A/N: Thanks to everyone who read the last chapter. This one's a bit
longer than usual, but I hope ya like it! ^_^ Special thanks to Kneazle,
who did a lovely picture of Demitrius! :D
It was the last class of the day, and sadly, it was also Demitrius' worst subject apart from Flying Lessons. Care of Magical Creatures. And, since it was Hagrid, and Hagrid never did anything small, the 'creature' they were to care for was a juvenile Spitting Hydra. Demitrius stood some ways away, trying to shield himself behind his classmates as the lithe beast hissed and spat large globules of fetid saliva. It's three heads writhed wildly, leaning out over the top of it's pen, and trying very hard to eat the nearby students. Or at least that's what it looked like to Demi.
"Are you sure this is safe?" A nervous Gryffindor boy asked, looking a little pale as the silvery hydra turned a bright red eye towards him. It's faces were narrow and long, the scales shimmering like gems in the sunlight. But it's teeth were a sickly yellow, sharp and broken, and it's breath was beyond foul. Demitrius found himself wishing he had a silk kerchief to hold up against his nose.
"Sure, sure, not ta worry Louis." Hagrid assured him, even as a ball of spit landed not far from the boy's feet. The scene was familiar, and brought another, unwelcome one to Demitrius' mind. A blond young man, dressed in Slytherin robes, held a large black lizard in his arms. The reptile's tail was curled tightly around Marcus' arm, and it's pale green eyes were looking at Demitrius with surprising intelligence.
"Isn't he marvellous? Dad got him for me. I think I'll name him Cid." Marcus said, looking for all the world like Christmas had come early. There was a derisive snort from Demitrius' side, where a girl with long, dark brown hair stood. Her locks were captured in a thick braid, which swayed out behind her as she moved a little further back.
"Cid? Honestly, Marcus, why on earth would you name something that ugly?" She inquired, eyeing the lizard warily. Marcus shrugged good-naturedly.
"He's cute, Helena!" The Malfoy declared, in a very un-Malfoy like manner. Then, as if on cue, 'Cid' rolled back his green eyes and spat up a jet of blue flame. The burst landed at Helena's feet, and she darted back with a shriek. Demitrius had laughed then.
He didn't laugh now, as the Gryffindor boy darted back as well. Before he could summon the strength to push back the memories, which was some how becoming harder instead of easier as time moved on, another one came. He stood over the body of a fallen Death Eater, cold and unmoving as Marcus lifted the man's mask. "Maybe you shouldn't..." Demitrius said, but his colleague only frowned.
"I need to know, Demi." He said hoarsely, even as the sounds of battle raged all around. "I need to know who I've killed." Marcus told him. Demitrius nodded, but did not look as the mask was lifted. Silence. Marcus moved backwards, pale as a ghost, his blue eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears of horror. "No." He whispered.
"Marcus?" Demitrius asked. Marcus shook his head, backing up until he was against the nearest wall. Blood stained it, but he didn't notice or care, as his pale form shook. His wand fell from his hand.
"No, no, no! It can't be true, it can't be!" Marcus howled, and fell to the ground, clutching his head. "He wouldn't have come, he wouldn't have, not here. No, no, no!" The boy continued. Demitrius watched him in silence. Cold, empty blue eyes slid up to look at his. "My father, Demi. I killed my own father!" He declared, before the world shook again, and the battle erupted into the room.
"Er, Mr. Septimus, are yeh alrigh'?" Hagrid said, his thick voice bringing Demitrius quickly out of his memories. He snapped his head up to look. The entire class was staring at him, and even the hydra seemed to have gone silent for the moment. Demitrius berated himself as he returned his mind to the present. What was his problem? He had dealt with pain before, why did the memories keep plaguing him here?
"I'm fine Hagrid, my apologies." Demitrius said. "What were you saying?" He asked. Hagrid nodded and turned back to the hydra.
"I'll be needin' some volunteers ta help me take o' this magnificent specimen, he'll be here fer a week an' he's too big fer the younger classes." Hagrid explained. Demitrius frowned. Much as the prospect of spending his free time with that monstrosity 'delighted' him, he politely declined. In the end a few sympathetic Gryffindors offered their help, and Hagrid was pleased as the class left, those who had been foolish enough to stand near the front heading for the bathrooms to wash the spit off. Marcus would have loved it, he always liked horrible lizard-beasts, much to his family's disappointment. 'Stop thinking about Marcus, you idiot!' He told himself harshly.
Maybe it was because it had happened so recently. Now that his plans for changing the future had begun to take shape, his mind was less focused, and the gravity of the recent battle had begun to plague him. But it was irrelevant, as he wouldn't allow such things to happen. 'When this is all over, I won't have to worry about suppressing memories anymore.' He thought, and that idea calmed him. And then he paused. What would happen, in fact, when this was over? Time was a complicated thing. If he were to change the past, then no Demitrius of the future would come back to change history, so then would the past be changed? But if it wasn't, then he would indeed be here, and so time would change, but then... Demi shook his head. Well, that was confusing and pointless. 'Can I change history?' He wondered, with a sudden jolt. What if his presence here was part of the passage of time? What if he even, horror of horrors, caused some of the atrocities he sought to prevent by being here? 'But then, wouldn't I have heard of myself?' He wondered. Surely, his parents would have mentioned something about a boy with the same name who royally fucked things up? It was all becoming extremely painful to consider. What would happen?
"The workings of time are very complicated, my dear boy, and try as I might even I have difficulties understanding them. However, the fact remains that you are here now, and it seems there is no alternative but for you to stay. The future will be what it may."
Dumbeldore had said that to him, after he woke up.
Demitrius rarely took solace in the words of others. He found his own reasoning and mind more able to help, than depending on the thoughts of other people, who's reasonings could not be trusted. But in this case the words... Helped. They helped because they were true. The future would be what it may, nothing was set in stone, not right now. His past could be stopped. Demitrius didn't know what would happen to him when he changed time. But, it didn't matter, did it? He was here now, and had as much right to be as any other. That was what the old man had meant.
"Time to let go, Demi." He told himself, glad that no one else was in the corridor with him. He saw now that his plans were too short-range. Why, the members of his Reformation would be extremely displeased, knowing that their leader hadn't thought much past spells and potions. Demitrius looked around. He needed a place. The Slytherin Common Room wouldn't do, it was too crowded and distrustful, and the library had the same problem. No, he needed a space for thinking. For planning. If he was going to bring down Voldemort and change the world, he was going to need some place to think things out in. And he knew where it was, too, if it still existed.
With a quick check to make certain no one was following, Demitrius began to make his way along the corridor, towards the stairs that led to Gryffindor tower. Hogwarts had many strange secrets, but Demitrius had learned a great many of them over the course of his lifetime. And this was one of his favourites. He darted down a corridor to avoid a group of Gryffindor sixth years, before continuing on his way. The changing staircases swung above him, swaying as one decided to move around. With a quick check to make certain he wouldn't be caught, he launched up three flights of stairs. When he got to the third he knelt down, and levelled his face with the fifth step. "Oops!" He said loudly to the stair, and banged a hand on the smooth surface next to it.
There was a groan as the staircase shifted and Demitrius held on. This part always made him nauseous. The steps swung around, until they were facing what looked to be a blank wall. Quickly Demitrius ran up the remaining steps, two at a time, and launched himself forcefully into the wall. He really hoped the room would be there, as his shoulder flew towards the seemingly solid stone surface.
Demitrius hit the wall, and kept going, feeling a sort of dizzying sense of light-headedness as he passed through. That was normal. He moved for several steps, hearing the stair case re-locate itself from behind him, and opened his eyes to see a painfully familiar room.
And suddenly, it was all too much. The room was large and warm, about two thirds the size of the Slytherin Common Room. A square table sat in the middle, with straight wooden chairs all around it, each one elegantly carved. A beautiful fireplace roared to life on his right. The mantle was made of an elegant, dark red wood, intricately sculpted to look as though the mantle was the back of a sleeping dragon. A back carpet was laid out upon the stone floor, shimmering like a lake as it reflected the surfaces of the room around it. The walls were bare and empty. Demitrius had found this room when he was ten years old, running up and down the staircases looking for secrets. He slipped, and quickly figured out the secrets of this place.
For four years it sat, his special room, until the Reformation came into being. And then it was given purpose. The secret hide-out of all fourteen members of his dedicated group. They had decorated the walls with banners made, covered in the carefully thought-out symbol of their cause. People from each house had joined the Reformation. Approached in secret, brought together by the war, to try and change things. To try and change the Slytherins.
But no banners were up. They hadn't been crafted by Samantha Weasley's careful hands, nor hung by Michael Thomas, the tallest of their group. No emblem of a spindly black spider hung over the looping name. And no one sat at the chairs, no one stood beside the fire. Demitrius sank to the ground, and looked at his reflection in the carpet. He hadn't cried for a very long time. When his mother died, tears stopped being enough. What was a little water in the face of loosing something so important? He had tried to cry. Had thrown things, yelled, screamed out his hatred for the Dark Lord and howled his pain into the night. But no tears fell.
When his father died, he had been still. His mother's death had been horrible, but his father's had nearly destroyed him. No tears, nor howls of rage. He had been still and quiet and hadn't spoken for days. If not for his friends then, he might have gone insane. But they had been there. Marcus had brought him out of it, and Demitrius taught himself not to remember. To push it back so it could never hurt him.
