Chapter Six

The acrid smell of burning flesh was rancid within his nostrils, the screams like a gunshot to his mind as they echoed shrilly from the edge of the cliff. A heated ring of silver encircled his finger, throbbing through his right arm. It would take only a word, a low command, and this would be over, but he could not falter. Not now.

Such pride remains unbroken

She was free, her spirit flying far above this spectacle, cloak of emerald flapping against her arms and legs like wings.

No reason to be found why reason did fail

Eyes turned to the skies, dutifully looking away, as the screams dropped into memory and faded from reality. The tears he could have once shed frozen behind weary lids. He would not let them fall. Not now, not ever. Twisted on the frozen earth at his feet, a dark haired creature writhed in agony, hands clamped over ears to block out the horror of what had just occurred.

Shall I stand as a total stranger

She could feel the cloak melting from her shoulders, like water from a spring; she did not feel the biting chill of the wind against her worn flesh. The scars and bleeding bruises fading into a dull ache, hardly more than a sensation. The chapped soles of her feet felt as they had been bathed clean and salved, her throat no longer torn or raw, but soft as honey.

Cold reminder on this day

"Father... please ..." the voice choked over and over again, pleas falling on deaf ears as it all slowly drew to an end. The solemn faces downcast now, as footsteps shuffled away, cloaks drawn tightly around bodies. With a look of utter contempt, he turned from the dark mass before him. He did not realize, it did not register, until many hours later, that no tears had fallen from those dark eyes that had glared with full hatred on him; no sobs shook the boy's thin frame. Quite the contrary, only anger; sweet, everlasting anger had been unleashed.

And it chilled him ever so slightly, in his already cold heart, in his already frozen bones, that someday, that anger may yet be used against him.

A glimmer; a faint one, blurred her vision; before slowly coming into focus. It was the crystal glare from a polished chandelier, one that she had seen at least once a year. Usually around the Christmas Holidays, usually with two people at her side, usually to see something new and inventive, besides the Nutcracker, and it had been under those same glimmering lights that 

: No. You must not think about that. It's in the past, it's gone now, it's too late to change. :

Shifting slightly under the tightly tucked sheets of the lumpy cot in what she was sure was a hospital wing-and wincing only a bit at the stabbing pain in her side-a rather disheveled chestnut colored head turned. Green eyes opened, no larger than slivers, and surveyed her situation, as memories indeed came rushing back in droves. Attempting to swallow the thick saliva that coated her mouth, she felt another searing stab of pain, this time in her throat. It felt as raw as if she had been screaming or vomiting for days, and there seemed to be something heavy atop it. Very slowly (more out of fear of what she might damage or disrupt) she brought her hand to the object, and delicately prodded it with her fingers. It was thick, like a bandage, and there seemed to be loads of it, too!

"That was a nasty gash she gave you, Juniper. You're damn lucky she missed the artery she was aiming for." Her hand dropped as if she had touched a flame, eyes swivelling to her left, then right, resting on a familiar dark head and brown skin.

"Maeve "her voice croaked, and she felt her brows draw together in confusion. Why did she sound like a frog?

"Wh-what happen-en-ed?" A heavy sigh met these words.

"Oh, hunny, you were beat to hell and back." Juniper tried to laugh, but something more resembling of a bark came out instead.

"How's the opponent?"

"Heavily sedated and isolated, thank god." Running a tongue over dry, cracked lips, she dreaded to ask the next question.

"How long have I been here?" the silence stretched, and that was when she knew she wouldn't like the answer.

"Almost a fortnight." Cringing, Juniper attempted to stand, but the stabbing pain in her ribs sent an explosion of stars behind her eyes.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" she was slowly regaining her forgotten voice; she could feel it moistening the shredded remains of her trachea.

"Lay back down before you hurt yourself even more!" snapped Maeve, her eyes glinting dangerously. Juniper met her gaze with one as equally unnerving, before obeying.

