Chapter 16

The next morning found Harry, despite the formidable weather (and therefore best Quidditch practice conditions), deeply burried in the library. Of course this was the result of his long talk with Hermione yesterday. She had told him about her discovery, and that it might be connected to what Remus had reported, to Voldemort's plans of creating the Essence of Magic out of the magic of dark creatures.

It had something to do with old runes, alchemical symbols and manifestations of elements; that was what Harry had drawn out as a kind of fazit. He didn't know all of the implications that occurred here, but he was sure that Hermione and Dumbledore knew, and that was good enough for him. Only the part about the elemental manifestaion still confused him a bit. Harry had always thought that a fire, for example, was the element fire, but Hermione had explained that there was a kind of prototype believed to exist, The Fire (or the Essence of Fire, if you liked analogies), and that there might be prototypes for all the elements. The question was how to get a manifestation of that kind. And it was believed that the Essence of Magic was a mere myth, too, because of the existence of wiches/wizards and muggles alike. All the other elements "worked" for both groups, magic only for one group. So, in regard to an universial principle, the Essence of Magic should not exist. But Hermione's discovery had opened o path to create it in spite of this principle...

Hermione had explained a great deal more, so much that Harry was beginning to wonder if there were such things as borders of reality; if there could really be a way of creating something that shouldn't be able to exist under the force of the physical laws. When Hermione had told him how she had gotten the idea that had let to her discovery, through the runic element-symbols, it had sounded as if old, powerful ways of magic, long forgotten by the world, were creeping back into the present.

It remembered Harry of the time when he had read all the old legends of King Arthur, with Merlin's magic and swords made of something purer and more poweful than steel. Everytime he had read them, he had had the feeling of something old, coded, hidden, but nevertheless true power or wisdom, the feeling of knowledge flowing beneath the surface of those stories like an ancient veine, shining through the words and phrases and waiting to be touched, to be brought back into life again by someone who knew... Secrets to be unlocked by a long lost key; and now it seemed as if Hermione had found an entrance into the ancient world behind the runes. She had uncovered a tiny part of this old knowledge, and now it waited to be restored with its old power and truth...

"Give me a fulcrum and a lever long enough..." Harry thought quite distracted.

He wondered what exactly would happen if such an old, barely known magic would be brought (back?) into existence, into reality. Were the old legends about the Old Ages true? The ages even Tolkien had used as a basis of his fiction? The first Age, which had seen the times of the Tartares, the earth- and fire-born creatures, creatures older than human being, maybe older than time itself? The second Age, the age of gods, halfgods and demons, of elves and dwarfs, the supposed age of King Arthur? The third Age, in which they lived in now, according to this ancient calendar, the age of humans, magic folk and muggles alike? What would happen if there were truly the possibility of creating the Essence of Magic, bending or breaking the natural laws in the process of doing so? What would happen if it were done? Would the world turn forwards, into a new Age? Would there be a change at all? All of a sudden, or slowly, hardly recogniseable for the people living right now? Would there be a crack in reality, a kind of stepstone into another universe or reality? And, not to be forgotten: Should such an essence be created at all?

Harry shook himself out of the stupor he had fell into while thinking. He had goose-bumps all over him, they had come when he had thought about the ancient Ages and the powers that were tangible behind the words of the old texts. He drew one of the books on the table closer to him. Maybe he had misjudged his abilities; instead of studying for Auror training, he should become a mythicist and write down his musings about the world in general, the many ifs and whens... He snorted to himself. If he kept rambling aboutold myths and long-gone aeras, he would miss his own time living and his tasks. And Hermione had been quite clear about his tasks at the moment.

"Search and collect everything you can find about Sinikka Lahtinen, her biography, her work, especially her work about elemental magic, and if possible, try and get her original texts, and her sources as well. Perhaps we have to reconstruct her thoughts out of her works, so every text written by herself is valuable."

Harry repeated this softly to himself, and grinning started on his first attempt of her biography. Maybe he really should become a mythicist: he already had had visions, and now he started speaking to himself... He laughed at that, and, becoming aware of laughing out loud without obvious reason to passers-by, he laughed even harder.

Severus jerked out of his dream with a gasp, mingled with a sobbed cry. He had had the worst nightmare he could think of ever having dreamed. It had been as if one of the many lifeless faces he rgularly saw in his dreams had stepped out of the mass and had shown him it's story.

It was a young man, in his mid-twenties perhaps, with red-brown hair, brown eyes and a handsome face. He had looked at Severus without expression, then had stepped aside with a gesture ti his side like a prolouger in theatre when the curtain is going to rise. And like a film Severus had seen how the young man ran through a field of raps in the middle of the night, ran with all his strength to save his life, terror in his eyes.