But there was no Marcus here now, no one to pull him out of it. No one who knew what pain he had seen. Even Dumbledore only saw part of it, and through words. Words and nothing more. Words could not say how it had felt to watch them put his parents in the ground. How he had known who was responsible, but done nothing, for the sake of that man's son. There were no words for what it felt like when Marcus looked up at him so horrified. And then beyond that, to watch his friends die, and be powerless to stop it. To never cry for them. To try not to remember them, because it was better than facing it, better than risking his sanity again. For he had seen it. And often, even a thousand words cannot do a picture justice.
Would the Reformation ever exist in this time? What if by being here, he prevented the birth of others? He wasn't only risking himself. Marcus and Helena were a year older than him, but had probably not yet been conceived. Michael was the only one who was born yet. But he would only be a toddler now. Demitrius looked at his own face. He looked at the pale skin and the dark eyes, which now seemed so haunted, even to him. He remembered a play his mother had shown him once. She kept a 'television' in their quarters, down in the dungeons, and occasionally put in tapes to watch when the nights grew cold, and the feelings of the war got close. Especially with his father was away, working as a spy. One tape she had was a story called 'Les Miserables.' It was a musical theatre production. People sang the stories on a stage, instead of what they usually did, where they acted them out more realistically. Demitrius remembered one part in particular. A man had lost all his comrades to a war, and returned to their old gathering room. But of course no one was there. He sang of 'empty chairs at empty tables'. Right now, there was no one Demitrius would be in greater agreement with.
Empty chairs. Would they ever be filled again? Which was worse, to live a life doomed to end in tragedy, or to never live at all? What was he gambling here? He couldn't set up everyone's parents. Carefully he stood from the ground. Part of him, his rational side which normally reigned supreme in his mind, yelled to him of how he was loosing it. That if he lost control now, he might never get it back. That coming to this room was a great mistake.
But, the rational side was tired, and so was Demitrius. He stood there, staring at the table, and the chairs. Only nine chairs. One night, the Ravenclaw Trio had sneaked out of their Common Room after curfew, with another five chairs shrunken in their pockets, and placed them in the Meeting Hall. It had been a great surprise the next meeting. Of course, the chairs had the Ravenclaw insignia on them, and wouldn't change no matter how many times Demitrius and the others tried to fix it. They'd stood out horribly. "Well, We'll just have to bring in Gryffindor cushions to even things out then!" Sammy had said, and giggled in her terribly squeaky voice. She had been the daughter of Percy and Penelope Weasley, a short little ball of long, puffy red hair, and freckles on every inch of her. She couldn't be found without a large grey cat caught up in her arms, which Demi used to swear could be dead for all they knew, as it never moved.
Helena, a Slytherin right to her core, had sneered in disgust and announced that the day that happened would be the day she left their little group. Demitrius actually hadn't minded the thought. He disliked Helena, she had a tendency to abandon them at inappropriate moments. But she was Marcus' girlfriend so the two of them tried not to kill each other.
There were no Ravenclaw chairs now. Demitrius sat down in a long, curved seat at the head of the table. His seat. He could almost hear his own voice speaking, and could almost see the faces of his colleagues through memory. Marcus on his right, Sammy on his left. At the other end was Michael, one of the Hufflepuffs, and Head Boy before the war claimed his life in the final battle. In his mind he recalled their last meeting. He had snapped at Michael and Jared, a Gryffindor boy who Demitrius' had known since their first year, for talking about Quidditch while everyone waited for Demitrius to speak. Jared was Gryffindor's Seeker. A small boy, pale in both skin and hair, who followed Sam wherever she went. He had a soft and scratchy voice, but a strong will. Demitrius had learned from Sam that Jared had been attacked by a vampire when he was only seven years old. The Nosferitia Banisher potion had cured him, but burnt out his throat, leaving him almost breathless whenever he spoke. His parents had died in that conflict, and he had been raised by his older brother. Demitrius had greatly respected Jared.
Still, he scolded him and Michael, before beginning the meeting. They had no idea an attack was upon them. They spoke of inter-school problems, and Marigold Bicks, a Hufflepuff pureblood who was always great for tips, had mentioned that something seemed amiss in Hogsmeade.
"Well, something's always amiss in Hogsmeade, the streets are thick with Death Eaters!" Iris Pepperfield, a Slytherin girl Demi's age, had declared confidently. Marcus had frowned.
"Not everyone there's a Death Eater you know. My Dad goes down there a lot." He had stated, and all around the table everyone shared a look. Poor Marcus. He was the only one who didn't know what his father was up to, and no one had ever had the heart to tell him, apparently not even Draco Malfoy himself. It was a wonder the boy hadn't been Sorted into Hufflepuff. But then, he remembered, Marcus had said he threatened the hat into putting him in Slytherin.
Topics had changed. They had spoken until the evening wore thin, and discussions of Reformation business had soon melted away into study sessions. The Ravenclaw Trio, consisting of three Ravenclaw boys who were completely inseparable, had say huddled together around one side of the table. Henry, Rex, and Adonis. Demi had noticed that Rex and Henry were currently trying very hard to explain something from Charms class to Adonis, who had the incantation memorised perfectly but couldn't get the wand movements down to save his life. Michael, Jared, and Sammy had all left the table, and judging by their hand movements were talking avidly about Quidditch. Sam had just made the team in the Keeper position last year, but had a tendency to leave her post and tear after players who went after Jared, so Demi had heard. Iris and Marigold were chatting companionably, shooting him furtive glances, which made Demitrius roll his eyes. For the past two years the girls had haunted his footsteps as they noticed his maturing form.
Marcus and Helena spoke together over a Charms book, which Helena had produced from her bag. Though if Charms actually made Marcus blush that much there was something going on between him and Professor Weasley that Demi didn't know about. And not so far off, the three youngest members of the Reformation were sitting together. Angus MacDonald, a Hufflepuff and their Divination expert (which basically meant he occasionally fell over onto the ground, and spewed out some nonsense while he spasmed) sat with Lucilla Carmen, from Gryffindor. Both were in their third year. Between them sat the final member of their team, Bingo, a small grey dog who belonged to Adonis. She wasn't very old, but Hagrid had assured them she would get bigger. Technically dogs weren't allowed in the castle, but on occasion Adonis managed to sneak her into the meeting room. Usually she stayed outside with Hagrid and Fang.
Angus and Lucy were perched over her, complaining about Potions as they petted her fur. "It didna make any sense, there was no bark oil on me hands!" Angus declared in his thick Scottish accent, obviously part-way through the conversation. He lifted his hands as if to make a point.
Demitrius was looking at the spot where the younger ones had sat, on a corner of the floor, near the doorway. He looked at the places where all had sat. He wasn't sentimental, he wasn't given to long periods of thinking back, because of the pain. He banished happy memories along side the sad ones, because you couldn't have one without the other.
But if, or when, he succeeded, he would be the only one to have these thoughts. Any of them. Could he just lock all of it away? Didn't those people he had known, those people he had loved but never told them so, have the right to be remembered? Some might never exist. Others might be born, but surely they would grow up to be different people? They would lead different lives. No war, no pain. Demitrius closed his eyes. He placed his elbows upon the table, and lowered his face into his hands. Was there ever a way for him to keep their memory, without the hurt? Without the pain? In his mind he saw as a young girl cried out, red blood mingling with red hair as she fell to the ground. Her form lay still next to others. Lucy and Jared. They stared, eyes open but not seeing. And something laughed. Laughed at them for dying. There was a piercing pain, and Demitrius knew he was being toyed with, and the piece of the stone wall flew at him. It raked across his torso, drawing blood. The laughter kept on as he crawled away. Beaten, broken.
And then Demitrius knew. Pain one could wallow in, one could die or drown in forever. But anger was the saving grace. It burned, cold and deep, at his very core. That there was a monster who had destroyed everything was intolerable. That he should laugh, *laugh* at them, as he made them suffer, made them die, was unthinkable. There was nothing to that so- called Dark Lord but evil. Everything else, and everyone else, they had purpose and reason. Power, love, duty, something that was real drove them. But all he had was madness.
Demitrius lowered his hands. He wouldn't forget. He couldn't remember all the time, not while he needed his mind about him, but he would make the pain anger. And the anger would drive him. Anger would give him power, the power to destroy Voldemort and see the future reborn. No matter the cost. He would kill that monster, slowly and painfully, and then he would be the one to laugh. Demitrius cast his eyes up to the walls. This place would serve it's purpose again. He would recreate the banners, and build a shrine in it to his broken future. Here he would give his Reformation their vengeance. A cold, but true, smile overtook his lips. He would need materials for the banners. That would have to be stolen, as he had not taken any money with him through time. Then he could begin constructing his plans. Somehow he would have to find out what information Dumbledore's Order had on Voldemort. Who were suspected followers, what were they up to, put names and faces to dates and numbers. By the end of all this he was positive he would wish he'd paid better attention in History.
Demitrius glanced upwards towards the ceiling. The great, cream-coloured walls stretched up into a dome, centred around the face of a clock. It would have been an ordinary muggle time piece, were it not for the fact that the face displayed the weather of the outside world, enchanted like the ceiling of the Great Hall. The hands were arranged in such a manner that he knew it was almost dinner time. Standing, he cast a final glance at his reflection in the carpet. He looked as he always did. But then, he still hadn't cried, had he? Perhaps he never would. With a shrug he pushed back his thoughts. Time to return to the land of the living, for the time being anyway. Demitrius walked over to the roaring fire place. Now, this trick had taken him a while to figure out. The first time he found the room he'd been stuck inside for hours and hours. Raising a hand, he went over to the end of the mantle. An intricately carved dragon's head lay there, eyes shut tightly. Demitrius tapped the dragon on the nose. "Wake up!" He demanded.
