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Chapter Five

Hushed and white with snow

7pm-8pm - At least the bed was a little softer on her bottom than the floor had been. She sat to the back, leaning against the wall.

The snow, still blowing in through the window, didn't reach them, although the extra chill that came with it, did.

How could she complain? Harry, Ron, Ginny and all the others were out there fighting for their lives. It would be a miracle if every one of them survived.

Which of them would still be around at the end of all this? Not many if Voldemort won. Harry would certainly be dead...

She felt herself sinking further into morbid thoughts, terrified how easily they could become a reality.

What about Professor Dumbledore? He might be a very powerful wizard, but he was also very old. She had noticed he was looking very weary lately. She didn't doubt he had the power to ward off Voldemort's attacks, but did he have the stamina any more?

She couldn't imagine a world without Professor Dumbledore.

Or Harry.

Or any of her friends...

...but then, if Voldemort won, she wouldn't be around to see a world without Harry or Ron...

"Professor, why didn't they kill me?"

He was sitting forward of her, on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. At her words, he straightened and turned his head slightly.

"I imagine they had their orders to take you alive as a precautionary measure. If the battle fails to go as the Dark Lord plans, he will have you to barter with."

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

"You mean, he'll hold me to ransom to get to Harry?"

"If he needs to, yes."

"But that mustn't happen! Harry mustn't have me to worry about. He has to do whatever he needs to win - I'm expendable."

"You know Potter will not look at it that way. You and he are very close, I think."

"He's my best friend - and I'm very proud to say that! But I shouldn't even begin to be a consideration when there's so much more at stake. OH! I'm so angry with myself for getting caught so quickly. I was so stupid!"

"You should not be so hard on yourself," he said, standing and beginning to walk from one end of the cell to the other and then back again. "The Death Eaters are ruthless, precise and sly. You have done well to survive coming face to face with them as often as you have."

She looked at him and couldn't help imagining a time when he had been a Death Eater. She tried to picture him running around Hogwarts, fighting against her and Harry and Dumbledore, causing death and destruction like the other Death Eaters.

However he treated everyone; however rude and nasty he'd ever been; however cold and heartless he appeared, the picture just didn't seem to fit.

Yes, there had always been a feeling that he was teetering on the edge of evilness - that if that mark on his arm burned fiercely enough, he would answer the call; but still she felt there was a core of decency about him; a sense of loyalty.

What had he said earlier?

'We all do strange things in adolescence...'

Perhaps becoming a Death Eater had been one of those things. She didn't know when he had become one, or for how long - all she knew was that one day, for some reason, he had turned, and come to Professor Dumbledore.

"It's just so frustrating and frightening not knowing what's going on," she said. "The first we'll know, is when that cell door eventually opens and we see who's standing on the other side."

She watched him turn as he reached the wall and began walking back again.

"I believe we shall know in advance if Potter has succeeded in defeating the Dark Lord. There will be a sign."

"What sort of sign?"

"I do not know - but we shall know it when we see it. If we see it."

She watched as he continued to pace back and forth.

"Would you like your cloak back for a while?" she asked. He must be freezing.

"No, keep it. You have fewer clothes than I."

He walked past her again.

"Is something wrong?"

"No."

"Why are you pacing up and down like a tiger, then?"

"I am merely trying to keep my circulation going."

"Oh."

He walked past her a few more times, a look of grave concentration on his face.

"Are you sure you're OK?"

"YES, Miss Granger," he answered, irritably. "I am perfectly 'OK'."

He stopped, and his shoulders sagged in defeat as he sighed,

"Very well...in your own words, Miss Granger, 'I need to pee'."

She burst out laughing.

"Shall I ask the guard if I can stand outside while the gentleman relieves himself?"

He glared at her for a moment before giving in and raising his mouth in a tiny, reluctant smile.

"No - but it is now your turn to sing." He waved his hand, indicating that she should turn away.

She got up and moved to the farthest wall.

Oh, Lord! Now she knew what he had meant - she hadn't sung since her junior school.

She closed her eyes and put her hands to her ears:

'Oh, Danny boy, the drums, the drums are calling,

From glen to glen and down the mountain side;

The summer's gone, and all the leaves are falling;

'Tis ye, 'tis ye must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow;

'Till I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow;

Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

But if ye come when all the flowers are dying,

And I am dead, as dead I well may be.

Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying,

And kneel and say an 'Ave' there for me.

And I shall hear, 'though soft ye tread above me.

And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be.

If ye'll not fail to tell me that ye love me,

Then I shall sleep in peace until ye come to me.'

A tear had trickled from each eye and the last verse had come out a bit wobbly.

"Was there a reason for choosing that particular song?" he asked, quietly.

"It's mum's favourite..." Her voice caught and her throat seized up.

She stared at the wall.

8pm-9pm - She was crying.

Usually, if a female student cried in front of him it was because he had been spiteful, and quite honestly, he couldn't care less. If the student concerned bore a complete dunderhead approach to his classes, then frankly, it was all they deserved.

But this was different. This was her. And they were in this situation.

Of course it was a typical reaction to danger, recalling the mother. He remembered reading a study on people who had survived grave peril. Nearly every one - young and old - had admitted to wanting or thinking of their mother at some moment during the crisis.

He stood still as he looked at her, arms hanging useless by his side. He had never felt so emotionally inadequate in his life. He had a strong urge to put his arms around her and comfort her, wipe away the tears from her cheeks; but he held back, unable to do so.

Now who was the dunderhead?

His brain fidgeted, trying to work out what to do next.

"The venom of a cobra; one quarter ounce of powdered armadillo claw and three drops of sap from the Sonchus oleracus?"

She raised her hand to her face, wiped her eyes and sniffed before answering,

"Intemperies Vocis - a potion which causes the drinker to shout involuntary obscenities ."

"A tisane of Myosotis, Daucus carota and dried dragon-fly wings, infused for five hours during the spring equinox?"

She turned to look at him. At least she'd stopped crying.

"A basic memory-restoring potion," she answered.

"And what would you add if you wished to delve into the subconscious?"

"The ground cornea of a python and...one drop of Veritaserum - making very sure to stir in the Veritaserum thoroughly."

He nodded.

"Equal measures of Farina, Saccharon and Butyrum, mixed with two Pullus Ovum?"

She blinked and then hiccupped a laugh.

"Ingredients for a sponge-cake!"

Grinning, she went and sat on the bed.

"I wouldn't expect you to know how to make a sponge-cake, Professor."

"My mother was a scribe for a witch who wrote recipe books as well as potion books," he said, sitting on the bed beside her. "My mother was frequently...unwell and unable to work; I would copy the drafts for her..."

He stopped, surprised. Why on earth was he telling her this?

"So that's where your knowledge of potions came from?"

"Initially, yes."

"And sponge-cakes..." she smiled up at him.

"My cauldron cakes were quite a success, too." He gave a tiny smile back.

"My parents are dentists, but I don't know much about teeth."

"And yet you soak up knowledge in every other sphere and approach your studies with great maturity."

"'An old head on young shoulders' is how I'm usually described. My parents never spoke to me as though I were a child. They always tried to include me in decisions, and asked my opinion of things. Of course, I had my moments of childish behaviour, but I suppose their attitude helped shape the way I think." She looked at him. "Is...is your mother still alive?"

"No."

"Do...do you have any family?"

He looked at her.

"I think you should get some rest."

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Thank you, thank you to everyone who reviewed. As always, each and every one was received with delight!

Kerichi: OK, I confess to blasphemy. My penance? I must stare at Sev's lips for one whole hour before bedtime.

The Great Green Leaf of Peril: Touched by your review. Mr. Rickman uses the word 'shite' - so that was cool!

Emily: No, I'm not from NZ. I am a Brit. But most people know Hilary, right? Like most people know Armstrong.

Annonomys: Thanks for your review, but I'm stung. Have I made spelling mistakes? I admit it's not my strong point and some get through, but I do try hard to spot them. Someone point them out if I have - and please remember, I'm British, so British spelling applies.

JessiokaFroka: Please read my note to Annonomys above. What have I done? I'm getting paranoid now. Thanks for the offer to be my betareader (did you offer because of my spelling? - see, paranoid). Maybe for Madness2 (coming along nicely, btw. I will begin posting when this little story is done.)