"When can I leave?" she could already feel the itch in her limbs to get moving, to get up, to do something, anything other than lay here like a useless rag doll.

"When Madame Pomfrey and Severus Snot deem you worthy to roam the halls at random once more and speaking of which, what the hell were you doing wandering within hexing distance of that lunatic?" Juniper allowed a wan smile.

"Oh, you know me, I just love a good lunatic now and then." Maeve snorted.

"Bloody likely. I bet she lured you out, didn't she? Probably had it planned for weeks-what she would say and do just to goad you into a duel; mind you, that's not a hard task. I know your temper better than any other broad within a hundred kilometer radius, but that doesn't change the fact that it probably took her weeks to decide when, where and how. You may have a temper, but you also have honor and ideals, and–"

"Thanks." Juniper replied sardonically, and Maeve remained silent a moment longer, gazing with the utmost love and concern at the struggling woman before her. She knew Juniper, just as she had said, and she knew that no one could keep her confined to a bed when she felt her duty was at hand. Juniper herself was feeling rather irritated at the fact that it had taken her more than five minutes to sit up, and it didn't help that the searing pain within her ribs was not going away. A low growl issued from her small physic as she finally attained comfort.

"'bout damn time! I thought I would have to employ you as my personal nurse in order to even sit." Maeve snorted.

"Like bloody hell-you couldn't afford me even if you wanted to!" Juniper sent her a scandalously seductive smile.

"That's not what I know from experience." The maddened blush she received in reply was enough. Folding her hands complacently, she took the attitude of one whom had only missed an hour or two. "So, what are my classes looking like for today, Professor Ulster?" It was then that the smile vanished and the blush was replaced by a pale pallor.

"Loads of bed rest and plenty of fluids, with no strenuous activity, including education." Juniper shook her head.

"No."

"What do you mean, no? I have no control over the matter, that's what Madame Pomfrey ordered, and that's how it'll be, do you hear me? BED-REST. And I personally, agree-don't look at me like that, she has a point. You have two cracked ribs, a rather ugly gouge in your neck and are recovering from a poisoning hex–that's right, you heard me, a poisoning hex. And I, for one, won't have you galavanting about, furthering infections and other nasties in your wounds, do you hear me? You are far too important for such nonsense. So that's that. Might as well hunker down, sit tight, and enjoy it, because you are going to be here for a while, young lady." Juniper glowered like a young child not getting their way, causing Maeve to have to fight back her laughter. "You're impossible, Juniper. Impossible." Still, she glowered on.

"Glower all you want, missy. I am going to stay here, though, until you are well again. So get used to card games, reading, and moments of creativity, just for your soul."

"Alright, care to play a game of hearts?"

"I hate that game."

It was gone. The precious bottle of absinthe he had saved and hidden away for so long was gone.

Chairs had been overturned, desks torn apart, tables toppled, and bookshelves emptied. He was instead faced with the mess that littered the stone floor and still, no bottle. No shot glass. No sugar cubes.

No clues as to whom it had been; though a few suspects had immediately leapt to mind, all as easily dismissible as the last; for no one-save two others, knew of this hidden sanctum. It wasn't as if they had taken anything else, just his precious addiction.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been aware of the fact that he was growing addicted once more to the green liquid. He was scared, some part of him was, but he couldn't be without it. Not now, not after he was becoming accustomed to having it so often, so readily at hand.

And now he was left alone, with the disaster at hand. As he slowly began to shelve the books and papers, his hand stayed once or twice at several familiar ones, before freezing over a particularly worn leather cover of one particular journal. Turning the pages, he began to read, and what he read scared him far more than his own addiction ever had.

She trembled, ever so slightly, eyes wide and unblinking. It was as if she were willing herself to stay strong; no, he knew she was. The light was dim, even though the moon was full. Her naked limbs tightly crossed, holding herself together. He could almost see the swell of her belly, how he had been so blind until now he didn't know. She had never looked more lovely, her hair unkempt and wild about her face and shoulders, breasts and hips full, their child growing within the cradle of her arms that held on protectively. Only a step, he took only one and saw the relief flash for an instant in her eyes.