There was a pause. Slowly, lazily, one single wooden eyelid curled back to reveal a bright orange eye. A slit pupil fixed on Demitrius curiously. "Haven't seen you before." The dragon yawned. He creaked a little as he opened his wooden mouth, revealing carved fangs and a moving, forked tongue. Demi shrugged.
"Guess you haven't, but you will again." He supplied. "Could you open the passageway, please? I'll be late for dinner if I stay much longer." Demitrius asked. It didn't pay to be rude to the dragon, he was often sensitive about such things. There was a pause as the orange eye considered him.
"Oh, alright, so long as I can go back to sleep." The dragon said. Then suddenly the fire in the fireplace snuffed out. The interior slid aside, revealing an opening and a smooth, surprisingly dust-free ladder. Demitrius nodded his thanks and made his way over, as the mantle closed it's eyes, and went still again. He slid into the fireplace and began to make his way down the ladder. Whoever designed Hogwarts must have been a very bored person. It wasn't uncommon for rooms to have no way in and no out, save for under special circumstances, like on Tuesdays when it's a full moon after Halloween and you're dressed in purple. At least the Meeting Room could be reached at any time. Provided you knew what you were doing, of course.
The ladder reached it's end, and Demitrius turned slightly to look downwards. He paused. There were no voices, nor footsteps. With a sigh he let go and dropped down at least a foot, to land gracefully on the floor of one of the many rooms in the dungeons. No one ever came down this way. The place was covered in dust. Old, rusty chains lined the walls, and it was apparent to any eyes that the room he had landed in was indeed a cell of sorts. A barred door was rusted open, and cobwebs littered the space between the bars that lined the walls. Demitrius took a step forward, and behind him a smooth wall rumbled shut over the passageway. One way out, but it was not a way in. One way in, that wasn't a way out. Farther down the dungeon he heard a chilling shriek, that could only have belonged to the Bloody Baron. Demitrius never knew why people feared the ghost. He was just that, a ghost. Couldn't even touch you.
Quietly he made his way out of the dungeons and to the waiting dinner. From now on his days would consist of eating, working, scheming, and sleeping. Not that they had been much different before.
~
For a moment, neither Snape nor Hermione moved. She lay atop him, pinning him to the ground with her light form, and Snape was almost painfully aware of the gentle slopes and curves of her body pressed up against his own. Her eyes looked into his. They were warm and round, holding none of the disgust he thought to find. A blush was creeping up her cheeks as they simply stared at one another. Soft, thick strands of brown hair blanketed around them, brushing against the back of his hand gently as she breathed. Oh, she breathed. Gentle breaths which moved sweetly in and out from softly parted lips. Snape didn't think he would ever be envious of air. Without thought he shifted, leaning his own face down towards those lovely, parted lips. Hermione's eyes widened in surprise. For a moment nothing moved, and even her breath stopped.
"The burner!" She suddenly declared, her cheeks a vibrant shade of red as she scrambled off of Snape, and quickly whirled around towards the cauldron. For a moment he simply lay there in startled confusion, before his mind came roaring back to him, and he moved gracefully up to his feet.
"Is it ruined?" He asked coldly, straightening out he robes as he stepped forward, and plastered a sneer to his face. The flame still burned fairly evenly, and Hermione grasped the stirring stick again, not meeting his eye.
"No, there wasn't enough spilt for that." She said. Ordinarily, she would have sounded relieved, but at the moment her voice was quaky and unsure. Snape just stood there for a moment. He was very unsure of what he should do. Apologise? No, no, that would be far too humiliating for his tastes. Though he had obviously rattled her, which wasn't at all surprising. Perhaps he should simply snap at her for crashing into him and let it go at that. Yes, that would do. He plastered a sneer onto his face.
"Next time I would appreciate it if you paid more attention to the potion, 'Professor', and not whatever fancies your mind indulges in." He snapped. Hermione winced, and for a split-second, Snape almost wished he hadn't done that. She frowned, still not meeting his gaze.
"Well, it was only a drop! You don't have bite my head off. The potion's fine, the burner's fine, no harm's been done." She argued. Her cheeks were still a vibrant red, though from anger or embarrassment Snape couldn't tell, and her hair now swept around her face somewhat wildly. He swallowed. 'One day, I will create a potion that can quell human hormones, and this problem will never happen again!' He vowed. Then he narrowed his eye appropriately, turning back to the moss he had been adding before she crashed into him. It was scattered across the table, a few bits on the floor. Those would have to be swept up. As he gathered the moss on the table together, he shot her a vicious glare.
"A drop any bigger would have destroyed that burner, and completely thrown the entire potion off." He said in usual dark, cold, 'fifty-points from Gryffindor' voice. "Of course, if you would prefer to test that theory, by all means return to your day-dreams. I will have no trouble locating a replacement for you when you are little more than a scorch mark on these walls." He said, with a dismissive gesture outwards at the room. Hermione's frown deepened, but she was paying excruciatingly close attention to the potion now.
"Oh, and I have absolutely no doubt who you would choose to replace me, too." She snapped, and there was a certain bitterness to her tones which Snape was completely unprepared for. "After all, from what I saw he must be brilliant at Potions." Hermione added. "You must be ecstatic. A Slytherin student who's almost as good as you at this subject, even if he did come back through time."
What was this? Jealousy? Why on earth would Hermione Granger be jealous of someone else for their intellect? It made no sense. While Snape would never, ever admit it aloud, she had been one of his finest students. The only one in her class to complete her Potions final with absolutely perfect results. And then it hit him. She wasn't jealous of the boy's intelligence, but of Snape's acknowledgement of that. Without even realising it, he'd been throwing it in her face since the minute she'd caught them in the dungeons, brewing all those unique and new potions. He had never once paid her a true compliment. And why should he have? A bossy Gryffindor know-it-all. There were plenty of other teachers to worship the ground she walked upon, what did she care that the Head of Slytherin house did not? Snape let out a snort of disgust before he even realised he was doing it.
Finally, Hermione turned to look at him, and her eyes were bright with a stunning array of indistinguishable emotions. "What?" She asked, heat and fire pouring from her lips in that one, single, solitary word. Snape glared at her.
"Your bitterness is so blatantly obvious it's almost painful, Professor." He said coolly, and this time did take special care to make sure he spat her title mockingly. Hermione's hand slowed to a crawl as she stirred the potion.
"And why shouldn't it be?" She asked, and Snape's eyes widened in surprise as she planted her index finger on his chest. "I was probably the best student in your class. Certainly better than that prat Malfoy! But because of you, you insufferable, biased, creepy, dungeon-dwelling worm, I graduated second in the class. And you knew I was better!" She declared. Snape blinked in an unnatural moment of genuine surprise. He had given Malfoy a better mark than her, hadn't he? At the time it had seemed to make sense, even if the boy's potion didn't match up to Granger's. A way of bringing her down off her high horse. She graduated top of her class in every other subject after all. He certainly wasn't going to let a Gryffindor claim the glory in *his* class!
"Are you quite through?" Snape asked. He would never admit that part of him felt regret, as he scowled down at her. That part of him berated his own mind for being so petty. Of course, not that she was much better, holding on to something so small for all this time. He raised an eyebrow. "Really, Professor, I would have thought you'd have gotten over that by now." He said silkily. So it was that he was caught completely off his guard when an enraged Hermione suddenly slapped him across the cheek.
There was a quiet pause. Then suddenly her wrist was in his hand, and he was glaring at her with all the icy coldness he had ever possessed. And she was looking back, brimming with fire, bright and angry as a roaring hearth. "You and your Slytherins can go to hell!" She yelled suddenly, wrenching her wrist free of his grasp. Snape could tell she wanted nothing more than to stalk out of his office. To leave in an angry whirlwind. But instead she returned her gaze to the potion. "Now add the rest of that, and let's get this over with, Snape." She snarled. He opened his mouth to speak, but her eyes caught his before he could say a word. "And don't you dare say another thing." She added, and with that, promptly turned her back to him.
~
The days seemed to snail by as Demitrius spent every waking moment busy with one thing or another. He slept only five hours each night, grateful that he was fairly tall already, so the cups of coffee he downed every morning wouldn't be able to stunt his growth too badly. He rushed from class to class, doing homework as he sat at the lunch, breakfast, and dinner tables. The only time he was ever in the Slytherin Common Room was when he walked through it towards the dorms. Thankfully, seventh years didn't have much in the way of free-time either, so no one questioned his late arrivals to bed. Fitsgibbons seemed to be ignoring him. Which was fine with Demi, since he'd never liked the boy anyway, although he was curious to know who had put him up to getting him to Hogsmeade.
Demitrius made a point to grab newspapers out of discarded piles whenever he could, going over recent events in the Daily Prophet. He restored the banners to the Meeting Room, though they were nowhere near as good as the ones Demi remembered, as he was not the artistic type. Dumbledore had provided him with the necessary school items, though the old man would say how they were procured or who had done the procuring. After dinner on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Demi went down to the dungeons, where he and Professor Snape worked on the potions he had listed. Snape proved himself to be only a little less brilliant than Demitrius remembered; His mind had yet to be driven as forcefully as it had been in his time. They planned on showing the 'new' potions at the exposition during the summer, though Demitrius would be unable to claim responsibility for any of them, as their source would be made far too obvious then.
