The Substance of Shadows
The stench of burnt flesh sullied the air, repelling any who had a choice from remaining in the semi darkened room. The man whose arm was so abused said nothing, but then no one expected him to. At least no one expected him to say anything that made any sense as he had not so much as blinked on his own volition since the burning had begun. Rather, this mind, no longer even whole enough to be deemed fragile, retreated into a hiding place so distant as to be utterly and perfectly isolated from every conceivable sense. Not to mention removed from any form of recognizable human contact. No one mentioned it. No one needed to; it was entirely obvious. Even Mad-Eye Moody kept his counsel to himself, well aware that Albus would tolerate none of his vilification of the dark spy.
At last the summons ceased and the mark faded from coal to blistered crimson. With this release, the limp body tensed and a moan escaped the parted lips. "It's over now, dear, why don't you come back to us," Madame Pomfrey, who had not left his bedside, encouraged with practiced soothing tones. She waved her wand and muttered incantations to determine what new damage was done.
"Pain potion?" Molly asked, not one to waste words in this dire situation.
"I think most definitely so, Molly." The nurse answered without looking away from her patient. "There is some in my bag."
"Anything we can do to help?" Remus asked for those who had stayed to hover at the door.
"If only he would react. It would be so much more helpful." She administered perhaps slightly more potion than might have been strictly necessary and handed the vial back to the Weasley matriarch. "As it is, I would like to suggest he not be left alone. William," the nurse glanced back at the senior Weasley scion. "you did well to bind him, even if it did not seem as if he would try to leave."
The young man nodded solemnly. "I can stay with him."
"We can take shifts," Mr Weasley amended firmly, knowing his wife would not let anyone take on the task alone. "You have a job to get to, tomorrow. It wouldn't look good if you dragged yourself in with bags under your eyes. The goblins are a serious lot and I daresay they'll think you were up all night carousing."
Bill shrugged. "Right, then. Whoever is up next can just come and relieve me."
"What's happened?" A youthful voice inquired diffidently.
"Harry! Ron. Ginny." Remus moved to block the youths from advancing into the room.
"We heard all you in the hall. Why are you out here?" Harry tried to get a look inside the bedroom, but all he saw was Madame Pomfrey's heavy, flowing blue skirts leaning over the bed and Ron's mum standing helpfully alongside her.
"Voldemort." Moody replied testily.
"Oh."
"Did he try to answer?" Ron asked the obvious question.
Several sighs answered that query, piquing the curiosity of all three young people. "No, Ronald." Albus spoke slowly. "He did not."
--
The overwhelming brightness was blindingly painful and interminably unceasing. It never wavered in its strength nor in its assault upon his senses. Indeed, he felt nothing at all but this brilliant, excruciating shroud. And as much as it was bright it was also hot. Unbearably hot. So much so that all of the sweat that poured from his body evaporated instantly on contact with the hot, unmoving air. He felt not hunger nor touch, nor smelled any scent, nor heard any sound except the rasping of his own ragged breathing as he inhaled and exhaled the burning air. This did, however, make him aware of the raw agony that crawled up and down his tortured throat. But not a sound did he make. Not a cry or a whimper nor any plea for release.
He had forgotten that he could. He had forgotten everything but that it was bright and it hurt.
His head fell forward and immediately something jerked it painfully upright again, releasing an explosion that reverberated through every part of his meagre universe. It was then that he became aware of the skittering whispers. But if they said anything understandable it was only because he made up the words. And as he did not remember any words, they could not have said anything worthwhile.
After an immeasurable infinity of time there came darkness. A cold and eerie counterpoint to the heat. And as with the luminosity, there was nothing fathomable to hold to. Indeed, not only was there no light but no pain and that would have been blissful had he any understanding of the dichotomy of light and shadow, pain and comfort. But he did not and besides, this lack of sensation was anything but comforting. Indeed, it was frightening for now he began to wonder if he was, in fact, a thing that existed or merely a figment of some Other's imagination. A stray thought that somehow was, however improbably, aware. Random thoughts having no meaning spun him to and fro and he tried, he tried to find and identify something. Anything. And at long last he knew that he was Nothing.
