Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Ten

September 9, 1997

            A small farm in the south of France rests quietly below a menacing, ancient ruin of a castle. Soft green fields spread out before the castle; thick forests flank it, extending as far as the eye can see.

            In the kitchen of the whitewashed farmhouse that has seen a century or two, a tiny, tired-looking woman in her late thirties sits. Her prematurely graying gold hair is tied back from her face in a bun; her brown eyes are soft and weary. She is Nameless, forgotten amidst the ravages of time.

            The Lamp-Bearer comes down the stairway, into the hallway, and then into the kitchen. She carries two cloth-swaddled bundles, and an aubergine cape is draped over her thin shoulders.

            "Maman?" she says to the faded woman at the table.

            "Why only the Witch of the Lamp?" asks the Lamp-Bearer's Nameless mother, as her daughter gently gives one of the bundles to her.

            The Lamp-Bearer's mouth tightens in something like a grimace. "We were lucky to have had three months. The Hand of Power knows I have born him an heir, but he knows nothing of the Witch. If I can keep her safe, at least… I will not have failed so horribly. Go to the castle, Maman. Madam Dowling has come to watch over you for the night. She's warded it for you. He will not have you, nor will he have me or my son without a fight."

            "You're so young!" Sorrow and fear are evident in her mother's eyes.

            "I don't care," says the Lamp-Bearer. "The boys are already at the castle; Magdalena took them up." She unfastens her cape with one hand, drops it on a chair. The baby in her arms wails, and she rocks and coos to him until he is quiet.

            "That's Henry's uniform. Les Aurors Française – isn't that a bit much, dear?"

            The billowing white shirt is too large; it is sliding off one of the Lamp-Bearer's shoulders, and it is belted tightly at the waist. The black leather pants, however, hug her slender hips and legs like a second skin. The Lamp-Bearer looks as though she has filled out a little, though only enough to make her slenderness less bony.

            "It hides my wand, Maman." The Lamp-Bear pats her side.

            The Nameless woman turns away so that the Lamp-Bearer cannot see the tears running down her face. "You're not going to come back, are you, Lamp-Bearer?"

            "No," the Lamp-Bearer agrees sadly.

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            Severus woke to the sound of feet on stone, whispering past his window. He was not quite sure how the sound dragged him from a sound sleep; the window was open, but her tread was almost soundless…

            He leapt from the bed, hastily wrapped a dressing-robe around himself, and went to the window. Hermione had stopped six or seven feet on, at the corner – the sight of the empty air beyond the ledge made his stomach lurch. He'd always had a thing about heights…

            She turned a little so that he could see her face – her eyes were open, blank. She was utterly still as her honey hair, unbound, flew around her; the thin, oversized white t-shirt she wore fluttered about her knees.

            The moonlight bleached her hair white…

            He was jolted back in his mind to a memory of years before – Luck's hair shining in the moonlight, Luck's silver eyes wide open, Luck on a balcony. "I won't let him get away with any more…" Such a terribly calm little voice. The balcony, such an old balcony – how could she have been so stupid? – collapsed beneath her…

            Then and now merged, suddenly, a flashback sliding seamlessly into the present – he found himself on the balcony with her, Hermione, Luck, all the same, really- grabbing her by the wrists, the cool breeze, gentle and innocuous, blowing her hair into tangles. So close to the edge he was almost paralyzed. Severus never knew how he got her through the window.

            Hermione came back into herself for the most part after a few moments, and shook her head as if denying something. "Oh… I'm sorry," she said after a moment, crossing her legs beneath her. She was sitting on the carpet. "Did I worry you?"

            "Well, I did drag you in off the balcony," he snapped at her.

            She tilted her head, looking confused. "You didn't have to. I was perfectly safe."

            "Out on the edge of a balcony in the wind? Out of your mind?"

            "Never mind, Professor. I – it's late. I should be getting back to my room." Hermione stood up and walked to the window. "Thanks -" she added, as an afterthought. "But – I can take care of myself."

            "When mother has her hold on you?"

            "Is that what you thought? No – she hasn't – Lamp Bearer opened the door for me, this time."

            She was through the window before Severus could say anything.

            "Luck," he whispered, certain now of the presence that hung in the air. A breath of wind blew past his lips, and he wondered – what had she sacrificed to come back?

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She slips through the stone walls, away from Orion Tower, calling upon the dream world for the knowledge of the pathways. The tug towards the lake grows stronger – she will have to go back soon, she knows.

Up to Gryffindor Tower – sleeping boy, The Boy Who Lived. His eyes are closed. She waves her transparent hands over him, weaving a dream web, spinning in the dream world, locking in the truth, doing as dream wraiths do.

            He cries out in his sleep. Let him have nightmares. Let him know the cost.

            She goes to the lake, finally – the moon is almost half-full, mirrored in the lake. It's a beautiful lake. All the dream wraiths at Hogwarts are drawn here. They know what will happen.

            The Boy's parents are here, sitting together on the shore, silent as always. The Knight is leaning against a tree, looking out over the gently rippling water. The Raven is keening and moaning on the rocks. Only the Knight is close enough to the edge of the dream world for her to talk to. They both have missions.

            Cedric, she says to the Knight, who prefers his born-name.

            Lamp-Bearer, he says to her, with a gentlemanly nod of the head.

            Has he come down yet? she asks.

            No. But he will. The Knight is silent for a moment. I can feel the tide pulling stronger now. She won't survive if mother can break her. Nor will they.

            They'll survive.

            Sometimes I wonder why we wait, the Knight remarks tiredly.

            She turns to the young man, lets her ghostly hand rest against his equally insubstantial shoulder. We wait out of love, she says at last. Because to do otherwise would be a crime.

            A moment or an hour – time is so peculiar – passes in the dream world. Finally the Guardian of the Lamp appears.

            "Hello?" he asks, looking nervous. "Who is it?"

            The shift to something more solid is difficult – she can only leave so much of her wraith-self behind. Her voice echoes around the lake, a sibilant murmur. "I am Lamp Bearer."

            "You!" the Guardian exclaims. His silver eyes glitter in the moonlight. "I thought you were a dream."

            "No," she whispers, "No. More than that…"