Tueday and Thursday evenings Demitrius worked with Professor Granger in her classroom. She proved the perfect person for dealing with every other item on his list, not that he had expected anything different, however unlike Snape she had no set plan for claiming credit on the spells. When Demitrius brought up the subject she had looked mortified. "I couldn't possibly take credit, they aren't mine!" She had declared, like he had just asked her to swallow a live cockroach.
A week later, and Demitrius still wasn't sure how to get his point across with her. He supposed he would cross that bridge after they had expended his knowledge of future developments. Then, on weekends, he spent every available moment scouring over the information in the newspapers, trying desperately to figure out what the Death Eaters were up to, and looking for signs of Voldemort. He snarled at the articles on Potter. The man had made a name for himself as an auror, who played Seeker for the Chudley Cannons in his spare time. It seemed the world was still having troubles accepting that the Dark Lord had returned, and preferred to focus on the newest Quidditch whiz.
But when they weren't focusing on a sport that was more abomination than anything else, the articles on Potter often left the biggest clues. The man was avidly searching for Voldemort. Demitrius did not know how his search would end, only that after Dumbledore's death Potter stopped looking and started sulking. Really, at least if Voldemort had killed Dumbledore Potter would have had revenge to fuel him, but since the old man just kicked it naturally he wussed out. Or at least that's how Demi thought of it. There was probably some really good, sympathetic psychological reason behind it, but he didn't really care about that drivel.
Getting information was harder than he had thought, and trying to tap into the Order was like making an attempt to draw water out of stone, not overly fruitful. If anyone was better at hiding than Voldemort it was those wily Phoenix followers. The obvious move, in Demitrius' mind anyway, would have been to recruit a few students in this timeline and re-start a system similar to the one he'd had in the future. Eyes out, ears open, and everyone shares and dissects what they know. But somehow doing that felt like sacrilege.
It was late Friday night when Demitrius finally gave up on convincing Hermione to just say she was brilliant, which she was, and take credit for all the things he'd showed her. 'The woman is hopeless.' He thought fondly, as he staggered in, moving past the Common Room with tired steps. Next time he would try a different approach, maybe getting her to share her knowledge with a few choice staff members. Surely they wouldn't be above claiming such marvellous spells as their own. Or maybe prompting Hermione into taking credit herself.
His mind barely registered that something was wrong when he entered the dorm. It took him a moment to realise what it was. The beds, typically filled with sleeping seventh-years, were empty. Then suddenly, before his tired form could move, a surge of magic hit him as someone called out 'Petrificus Totalus!" His legs and arms clamped together at his sides, forced into him by the spell. A trap? In a Hogwarts dormitory? Who would be stupid enough to try and pull that off?
His attacker chose that moment to come into view, flanked by all of the Slytherin seventh years. 'Oh, right.' Demitrius thought, as Fitsgibbons' familiar, meaty face came into view. Demitrius watched him curiously. Let's see. In about two seconds, the Head of House would be rudely awoken by a message saying that a curse had been used in the Slytherin seventh year dormitory. Then, the attackers would have about two minutes to get out of the area before Snape, irate as all hell, finally reached the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. Assuming that they would be able to get him out of sight by that time, which was looking more and more doubtful as the seconds went by, they would still have Filch, Peeves, and any other ghost wandering the hall to contend with, as well as the portraits. Who, though typically understanding towards student escapades, would undoubtedly sound the alarm at the sight of several Slytherins carting off a fellow student.
"Not so slick now, are you?" Fitsgibbons said with a loud guffaw, as two seventh years cast the mobilicorpus spell on Demitrius. Demi would have raised an eyebrow if he could have. 'Probably not, you great oaf, but let's see you smile when you're explaining this to my father.' He thought rather whimsically. This brute must really be on hot coals if he was going to all these lengths over Demitrius. 'Guess we can completely rule out the crush theory, eh?'
Suddenly a Slytherin seventh year, who had darted out as soon as Demi had been paralysed, rushed back in. 'Kevin, isn't it? I suppose you're going to tell everyone trouble's on the way.' Demitrius thought.
"Hurry it up, Snape's just turned the corner!" Kevin said frantically. Demi was surprised as the spell cast upon his body moved him with a lurching gate over to his own bed. Realisation hit him as Kevin took out a bottle of purple goo and began smudging one of his friends' skin with it. 'Hey, you guys aren't as dim as Brutus, are you?' He thought as Kevin hastily put the jar away and dashed over to his own bed. Fitsgibbons whipped out his wand, as all but the painted seventh year darted under their covers, and held it pointed at the older boy. 'Oh, too bad, guess you didn't pay them enough to take the rap for you as well.' Demitrius thought. This was actually sort of entertaining, to his drowsy, battered mind anyway. He watched as Snape thundered into the dormitory.
'I wonder if he'll notice my eyes are open and I'm stiff as a board?' Demitrius wondered. 'Nah, it's too dark.' He decided, as Snape began dolling out a punishment to Fitsgibbons, and ordered the seventh year boy to the infirmary. For a few moments none of the seventh years moved, as their colleague left, as did Snape and Brutus, the latter of whom was ordered back to his own dorm room. Then after a few minutes Brutus came back.
"He fell for it, come on." He said. Demitrius felt his body suddenly lurch up again, and mused that it was a somewhat nauseating sensation. Then something made of a slick, fine fabric was tossed over his form, and he knew now how they planned to get past the paintings and Filch. The only thing he wanted to know is how on earth they'd managed to find one invisibility cloak, let alone two.
'Well boys, I guess this should be interesting.' Demitrius thought. If nothing else, he would get to find out what this was all about.
A/N: And that's that, until the next update. Hope everyone enjoyed it. Shout-outs are below!
Tracy - WHAT?!? You have got to learn to sleep, that can't be healthy! Forget spelling. Go, shoo, off to bet wit' ye! Nah, I'm just joking, I've done that myself a few times. Glad you liked the chapter, and you're very welcome. I'm afraid I'm terribly fond of cliff-hangers, you'll have to find it in you're heart to forgive me. :D
Bellemaine Chercoer - Glad you like it, and thanks for reviewing!
Beth Ann - :D Yup, I like to update frequently. I'm a fast typer and I hate waiting for updates myself, so I try and lessen the burden on others. I bet Demi would be as hard as Snape to teach! Must be an intelligence thing, it's always difficult to deal with a student who thinks they know more than the teacher, in my opinion. ^-^. Sorry, I did mean to say 'wasn't'. I slip up with my grammar when I type from time to time, and usually I get too enthused with the prospect of writing the next chapter to re-read the last. And don't worry about pointing out small stuff. Makes me feel good, actually, when people can list my mistakes, as it means there aren't too many! ^-^
Jessicat1982 - Thanks, hope I didn't disappoint!
Isa - Yippee, that's what I was going for. Thanks for reading!
Sonja S. - Glad you liked chapter seven. As for Dumbledore, well, maybe he *does* know what's going on. All we really know is that Demitrius doesn't think he does, and Demi can definitely underestimate people. I wouldn't be surprised if Dumbledore did have a deal with the paintings. Awe, hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he was psychic even. Now, to answer you second inquiry, Demitrius does not have a girlfriend in the future. Whether he gets one in this time remains to be seen. Thanks for reading and reviewing, hope you liked this last chapter! ^_^
RoseFyre - Ha ha! I thought it might be something like that. Pretty admirably, really, where most wouldn't leave a review, you have a standard comment that lets people know you read. Which is pretty important, and better than just disappearing. I like it. Thanks for telling me! :D
Treat - Meep! Such high praise! You really think I could be published? That's, well, WOW! Thank you so much! I really don't know what to say. Um, I'll keep you appraised of my work then. A fan! WOW! :D That's too cool.
Goddessnmb1 - ^_^ Glad you liked it! As for Hermione taking cheek, well, it was nicely veiled cheek wasn't it? Let's just chalk it up to her having a lot on her mind, and Demitrius being a very charming young man. It's great that you liked the little run-in Snape and Herm had, hope you enjoyed chapter eight.
Liesel - Yeah, heheh, I guess that was 'relatively' positive. Er, at least at the beginning... Thanks for reading and reviewing!
Witchy-grrl - Yup, you've caught onto me, it is a ball to write. Thanks for reviewing, I'm so glad you're enjoying yourself. Demitrius is quite mature, but I wonder if that comes from living in his time, or being Snape and Hermione's son? Hmm. Oh well, hope you liked this chapter! :D
Sarah T.- Thanks! :D
Christina - Thanks, you got it!
Kneazle - Yay! *Glomps Kneazle* I'm so glad you liked it, thanks so, so much for the picture! Hurra! Erm, only three of those Gryffindors weren't anonymous, at least to Demi. Hope you liked chapter eight by the way. My idea of romance requires a bit of patience to get through, and I do think you can rush SS/HG, so sorry if it seems like it's going in loopholes sometimes. It'll get there! Thanks for reading! :D
Nicolette - Yup, that sentence made perfect sense, I'm happy you liked that part. Ah, old fall-backs are nice, and in this case I couldn't think of any better way to bring Severus and Hermione together than by literally throwing them at one another. Hope you liked chapter eight!
Aiya - Yay, glad you liked it! Yup, 'Mione turned red as a beet.
