping that he had made enough of an impression to save the man's life.
"Spock?"
Light was shining on his eyes, Spock realised, and he was no longer in the dark. He could feel the thin frame of a face beneath his fingers, and opened his eyes to see his hands on Snape's meld points.
"Leonard," he answered, his voice slightly hoarse.
"How did it go?"
"I do not know," he said wearily, not removing his eyes from the pale, still form before him. "The success of my endeavours are entirely dependent upon the Professor."
He heard the scraping sound of a chair being dragged towards him and a soft thud as McCoy sat down nearby. "Well? What happened in there?"
"He is extremely closed off," Spock replied mechanically, finally turning to face the surgeon. "It appears that he is afraid to allow people to be close to him."
McCoy glanced at the man lying next to them, his expression becoming sympathetic but curious. "Why's that?"
Spock dithered for a moment, and McCoy returned his focus to him.
"Spock, I'm a trained Doctor. It's my job to help people, even when the wounds aren't physical. I could help him."
"Very well," the First Officer said, glad at least that Snape could not hear the conversation between them. "You will recall our theory regarding Mrs Lily Potter?" At McCoy's nod, he continued. "From what I comprehend, he harboured emotions of great strength for her."
"You mean he loved her?" McCoy asked quietly.
"I believe so."
"Oh God...and James Potter married her."
"In addition," Spock reminded him, "she is no longer alive. She was murdered by Voldemort – he showed great fear and remorse when I referenced him in the meld."
"He was a Death Eater before she died."
"That is my hypothesis, yes."
"And her death turned him against Voldemort," McCoy continued to murmur, his eyes rooted to Snape, who remained unconscious and unaware that he was the topic of discussion.
"He is attempting to atone for his sins."
McCoy turned sharply to regard Spock. "What sins?"
"I can only assume that he aided, unintentionally, her death in some way. It would explain why he now possesses the role of spy for Professor Dumbledore."
"And why he protects Harry," McCoy murmured. "Oh God...this is a mess. He's obviously been feeling guilty for this for years..."
Spock nodded. "That is the motivation behind his cold exterior, I believe. He does not wish to form emotional attachments."
"Oh God..." McCoy muttered.
"Indeed."
"No," McCoy whispered, staring past Spock and at the bed, where Snape was beginning to stir, "I mean – you did it. He's waking up."