"So–so it's true? It's ours, our own child?" she nodded, the smile playing at her lips faintly.

"It's true."

"How long have you known for?" he couldn't hide the break in his voice.

"For three, almost four months," a single tear slid down her cheek, "I was afraid you wouldn't want a–it, now, when things are so ..." it was then that she broke their gaze, her eyelids pressing closed for a moment, "But I want it, so much. I didn't know I would; I didn't plan it-I was so careful, we were all so careful-and now, here it is. And suddenly, I want it. I want this child to live, to be loved, to have a home, a family, a life with ... us." When his arms encircled her, the gasp she issued was so many emotions in one. Together, they stood still, his arms wrapped tightly about her womanly frame. When they pulled apart, it was with great earnest he spoke.

"I want this. I want this child, too." With a choked sob, she smiled, truly, deeply, and kissed him. The passion was unbridled, the relief evident in every second she held on. He had never felt this sort of lift in his chest before, never felt his heart beat like this before, never felt so scared and excited and in love with anything than he was with this unborn child. Placing a cold hand on her always warm belly, he felt nothing, but knew that life was buried deep within her flesh.

"There will be movement soon, I promise, it comes and goes for now." he nodded, but could not tear his eyes from the smooth curve of her stomach. And in the moonlight, with his greasy hair pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of his neck, his cigarette colored smile and carved facial features, he was beautiful to others besides his love. A warm glow seemed to emanate from their hearts into their faces and through the window, rivaling even the bright of the sun.

Sliding the volume back onto its rightful home, he tried to forget what he had been reminded of. Tried to dismiss from his mind the pain and regret that so many memories were laden with. He knew that he should have done or said something when the opportunity was ripe, but unfortunately, his high ideals had permitted him from speaking. And now ...

He didn't even sigh as he found his fingertips grazing sketchbooks. He remembered the day when he would have gladly opened and perused the pages at length, reveling in the talent or even the budding of said talent, as it whipped by, page by page. But now, well, now, he would rather forget that such talent had ever existed. Forget the face and name attached with those books, forget the short stories and poems written by another hand, one whose raven haired owner had been just as much a part of the pain and anguish from so many years ago as the sketchbooks of the light haired one had been. He yearned for his absinthe so badly he could almost taste the bitter liquid, could almost feel the gritty sugar coating his tongue. And with a growl like that of a bear, he hurled the books across the room, and felt a surge of ... something as they thwapped the wall and crumpled to the floor. Again, he threw a handful of books, and felt the same swell, then again, and another and another, until he was panting, arms limp at his side.

There was a stitch in his chest, he was sure it was from the tossing of so many heavy things, but knew deep down inside he was just exhausted, as so many addicts are when they come down. And he was, indeed, coming down. With a resigned sort of disposition, he began to scoop the damaged thoughts and memories into his arms, only hesitating a moment when he came across one that had landed face up. It was a sketch, one he had never seen, or if he had, he didn't remember it.

The limp and unwashed hair fell into dark eyes, but the eyes were laughing, and the arms, skinny as they were, wrapped around the soft and full body of a woman in her prime. Dark curls styled in a messy coif, wisps of it framing her face and trailing over large breasts, as a laugh escaped her mouth as well. Both were nude; on the tousled sleigh bed he had made love upon so many times in his youth; to both the women seen and unseen in this sketch. Their legs were entwined, his sparsely haired chest being toyed with by demure and seductive hands, an already spent penis still thick and masculine residing faithfully. Their sweat was still in his nostrils, though the picture older than half the students that walked these halls, and the lovemaking of that evening as intense as any he could recall.

With a choked sob he hadn't meant to allow to slip, he slammed the book shut. When had she drawn such an intimate moment? When had she found the time to capture their expressions so perfectly? How long had she tried to–but he stopped those thoughts, and scooped it into his arms with the others, anger replacing what should have been a form of love. How dare she. Who did she think she was? To sketch for all the world to see-their private life and family, to sketch their love, as strange as it may have been to others, but pure as it was to themselves-for anyone to find?