Jordan - Dun dun dun! Hope I didn't make ya wait too long! ^_^
Aemos - Hi Aemos, lol, glad you liked chapter seven. Hope chapter eight was up to par! :D
Black Amizon - Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying. I'm not sure what I'm doing either but it's good to know it's having positive results! ^-^
It was the last class of the day, and sadly, it was also Demitrius' worst subject apart from Flying Lessons. Care of Magical Creatures. And, since it was Hagrid, and Hagrid never did anything small, the 'creature' they were to care for was a juvenile Spitting Hydra. Demitrius stood some ways away, trying to shield himself behind his classmates as the lithe beast hissed and spat large globules of fetid saliva. It's three heads writhed wildly, leaning out over the top of it's pen, and trying very hard to eat the nearby students. Or at least that's what it looked like to Demi.
"Are you sure this is safe?" A nervous Gryffindor boy asked, looking a little pale as the silvery hydra turned a bright red eye towards him. It's faces were narrow and long, the scales shimmering like gems in the sunlight. But it's teeth were a sickly yellow, sharp and broken, and it's breath was beyond foul. Demitrius found himself wishing he had a silk kerchief to hold up against his nose.
"Sure, sure, not ta worry Louis." Hagrid assured him, even as a ball of spit landed not far from the boy's feet. The scene was familiar, and brought another, unwelcome one to Demitrius' mind. A blond young man, dressed in Slytherin robes, held a large black lizard in his arms. The reptile's tail was curled tightly around Marcus' arm, and it's pale green eyes were looking at Demitrius with surprising intelligence.
"Isn't he marvellous? Dad got him for me. I think I'll name him Cid." Marcus said, looking for all the world like Christmas had come early. There was a derisive snort from Demitrius' side, where a girl with long, dark brown hair stood. Her locks were captured in a thick braid, which swayed out behind her as she moved a little further back.
"Cid? Honestly, Marcus, why on earth would you name something that ugly?" She inquired, eyeing the lizard warily. Marcus shrugged good-naturedly.
"He's cute, Helena!" The Malfoy declared, in a very un-Malfoy like manner. Then, as if on cue, 'Cid' rolled back his green eyes and spat up a jet of blue flame. The burst landed at Helena's feet, and she darted back with a shriek. Demitrius had laughed then.
He didn't laugh now, as the Gryffindor boy darted back as well. Before he could summon the strength to push back the memories, which was some how becoming harder instead of easier as time moved on, another one came. He stood over the body of a fallen Death Eater, cold and unmoving as Marcus lifted the man's mask. "Maybe you shouldn't..." Demitrius said, but his colleague only frowned.
"I need to know, Demi." He said hoarsely, even as the sounds of battle raged all around. "I need to know who I've killed." Marcus told him. Demitrius nodded, but did not look as the mask was lifted. Silence. Marcus moved backwards, pale as a ghost, his blue eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears of horror. "No." He whispered.
"Marcus?" Demitrius asked. Marcus shook his head, backing up until he was against the nearest wall. Blood stained it, but he didn't notice or care, as his pale form shook. His wand fell from his hand.
"No, no, no! It can't be true, it can't be!" Marcus howled, and fell to the ground, clutching his head. "He wouldn't have come, he wouldn't have, not here. No, no, no!" The boy continued. Demitrius watched him in silence. Cold, empty blue eyes slid up to look at his. "My father, Demi. I killed my own father!" He declared, before the world shook again, and the battle erupted into the room.
"Er, Mr. Septimus, are yeh alrigh'?" Hagrid said, his thick voice bringing Demitrius quickly out of his memories. He snapped his head up to look. The entire class was staring at him, and even the hydra seemed to have gone silent for the moment. Demitrius berated himself as he returned his mind to the present. What was his problem? He had dealt with pain before, why did the memories keep plaguing him here?
"I'm fine Hagrid, my apologies." Demitrius said. "What were you saying?" He asked. Hagrid nodded and turned back to the hydra.
"I'll be needin' some volunteers ta help me take o' this magnificent specimen, he'll be here fer a week an' he's too big fer the younger classes." Hagrid explained. Demitrius frowned. Much as the prospect of spending his free time with that monstrosity 'delighted' him, he politely declined. In the end a few sympathetic Gryffindors offered their help, and Hagrid was pleased as the class left, those who had been foolish enough to stand near the front heading for the bathrooms to wash the spit off. Marcus would have loved it, he always liked horrible lizard-beasts, much to his family's disappointment. 'Stop thinking about Marcus, you idiot!' He told himself harshly.
Maybe it was because it had happened so recently. Now that his plans for changing the future had begun to take shape, his mind was less focused, and the gravity of the recent battle had begun to plague him. But it was irrelevant, as he wouldn't allow such things to happen. 'When this is all over, I won't have to worry about suppressing memories anymore.' He thought, and that idea calmed him. And then he paused. What would happen, in fact, when this was over? Time was a complicated thing. If he were to change the past, then no Demitrius of the future would come back to change history, so then would the past be changed? But if it wasn't, then he would indeed be here, and so time would change, but then... Demi shook his head. Well, that was confusing and pointless. 'Can I change history?' He wondered, with a sudden jolt. What if his presence here was part of the passage of time? What if he even, horror of horrors, caused some of the atrocities he sought to prevent by being here? 'But then, wouldn't I have heard of myself?' He wondered. Surely, his parents would have mentioned something about a boy with the same name who royally fucked things up? It was all becoming extremely painful to consider. What would happen?
"The workings of time are very complicated, my dear boy, and try as I might even I have difficulties understanding them. However, the fact remains that you are here now, and it seems there is no alternative but for you to stay. The future will be what it may."
Dumbeldore had said that to him, after he woke up.
Demitrius rarely took solace in the words of others. He found his own reasoning and mind more able to help, than depending on the thoughts of other people, who's reasonings could not be trusted. But in this case the words... Helped. They helped because they were true. The future would be what it may, nothing was set in stone, not right now. His past could be stopped. Demitrius didn't know what would happen to him when he changed time. But, it didn't matter, did it? He was here now, and had as much right to be as any other. That was what the old man had meant.
"Time to let go, Demi." He told himself, glad that no one else was in the corridor with him. He saw now that his plans were too short-range. Why, the members of his Reformation would be extremely displeased, knowing that their leader hadn't thought much past spells and potions. Demitrius looked around. He needed a place. The Slytherin Common Room wouldn't do, it was too crowded and distrustful, and the library had the same problem. No, he needed a space for thinking. For planning. If he was going to bring down Voldemort and change the world, he was going to need some place to think things out in. And he knew where it was, too, if it still existed.
With a quick check to make certain no one was following, Demitrius began to make his way along the corridor, towards the stairs that led to Gryffindor tower. Hogwarts had many strange secrets, but Demitrius had learned a great many of them over the course of his lifetime. And this was one of his favourites. He darted down a corridor to avoid a group of Gryffindor sixth years, before continuing on his way. The changing staircases swung above him, swaying as one decided to move around. With a quick check to make certain he wouldn't be caught, he launched up three flights of stairs. When he got to the third he knelt down, and levelled his face with the fifth step. "Oops!" He said loudly to the stair, and banged a hand on the smooth surface next to it.
There was a groan as the staircase shifted and Demitrius held on. This part always made him nauseous. The steps swung around, until they were facing what looked to be a blank wall. Quickly Demitrius ran up the remaining steps, two at a time, and launched himself forcefully into the wall. He really hoped the room would be there, as his shoulder flew towards the seemingly solid stone surface.
Demitrius hit the wall, and kept going, feeling a sort of dizzying sense of light-headedness as he passed through. That was normal. He moved for several steps, hearing the stair case re-locate itself from behind him, and opened his eyes to see a painfully familiar room.
And suddenly, it was all too much. The room was large and warm, about two thirds the size of the Slytherin Common Room. A square table sat in the middle, with straight wooden chairs all around it, each one elegantly carved. A beautiful fireplace roared to life on his right. The mantle was made of an elegant, dark red wood, intricately sculpted to look as though the mantle was the back of a sleeping dragon. A back carpet was laid out upon the stone floor, shimmering like a lake as it reflected the surfaces of the room around it. The walls were bare and empty. Demitrius had found this room when he was ten years old, running up and down the staircases looking for secrets. He slipped, and quickly figured out the secrets of this place.
For four years it sat, his special room, until the Reformation came into being. And then it was given purpose. The secret hide-out of all fourteen members of his dedicated group. They had decorated the walls with banners made, covered in the carefully thought-out symbol of their cause. People from each house had joined the Reformation. Approached in secret, brought together by the war, to try and change things. To try and change the Slytherins.
But no banners were up. They hadn't been crafted by Samantha Weasley's careful hands, nor hung by Michael Thomas, the tallest of their group. No emblem of a spindly black spider hung over the looping name. And no one sat at the chairs, no one stood beside the fire. Demitrius sank to the ground, and looked at his reflection in the carpet. He hadn't cried for a very long time. When his mother died, tears stopped being enough. What was a little water in the face of loosing something so important? He had tried to cry. Had thrown things, yelled, screamed out his hatred for the Dark Lord and howled his pain into the night. But no tears fell.
When his father died, he had been still. His mother's death had been horrible, but his father's had nearly destroyed him. No tears, nor howls of rage. He had been still and quiet and hadn't spoken for days. If not for his friends then, he might have gone insane. But they had been there. Marcus had brought him out of it, and Demitrius taught himself not to remember. To push it back so it could never hurt him.
