AN: Of course I have to write this now, when I have a ton of homework. For the record, taking classes in the summer is stupid—don't do it.
Also, for several of my stories, people ask me to e-mail them or something like that and, (no offense intended to anyone!) I'm afraid that I just don't do that, as I hate giving away my e-mail address. It's possible that I'll acquire a free one somewhere along the line, in which case I would, but I really don't want to do that right now.
Also, to everyone who asked, I hope this clears it up—there was just one guy there, who is not Snape.
Lastly, I didn't think there was anything wrong with the person who said she could relate (who was yhf), I was just worried that she could relate too much!
I LOVE MY REVIEWERS!
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"Stupefy!"
The word came floating back to me later, veiled, misty, more like a remembrance of a fantastical fairy tale than a real memory. I lost all recollection of what happened next.
~*~
"Prepare her a sleeping draught."
McGonagall. I'd know her voice anywhere. She looked worried and I was… somewhere else. The world was confusing and my head pounded.
"We obviously can't Apparate with her back to Hogwarts, Floo Powder would require a fireplace… we'll have to use Muggle methods."
"Don't you think we should hear what happened?"
A soft cry formed in my chest. Why wasn't I dead? Why hadn't the man given me the potion? If he had, I would not hear…
This man. Object of my illusions, imagined lover, gentle life, cold reality, flawlessness…
The female professor leaned over me and my eyes searched the room for the other. I couldn't move.
"A Binding Charm, Ms. Granger. You're best off not moving until Mrs. Pomfrey can fix you up."
Then he appeared over me, his eyes peering into mine and a bottle in his hand.
Not transparent, translucent and offering not what the other had. It held but a temporary sleep.
His arm gently cradled my head and he tipped it back. Beneath his arms I was yielding and soft, though my strongest will could not move me.
Onyx. His eyes were two tender black stones, wounded looking. His arm was looped behind my neck, letting his hand stroke my hair.
Comforting. Calming.
A second hand pressed the cold lip of the bottle to my mouth and silently bade me drink. The world grew foggy, slowly fading to black like the sunset, colors leaving one at a time.
A tune appeared, mournful, low, Hungarian. My eyelids became heavier and I could not decide about the quiet song…
Perhaps it was spirited or, perhaps, someone had broken its spirit…