And a long time (but neither was there any counting of time so perhaps it was not so long after all) later there was no Self.
"Brandon." The faint scratching within him awoke an implosion of joy. For it meant that Something Was. But what did it mean?! Joy became despair and he cried out.
The scratching echoed again, "Brandon."
Ah. But he knew of this! It was the Voice. And he was Brandon. Because the Voice told him and as he was alone, he must also be the Voice.
But it felt. Wrong.
"Brandon."
Please...
"Severus? ...can't hear..."
"Brandon. ...hear..?"
It felt wrong!
--
Margaret sprawled beneath the fine cotton sheet, freshly laundered and smelling of spring gardens. She took a deep breath and snuggled back into her pillows, trying to release the tension that clenched her shoulders. It was all their fault. His fault. Preston (not that she really thought that was his name). Always cool. Always disdainful. Probably thought he was the prototype for James Bond. Except it would have to be the other way round since Preston was certainly much younger than the fictional character from when was it? The late fifties, early sixties?
Who bloody cares! "Argh!"
She pushed up onto her side and punched one of the pillows. "Hell." She rolled over onto her back again and let out a sigh. Very soon she slept. And sleeping, dreamt of things that she hadn't witnessed but being told of them and associating with them such great emotion had come to believe she had borne witness. "Eric," she murmured with a softness that never was heard in her voice when she was awake and in control of it.
Figures swarmed over the countryside, some in black flowing robes darker than any night; other in some paler hue that in the darkness of a moonless sky seemed a washed out grey. The yelled incomprehensible shouts and blasted one another with flashes of light. One of the forms in the paler robes stood out from the rest. Already she knew who it was, knew she was dreaming because she only ever dreamed in black and white. And even though she willed it different, that one man turned toward her, revealing a young man's determined grimace beneath a shock of blond hair.
"Eric!"
But he didn't or couldn't or wouldn't hear her. He was grabbing at a smaller form, this one hiding behind a mask and beneath heavy billowing robes. Eric's hand reached out toward the white, featureless face and unmasked... a boy. A scowling, evil faced, ugly, hook nosed boy.
The boy's hands lifted and from his palms there emitted a shocking-white light. It faded and upon the ground the handsome blond lay sprawled and lifeless while the ugly, evil boy stood silent and the stars, in utter grief over this terrible injustice, winked out of existence.
"Eric!"
Margaret woke with a scream, sitting up in bed with sweat soaked sheet twisted round her torso, and shuddering as the dream dissipated. It didn't matter if she remembered it or not, though. She knew it for what it was; her brother's demand for vengeance.
--
"Severus?" Bill Weasley frowned at the stiffened, sweat slicked, body shivering beneath the rumpled sheets. The Potions Masters' eyes were firmly shut but the lids pulsed with whatever nightmare he was suffering. The young man felt a touch on his arm. He jerked, but it was only Remus Lupin come to relieve him.
"Leave him be, Bill. He can't hear us," the werewolf said
"It really stinks, you know," the young red head muttered. "Part of me pities him but part of me wants to tell him he brought it on himself. All of them did." He looked unhappy. "I want this war over. Before Fleur and I have children of our own, I want this war over."
Remus could only tighten his hand on the other's shoulder in silent sympathy. "Something to work toward," he replied softly.
"Have they finished talking downstairs?"
"Yes. We're going to ask the Grangers for help. At least in so far as finding out about these Muggle potions poisoning Severus. As far as the other topics, nothing new. Try to get as many of those at greatest risk under watch if not hidden, strengthen the wards at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade as well, try to keep tabs on known Death Eaters. They've gotten bold and the Ministry gets weaker and weaker. Find out what the summoning tonight was about." Not another attack. Please not another one.
"I can't believe the "Burrow" is... gone." Bill's voice broke.
Remus patted his shoulder comfortingly again. "It's not gone, Bill, not for good. There's enough of the original building--"
"To rebuild, I know. It's just... It was so close! Mum and Dad don't say anything but... We almost lost them!"
There was no answer for that. Remus just stayed by hoping that his presence renewed the younger man's fortitude and resilience. At last he did speak again. "Time to go home, Bill. Get some sleep."
--