But there was no Marcus here now, no one to pull him out of it. No one who knew what pain he had seen. Even Dumbledore only saw part of it, and through words. Words and nothing more. Words could not say how it had felt to watch them put his parents in the ground. How he had known who was responsible, but done nothing, for the sake of that man's son. There were no words for what it felt like when Marcus looked up at him so horrified. And then beyond that, to watch his friends die, and be powerless to stop it. To never cry for them. To try not to remember them, because it was better than facing it, better than risking his sanity again. For he had seen it. And often, even a thousand words cannot do a picture justice.
Would the Reformation ever exist in this time? What if by being here, he prevented the birth of others? He wasn't only risking himself. Marcus and Helena were a year older than him, but had probably not yet been conceived. Michael was the only one who was born yet. But he would only be a toddler now. Demitrius looked at his own face. He looked at the pale skin and the dark eyes, which now seemed so haunted, even to him. He remembered a play his mother had shown him once. She kept a 'television' in their quarters, down in the dungeons, and occasionally put in tapes to watch when the nights grew cold, and the feelings of the war got close. Especially with his father was away, working as a spy. One tape she had was a story called 'Les Miserables.' It was a musical theatre production. People sang the stories on a stage, instead of what they usually did, where they acted them out more realistically. Demitrius remembered one part in particular. A man had lost all his comrades to a war, and returned to their old gathering room. But of course no one was there. He sang of 'empty chairs at empty tables'. Right now, there was no one Demitrius would be in greater agreement with.
Empty chairs. Would they ever be filled again? Which was worse, to live a life doomed to end in tragedy, or to never live at all? What was he gambling here? He couldn't set up everyone's parents. Carefully he stood from the ground. Part of him, his rational side which normally reigned supreme in his mind, yelled to him of how he was loosing it. That if he lost control now, he might never get it back. That coming to this room was a great mistake.
But, the rational side was tired, and so was Demitrius. He stood there, staring at the table, and the chairs. Only nine chairs. One night, the Ravenclaw Trio had sneaked out of their Common Room after curfew, with another five chairs shrunken in their pockets, and placed them in the Meeting Hall. It had been a great surprise the next meeting. Of course, the chairs had the Ravenclaw insignia on them, and wouldn't change no matter how many times Demitrius and the others tried to fix it. They'd stood out horribly. "Well, We'll just have to bring in Gryffindor cushions to even things out then!" Sammy had said, and giggled in her terribly squeaky voice. She had been the daughter of Percy and Penelope Weasley, a short little ball of long, puffy red hair, and freckles on every inch of her. She couldn't be found without a large grey cat caught up in her arms, which Demi used to swear could be dead for all they knew, as it never moved.
Helena, a Slytherin right to her core, had sneered in disgust and announced that the day that happened would be the day she left their little group. Demitrius actually hadn't minded the thought. He disliked Helena, she had a tendency to abandon them at inappropriate moments. But she was Marcus' girlfriend so the two of them tried not to kill each other.
There were no Ravenclaw chairs now. Demitrius sat down in a long, curved seat at the head of the table. His seat. He could almost hear his own voice speaking, and could almost see the faces of his colleagues through memory. Marcus on his right, Sammy on his left. At the other end was Michael, one of the Hufflepuffs, and Head Boy before the war claimed his life in the final battle. In his mind he recalled their last meeting. He had snapped at Michael and Jared, a Gryffindor boy who Demitrius' had known since their first year, for talking about Quidditch while everyone waited for Demitrius to speak. Jared was Gryffindor's Seeker. A small boy, pale in both skin and hair, who followed Sam wherever she went. He had a soft and scratchy voice, but a strong will. Demitrius had learned from Sam that Jared had been attacked by a vampire when he was only seven years old. The Nosferitia Banisher potion had cured him, but burnt out his throat, leaving him almost breathless whenever he spoke. His parents had died in that conflict, and he had been raised by his older brother. Demitrius had greatly respected Jared.
Still, he scolded him and Michael, before beginning the meeting. They had no idea an attack was upon them. They spoke of inter-school problems, and Marigold Bicks, a Hufflepuff pureblood who was always great for tips, had mentioned that something seemed amiss in Hogsmeade.
"Well, something's always amiss in Hogsmeade, the streets are thick with Death Eaters!" Iris Pepperfield, a Slytherin girl Demi's age, had declared confidently. Marcus had frowned.
"Not everyone there's a Death Eater you know. My Dad goes down there a lot." He had stated, and all around the table everyone shared a look. Poor Marcus. He was the only one who didn't know what his father was up to, and no one had ever had the heart to tell him, apparently not even Draco Malfoy himself. It was a wonder the boy hadn't been Sorted into Hufflepuff. But then, he remembered, Marcus had said he threatened the hat into putting him in Slytherin.
Topics had changed. They had spoken until the evening wore thin, and discussions of Reformation business had soon melted away into study sessions. The Ravenclaw Trio, consisting of three Ravenclaw boys who were completely inseparable, had say huddled together around one side of the table. Henry, Rex, and Adonis. Demi had noticed that Rex and Henry were currently trying very hard to explain something from Charms class to Adonis, who had the incantation memorised perfectly but couldn't get the wand movements down to save his life. Michael, Jared, and Sammy had all left the table, and judging by their hand movements were talking avidly about Quidditch. Sam had just made the team in the Keeper position last year, but had a tendency to leave her post and tear after players who went after Jared, so Demi had heard. Iris and Marigold were chatting companionably, shooting him furtive glances, which made Demitrius roll his eyes. For the past two years the girls had haunted his footsteps as they noticed his maturing form.
Marcus and Helena spoke together over a Charms book, which Helena had produced from her bag. Though if Charms actually made Marcus blush that much there was something going on between him and Professor Weasley that Demi didn't know about. And not so far off, the three youngest members of the Reformation were sitting together. Angus MacDonald, a Hufflepuff and their Divination expert (which basically meant he occasionally fell over onto the ground, and spewed out some nonsense while he spasmed) sat with Lucilla Carmen, from Gryffindor. Both were in their third year. Between them sat the final member of their team, Bingo, a small grey dog who belonged to Adonis. She wasn't very old, but Hagrid had assured them she would get bigger. Technically dogs weren't allowed in the castle, but on occasion Adonis managed to sneak her into the meeting room. Usually she stayed outside with Hagrid and Fang.
Angus and Lucy were perched over her, complaining about Potions as they petted her fur. "It didna make any sense, there was no bark oil on me hands!" Angus declared in his thick Scottish accent, obviously part-way through the conversation. He lifted his hands as if to make a point.
Demitrius was looking at the spot where the younger ones had sat, on a corner of the floor, near the doorway. He looked at the places where all had sat. He wasn't sentimental, he wasn't given to long periods of thinking back, because of the pain. He banished happy memories along side the sad ones, because you couldn't have one without the other.
But if, or when, he succeeded, he would be the only one to have these thoughts. Any of them. Could he just lock all of it away? Didn't those people he had known, those people he had loved but never told them so, have the right to be remembered? Some might never exist. Others might be born, but surely they would grow up to be different people? They would lead different lives. No war, no pain. Demitrius closed his eyes. He placed his elbows upon the table, and lowered his face into his hands. Was there ever a way for him to keep their memory, without the hurt? Without the pain? In his mind he saw as a young girl cried out, red blood mingling with red hair as she fell to the ground. Her form lay still next to others. Lucy and Jared. They stared, eyes open but not seeing. And something laughed. Laughed at them for dying. There was a piercing pain, and Demitrius knew he was being toyed with, and the piece of the stone wall flew at him. It raked across his torso, drawing blood. The laughter kept on as he crawled away. Beaten, broken.
And then Demitrius knew. Pain one could wallow in, one could die or drown in forever. But anger was the saving grace. It burned, cold and deep, at his very core. That there was a monster who had destroyed everything was intolerable. That he should laugh, *laugh* at them, as he made them suffer, made them die, was unthinkable. There was nothing to that so- called Dark Lord but evil. Everything else, and everyone else, they had purpose and reason. Power, love, duty, something that was real drove them. But all he had was madness.
Demitrius lowered his hands. He wouldn't forget. He couldn't remember all the time, not while he needed his mind about him, but he would make the pain anger. And the anger would drive him. Anger would give him power, the power to destroy Voldemort and see the future reborn. No matter the cost. He would kill that monster, slowly and painfully, and then he would be the one to laugh. Demitrius cast his eyes up to the walls. This place would serve it's purpose again. He would recreate the banners, and build a shrine in it to his broken future. Here he would give his Reformation their vengeance. A cold, but true, smile overtook his lips. He would need materials for the banners. That would have to be stolen, as he had not taken any money with him through time. Then he could begin constructing his plans. Somehow he would have to find out what information Dumbledore's Order had on Voldemort. Who were suspected followers, what were they up to, put names and faces to dates and numbers. By the end of all this he was positive he would wish he'd paid better attention in History.
Demitrius glanced upwards towards the ceiling. The great, cream-coloured walls stretched up into a dome, centred around the face of a clock. It would have been an ordinary muggle time piece, were it not for the fact that the face displayed the weather of the outside world, enchanted like the ceiling of the Great Hall. The hands were arranged in such a manner that he knew it was almost dinner time. Standing, he cast a final glance at his reflection in the carpet. He looked as he always did. But then, he still hadn't cried, had he? Perhaps he never would. With a shrug he pushed back his thoughts. Time to return to the land of the living, for the time being anyway. Demitrius walked over to the roaring fire place. Now, this trick had taken him a while to figure out. The first time he found the room he'd been stuck inside for hours and hours. Raising a hand, he went over to the end of the mantle. An intricately carved dragon's head lay there, eyes shut tightly. Demitrius tapped the dragon on the nose. "Wake up!" He demanded.