A black, hooded figure appeared suddenly right next to him and pointed it's wand at him. The young man fell and rolled over several times until he layed motionlessly. The hooded figure strode over to where he had slumbed, grabbed his arm and dragged him carelesly out of the field. At it's rim were several other figures, all clad the same, obviously waiting for them. The paralyzed but full conscious man (Severus could tell that from the look of his eyes) was dropped in the middle of the small circle. Another figure stepped forwards, with a glass jar and a leaved birch twig in its hands. It opened the jar, swirled the twig around in the faint blue liquid the jar contained, and carefuly sprinkled the young man with it. Nothing happened. The figure repeated its actions several times, until the young man was completely covered with the liquid. Still, nothing happened. The figure with the glass jar retreated, giving a sign to two other figures, which draw their wands and released the man from his paralyse. He clampered back to his feet, trembling from head to toe, looking restlessly from one to the other, searching for a gap in the circle, for the possibility to escape from their line. There was none. The two figues still pointed theirs wands at him, and then, suddenly, blasted him off his feet again with a force that knocked twelve feet away. The figures amused themselves with this kind of sport a little while, leting him come back to his feet and blasting him down again. At last the figure with the glass jar still in hand let go of the dripping birch twig and produced its own wand. It blasted the young man right into a small, hardly knee-deep pond next to the raps field. He fell backwards into it, the water of the pond splashed over him and rained down like a crystaline, glittering veil of diamonts. And the horror began.

The dream, mute until now, was giving way to hardly bearable screams of fear and hoarse, pityless laughter. When the the screams turned from fear into hoarse screams of pain and dying, Severus wished he should never hear again. But the dream went on, as mercilessly to him as it was to the young man. The young man's skin started to melt away where it was covered with water, slowly at first like thick wax, then faster and faster. He creid in agony, tried to wipe the water off from his face and body, but it was to no use. His fingers dropped skin and flesh away like candles, blood mignled with with the sickening runny mass. He came to his feet a last time, trying to get out of the pond. His face was already running down his skull, his features still recognisable in the mass like an obscene caricature, his dislocated eyes large with terror. He staggered a last step, then the mass of his inner organs slipped out and fell onto his feet, for there were no more muscles or flesh to hold them in place. He fell forwards into it, a gurgling noise came from his bare and also already melting lungs. Then, with the noise of a punctured ballon, his lungs deflated and he layed still. Within another half a minute, the whole body had melted away into a large, brownish mass which slapped in the pond.

The black figures still laughed and pointed and seemed to congratulate each oter. The figure with the glass jar bent, as if curious, over the pond. A long strand of silver blonde hair fell out from under its hood in its masked face. While the scenery began to swirl and became unfocused, Severus could hear voices, his own and a rich, soothing one which he connected directly with the strand of silver blonde hair. But he could not understand what they said, they were talking in English. But his own voice sounded angry, and at a more secluded level horrified and repulsed; the other one sounded jokingly and tried to calm. And, at the end, it said something reassuringly, as if it made a compliment.

This had been the point when Severus had drifted from dream to horrorstruck awakening. He was trembling now, soaked in sweat and close to vomiting. He burried his head in his hand and forced himself to breathe. He ragged some breath into him, more gasping than everything else and nearly choking. The effort hurt him as if he were burning inwardly. The pressure of vomiting faded slowly. Instead of that a prickling pressure built up beneath his eyes, and when he was able to suck in a large gulp of breath, he gave way and sobbed painfully.

He didn't notice how Poppy rushed into his room, alarmed by his hoarse whimpers and sobs, and how she rushed out again and into her office. Only seconds later someone sat down next to him on the bed. Severus, however, jerked away, terrified by the thought someone should be close to him after what he had dreamed, and for what he was, as he knew somehow, responsible. Blinded with tears he tried to struggle away, lashing out at the unknown person next to him.

"Kuka on täällä? Älä tule lähemmäksi! Älä koske mihin!"

A gentle, soft voice answered him, a voive he knew and loved since his schooldays.

"Miksi? Mitä olet katsonut?"

But Severus could not answer to that gentle voice. Tears, pain, desperation and self-disgust pressed a lump in his throat, and he remained choking and sobbing. Then, against his struggles, he was pulled into an embrace. His head came to rest on a shoulder, and surprisingly strong arms held him while he cried and scremed his pain away. A hand stroked through his short hair and over his back, comforting him as well as the dark, soft murmur of words he did not understand. After what seemed ages to him he calmed down. Not because the pain inside him had lessened or because he was truly comforted, but out of pure exhaustion. He was still craddled in the firm but gentle embrace, and still he was being stroked. He panted like after a ten miles run.

"Mitä olet katsonut?"

repeated the gentle voice.

Severus swallowed hard and began to tell.