There was a pause. Slowly, lazily, one single wooden eyelid curled back to reveal a bright orange eye. A slit pupil fixed on Demitrius curiously. "Haven't seen you before." The dragon yawned. He creaked a little as he opened his wooden mouth, revealing carved fangs and a moving, forked tongue. Demi shrugged.
"Guess you haven't, but you will again." He supplied. "Could you open the passageway, please? I'll be late for dinner if I stay much longer." Demitrius asked. It didn't pay to be rude to the dragon, he was often sensitive about such things. There was a pause as the orange eye considered him.
"Oh, alright, so long as I can go back to sleep." The dragon said. Then suddenly the fire in the fireplace snuffed out. The interior slid aside, revealing an opening and a smooth, surprisingly dust-free ladder. Demitrius nodded his thanks and made his way over, as the mantle closed it's eyes, and went still again. He slid into the fireplace and began to make his way down the ladder. Whoever designed Hogwarts must have been a very bored person. It wasn't uncommon for rooms to have no way in and no out, save for under special circumstances, like on Tuesdays when it's a full moon after Halloween and you're dressed in purple. At least the Meeting Room could be reached at any time. Provided you knew what you were doing, of course.
The ladder reached it's end, and Demitrius turned slightly to look downwards. He paused. There were no voices, nor footsteps. With a sigh he let go and dropped down at least a foot, to land gracefully on the floor of one of the many rooms in the dungeons. No one ever came down this way. The place was covered in dust. Old, rusty chains lined the walls, and it was apparent to any eyes that the room he had landed in was indeed a cell of sorts. A barred door was rusted open, and cobwebs littered the space between the bars that lined the walls. Demitrius took a step forward, and behind him a smooth wall rumbled shut over the passageway. One way out, but it was not a way in. One way in, that wasn't a way out. Farther down the dungeon he heard a chilling shriek, that could only have belonged to the Bloody Baron. Demitrius never knew why people feared the ghost. He was just that, a ghost. Couldn't even touch you.
Quietly he made his way out of the dungeons and to the waiting dinner. From now on his days would consist of eating, working, scheming, and sleeping. Not that they had been much different before.
~
For a moment, neither Snape nor Hermione moved. She lay atop him, pinning him to the ground with her light form, and Snape was almost painfully aware of the gentle slopes and curves of her body pressed up against his own. Her eyes looked into his. They were warm and round, holding none of the disgust he thought to find. A blush was creeping up her cheeks as they simply stared at one another. Soft, thick strands of brown hair blanketed around them, brushing against the back of his hand gently as she breathed. Oh, she breathed. Gentle breaths which moved sweetly in and out from softly parted lips. Snape didn't think he would ever be envious of air. Without thought he shifted, leaning his own face down towards those lovely, parted lips. Hermione's eyes widened in surprise. For a moment nothing moved, and even her breath stopped.
"The burner!" She suddenly declared, her cheeks a vibrant shade of red as she scrambled off of Snape, and quickly whirled around towards the cauldron. For a moment he simply lay there in startled confusion, before his mind came roaring back to him, and he moved gracefully up to his feet.
"Is it ruined?" He asked coldly, straightening out he robes as he stepped forward, and plastered a sneer to his face. The flame still burned fairly evenly, and Hermione grasped the stirring stick again, not meeting his eye.
"No, there wasn't enough spilt for that." She said. Ordinarily, she would have sounded relieved, but at the moment her voice was quaky and unsure. Snape just stood there for a moment. He was very unsure of what he should do. Apologise? No, no, that would be far too humiliating for his tastes. Though he had obviously rattled her, which wasn't at all surprising. Perhaps he should simply snap at her for crashing into him and let it go at that. Yes, that would do. He plastered a sneer onto his face.
"Next time I would appreciate it if you paid more attention to the potion, 'Professor', and not whatever fancies your mind indulges in." He snapped. Hermione winced, and for a split-second, Snape almost wished he hadn't done that. She frowned, still not meeting his gaze.
"Well, it was only a drop! You don't have bite my head off. The potion's fine, the burner's fine, no harm's been done." She argued. Her cheeks were still a vibrant red, though from anger or embarrassment Snape couldn't tell, and her hair now swept around her face somewhat wildly. He swallowed. 'One day, I will create a potion that can quell human hormones, and this problem will never happen again!' He vowed. Then he narrowed his eye appropriately, turning back to the moss he had been adding before she crashed into him. It was scattered across the table, a few bits on the floor. Those would have to be swept up. As he gathered the moss on the table together, he shot her a vicious glare.
"A drop any bigger would have destroyed that burner, and completely thrown the entire potion off." He said in usual dark, cold, 'fifty-points from Gryffindor' voice. "Of course, if you would prefer to test that theory, by all means return to your day-dreams. I will have no trouble locating a replacement for you when you are little more than a scorch mark on these walls." He said, with a dismissive gesture outwards at the room. Hermione's frown deepened, but she was paying excruciatingly close attention to the potion now.
"Oh, and I have absolutely no doubt who you would choose to replace me, too." She snapped, and there was a certain bitterness to her tones which Snape was completely unprepared for. "After all, from what I saw he must be brilliant at Potions." Hermione added. "You must be ecstatic. A Slytherin student who's almost as good as you at this subject, even if he did come back through time."
What was this? Jealousy? Why on earth would Hermione Granger be jealous of someone else for their intellect? It made no sense. While Snape would never, ever admit it aloud, she had been one of his finest students. The only one in her class to complete her Potions final with absolutely perfect results. And then it hit him. She wasn't jealous of the boy's intelligence, but of Snape's acknowledgement of that. Without even realising it, he'd been throwing it in her face since the minute she'd caught them in the dungeons, brewing all those unique and new potions. He had never once paid her a true compliment. And why should he have? A bossy Gryffindor know-it-all. There were plenty of other teachers to worship the ground she walked upon, what did she care that the Head of Slytherin house did not? Snape let out a snort of disgust before he even realised he was doing it.
Finally, Hermione turned to look at him, and her eyes were bright with a stunning array of indistinguishable emotions. "What?" She asked, heat and fire pouring from her lips in that one, single, solitary word. Snape glared at her.
"Your bitterness is so blatantly obvious it's almost painful, Professor." He said coolly, and this time did take special care to make sure he spat her title mockingly. Hermione's hand slowed to a crawl as she stirred the potion.
"And why shouldn't it be?" She asked, and Snape's eyes widened in surprise as she planted her index finger on his chest. "I was probably the best student in your class. Certainly better than that prat Malfoy! But because of you, you insufferable, biased, creepy, dungeon-dwelling worm, I graduated second in the class. And you knew I was better!" She declared. Snape blinked in an unnatural moment of genuine surprise. He had given Malfoy a better mark than her, hadn't he? At the time it had seemed to make sense, even if the boy's potion didn't match up to Granger's. A way of bringing her down off her high horse. She graduated top of her class in every other subject after all. He certainly wasn't going to let a Gryffindor claim the glory in *his* class!
"Are you quite through?" Snape asked. He would never admit that part of him felt regret, as he scowled down at her. That part of him berated his own mind for being so petty. Of course, not that she was much better, holding on to something so small for all this time. He raised an eyebrow. "Really, Professor, I would have thought you'd have gotten over that by now." He said silkily. So it was that he was caught completely off his guard when an enraged Hermione suddenly slapped him across the cheek.
There was a quiet pause. Then suddenly her wrist was in his hand, and he was glaring at her with all the icy coldness he had ever possessed. And she was looking back, brimming with fire, bright and angry as a roaring hearth. "You and your Slytherins can go to hell!" She yelled suddenly, wrenching her wrist free of his grasp. Snape could tell she wanted nothing more than to stalk out of his office. To leave in an angry whirlwind. But instead she returned her gaze to the potion. "Now add the rest of that, and let's get this over with, Snape." She snarled. He opened his mouth to speak, but her eyes caught his before he could say a word. "And don't you dare say another thing." She added, and with that, promptly turned her back to him.
~
The days seemed to snail by as Demitrius spent every waking moment busy with one thing or another. He slept only five hours each night, grateful that he was fairly tall already, so the cups of coffee he downed every morning wouldn't be able to stunt his growth too badly. He rushed from class to class, doing homework as he sat at the lunch, breakfast, and dinner tables. The only time he was ever in the Slytherin Common Room was when he walked through it towards the dorms. Thankfully, seventh years didn't have much in the way of free-time either, so no one questioned his late arrivals to bed. Fitsgibbons seemed to be ignoring him. Which was fine with Demi, since he'd never liked the boy anyway, although he was curious to know who had put him up to getting him to Hogsmeade.
Demitrius made a point to grab newspapers out of discarded piles whenever he could, going over recent events in the Daily Prophet. He restored the banners to the Meeting Room, though they were nowhere near as good as the ones Demi remembered, as he was not the artistic type. Dumbledore had provided him with the necessary school items, though the old man would say how they were procured or who had done the procuring. After dinner on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Demi went down to the dungeons, where he and Professor Snape worked on the potions he had listed. Snape proved himself to be only a little less brilliant than Demitrius remembered; His mind had yet to be driven as forcefully as it had been in his time. They planned on showing the 'new' potions at the exposition during the summer, though Demitrius would be unable to claim responsibility for any of them, as their source would be made far too obvious then.
Tueday and Thursday evenings Demitrius worked with Professor Granger in her classroom. She proved the perfect person for dealing with every other item on his list, not that he had expected anything different, however unlike Snape she had no set plan for claiming credit on the spells. When Demitrius brought up the subject she had looked mortified. "I couldn't possibly take credit, they aren't mine!" She had declared, like he had just asked her to swallow a live cockroach.
A week later, and Demitrius still wasn't sure how to get his point across with her. He supposed he would cross that bridge after they had expended his knowledge of future developments. Then, on weekends, he spent every available moment scouring over the information in the newspapers, trying desperately to figure out what the Death Eaters were up to, and looking for signs of Voldemort. He snarled at the articles on Potter. The man had made a name for himself as an auror, who played Seeker for the Chudley Cannons in his spare time. It seemed the world was still having troubles accepting that the Dark Lord had returned, and preferred to focus on the newest Quidditch whiz.
But when they weren't focusing on a sport that was more abomination than anything else, the articles on Potter often left the biggest clues. The man was avidly searching for Voldemort. Demitrius did not know how his search would end, only that after Dumbledore's death Potter stopped looking and started sulking. Really, at least if Voldemort had killed Dumbledore Potter would have had revenge to fuel him, but since the old man just kicked it naturally he wussed out. Or at least that's how Demi thought of it. There was probably some really good, sympathetic psychological reason behind it, but he didn't really care about that drivel.
Getting information was harder than he had thought, and trying to tap into the Order was like making an attempt to draw water out of stone, not overly fruitful. If anyone was better at hiding than Voldemort it was those wily Phoenix followers. The obvious move, in Demitrius' mind anyway, would have been to recruit a few students in this timeline and re-start a system similar to the one he'd had in the future. Eyes out, ears open, and everyone shares and dissects what they know. But somehow doing that felt like sacrilege.
It was late Friday night when Demitrius finally gave up on convincing Hermione to just say she was brilliant, which she was, and take credit for all the things he'd showed her. 'The woman is hopeless.' He thought fondly, as he staggered in, moving past the Common Room with tired steps. Next time he would try a different approach, maybe getting her to share her knowledge with a few choice staff members. Surely they wouldn't be above claiming such marvellous spells as their own. Or maybe prompting Hermione into taking credit herself.
His mind barely registered that something was wrong when he entered the dorm. It took him a moment to realise what it was. The beds, typically filled with sleeping seventh-years, were empty. Then suddenly, before his tired form could move, a surge of magic hit him as someone called out 'Petrificus Totalus!" His legs and arms clamped together at his sides, forced into him by the spell. A trap? In a Hogwarts dormitory? Who would be stupid enough to try and pull that off?
His attacker chose that moment to come into view, flanked by all of the Slytherin seventh years. 'Oh, right.' Demitrius thought, as Fitsgibbons' familiar, meaty face came into view. Demitrius watched him curiously. Let's see. In about two seconds, the Head of House would be rudely awoken by a message saying that a curse had been used in the Slytherin seventh year dormitory. Then, the attackers would have about two minutes to get out of the area before Snape, irate as all hell, finally reached the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. Assuming that they would be able to get him out of sight by that time, which was looking more and more doubtful as the seconds went by, they would still have Filch, Peeves, and any other ghost wandering the hall to contend with, as well as the portraits. Who, though typically understanding towards student escapades, would undoubtedly sound the alarm at the sight of several Slytherins carting off a fellow student.
"Not so slick now, are you?" Fitsgibbons said with a loud guffaw, as two seventh years cast the mobilicorpus spell on Demitrius. Demi would have raised an eyebrow if he could have. 'Probably not, you great oaf, but let's see you smile when you're explaining this to my father.' He thought rather whimsically. This brute must really be on hot coals if he was going to all these lengths over Demitrius. 'Guess we can completely rule out the crush theory, eh?'
Suddenly a Slytherin seventh year, who had darted out as soon as Demi had been paralysed, rushed back in. 'Kevin, isn't it? I suppose you're going to tell everyone trouble's on the way.' Demitrius thought.
"Hurry it up, Snape's just turned the corner!" Kevin said frantically. Demi was surprised as the spell cast upon his body moved him with a lurching gate over to his own bed. Realisation hit him as Kevin took out a bottle of purple goo and began smudging one of his friends' skin with it. 'Hey, you guys aren't as dim as Brutus, are you?' He thought as Kevin hastily put the jar away and dashed over to his own bed. Fitsgibbons whipped out his wand, as all but the painted seventh year darted under their covers, and held it pointed at the older boy. 'Oh, too bad, guess you didn't pay them enough to take the rap for you as well.' Demitrius thought. This was actually sort of entertaining, to his drowsy, battered mind anyway. He watched as Snape thundered into the dormitory.
'I wonder if he'll notice my eyes are open and I'm stiff as a board?' Demitrius wondered. 'Nah, it's too dark.' He decided, as Snape began dolling out a punishment to Fitsgibbons, and ordered the seventh year boy to the infirmary. For a few moments none of the seventh years moved, as their colleague left, as did Snape and Brutus, the latter of whom was ordered back to his own dorm room. Then after a few minutes Brutus came back.
"He fell for it, come on." He said. Demitrius felt his body suddenly lurch up again, and mused that it was a somewhat nauseating sensation. Then something made of a slick, fine fabric was tossed over his form, and he knew now how they planned to get past the paintings and Filch. The only thing he wanted to know is how on earth they'd managed to find one invisibility cloak, let alone two.
'Well boys, I guess this should be interesting.' Demitrius thought. If nothing else, he would get to find out what this was all about.
A/N: And that's that, until the next update. Hope everyone enjoyed it. Shout-outs are below!
Tracy - WHAT?!? You have got to learn to sleep, that can't be healthy! Forget spelling. Go, shoo, off to bet wit' ye! Nah, I'm just joking, I've done that myself a few times. Glad you liked the chapter, and you're very welcome. I'm afraid I'm terribly fond of cliff-hangers, you'll have to find it in you're heart to forgive me. :D
Bellemaine Chercoer - Glad you like it, and thanks for reviewing!
Beth Ann - :D Yup, I like to update frequently. I'm a fast typer and I hate waiting for updates myself, so I try and lessen the burden on others. I bet Demi would be as hard as Snape to teach! Must be an intelligence thing, it's always difficult to deal with a student who thinks they know more than the teacher, in my opinion. ^-^. Sorry, I did mean to say 'wasn't'. I slip up with my grammar when I type from time to time, and usually I get too enthused with the prospect of writing the next chapter to re-read the last. And don't worry about pointing out small stuff. Makes me feel good, actually, when people can list my mistakes, as it means there aren't too many! ^-^
Jessicat1982 - Thanks, hope I didn't disappoint!
Isa - Yippee, that's what I was going for. Thanks for reading!
Sonja S. - Glad you liked chapter seven. As for Dumbledore, well, maybe he *does* know what's going on. All we really know is that Demitrius doesn't think he does, and Demi can definitely underestimate people. I wouldn't be surprised if Dumbledore did have a deal with the paintings. Awe, hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he was psychic even. Now, to answer you second inquiry, Demitrius does not have a girlfriend in the future. Whether he gets one in this time remains to be seen. Thanks for reading and reviewing, hope you liked this last chapter! ^_^
RoseFyre - Ha ha! I thought it might be something like that. Pretty admirably, really, where most wouldn't leave a review, you have a standard comment that lets people know you read. Which is pretty important, and better than just disappearing. I like it. Thanks for telling me! :D
Treat - Meep! Such high praise! You really think I could be published? That's, well, WOW! Thank you so much! I really don't know what to say. Um, I'll keep you appraised of my work then. A fan! WOW! :D That's too cool.
Goddessnmb1 - ^_^ Glad you liked it! As for Hermione taking cheek, well, it was nicely veiled cheek wasn't it? Let's just chalk it up to her having a lot on her mind, and Demitrius being a very charming young man. It's great that you liked the little run-in Snape and Herm had, hope you enjoyed chapter eight.
Liesel - Yeah, heheh, I guess that was 'relatively' positive. Er, at least at the beginning... Thanks for reading and reviewing!
Witchy-grrl - Yup, you've caught onto me, it is a ball to write. Thanks for reviewing, I'm so glad you're enjoying yourself. Demitrius is quite mature, but I wonder if that comes from living in his time, or being Snape and Hermione's son? Hmm. Oh well, hope you liked this chapter! :D
Sarah T.- Thanks! :D
Christina - Thanks, you got it!
Kneazle - Yay! *Glomps Kneazle* I'm so glad you liked it, thanks so, so much for the picture! Hurra! Erm, only three of those Gryffindors weren't anonymous, at least to Demi. Hope you liked chapter eight by the way. My idea of romance requires a bit of patience to get through, and I do think you can rush SS/HG, so sorry if it seems like it's going in loopholes sometimes. It'll get there! Thanks for reading! :D
Nicolette - Yup, that sentence made perfect sense, I'm happy you liked that part. Ah, old fall-backs are nice, and in this case I couldn't think of any better way to bring Severus and Hermione together than by literally throwing them at one another. Hope you liked chapter eight!
Aiya - Yay, glad you liked it! Yup, 'Mione turned red as a beet.
Jordan - Dun dun dun! Hope I didn't make ya wait too long! ^_^
Aemos - Hi Aemos, lol, glad you liked chapter seven. Hope chapter eight was up to par! :D
Black Amizon - Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying. I'm not sure what I'm doing either but it's good to know it's having positive results! ^-^