Granted, unless someone knew of his home, they would have never found it, but still, what was she thinking? He was half tempted to burn it, and almost did, but save for the sketches of the next few pages, which he found when, on a hesitation, he opened the sketchbook yet again. Or was it more of a morbid curiosity.

A child, no, several children studies, the first he had ever seen in any of her sketches. She had obviously been pregnant at the time, the dates said as much, and they ended shortly before–well, it was enough, to say the least, to stave his first impulse and pause him yet again. There were boys, mostly, and girls too. The latter being the most tender and soft, as if she had hoped against all hope that the life in her belly was a girl. They filled the remaining pages, he discovered, and some were animated, some not so much; but all were poignant reminders of why he had clung to these books to begin with.

The tears fell openly from his cheeks now, and try as he might to stave them, they speckled and dotted the pages. Turning away, he lay his heated cheek upon the cool floor and wept like a broken man. How dare she, his mind repeated over and over again, how dare she ...

The next few days passed by in a blur, and soon it was the winter holidays. As the semesters drew to an end, midterms were given, with several anxious students leaving the school for holiday, fear in their bellies, and homework on their minds. Professor Willow Solaris returned to class, albeit with misgivings, although her attack on the Professor Lunar had earned her a mixture of fear and respect from the students. Rarely had anyone seen an attack on another wizard to that degree before, save Harry Potter, and while the rumors of Lord Voldemort having returned were still fresh, the reality of an actual duel, Death Eater related or not, was more tangible than the vague threat of an old villain.

It was also common knowledge at this point in time that Professor Lunar had received a rather seductive visitor whom still remained loyally in the hospital wing at Juniper's side. Not only that, but Juniper was taking much longer to recover, setting her in the back of most student's minds as she was so briefly a part of their class lives. Granted, during the particularly grueling Potions lessons that continued in her absence, several were heard to be grumbling that they wouldn't be half as miserable if she were there. And her students still worried with a great deal of regret and fret, visiting her frequently and driving Madame Pomfrey mad in the process. Still, she felt deep down in her heart that really the only people who truly noticed her absence were few and far between.

Maeve always commented that Juniper had a self worth complex, but those words usually fell on deaf ears as her dearest friend would change the subject or snap irritably for Queen Mab to not be Queen Moron. It depended on the mood of the day. Another thing of note was the healthy banter and bickering that ensued between the two women, never with malice or ill intent, always with the utmost love and respect, but more out of habit than anything else.

More and more students could be heard whispering as they left the Great Hall with heavy suitcases, tightly muffled faces, noses and mittens, that something was afoot in the Forbidden Forest besides the usual oddities. Several older students claimed to have heard human voices chanting near the edge of the trees, others insisted they had seen smoke on certain days curling from the treetops. All the professors dismissed these stories as the sheer will of imagination, and Fred and George Weasely had taken it upon themselves to tell terrified First Years that it was the new headquarters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers-giving almost all of the younger children horrible nightmares, until Professor McGonagall banned their scandalous stories and gave them detention. The two left scowling their last day, quite irked at their mischief being halted, if only temporarily.

By the time the Christmas Holidays were reaching their peak, only a handful of people could be found within the castle walls of Hogwarts, save the faculty. Juniper had begun to stump about with a cane and had been preparing her lessons with her dark haired counterpart, wincing with pain whenever she felt no one was looking. Her reapperance at the staff table had sent a few warm welcome back's in her direction, and while she had hoped it would rattle Severus most of all, she found he avoided her gaze whenever humanly possible.

"Oh come off, darling, he's a total ass anymore as it stands now," Maeve reprimanded one day, forking her mashed potatoes visciously. Juniper moodily spooned her carrots and sweet potato in her mouth, eyes downcast in misery.

"I know, and I have a much better life and love and everything now, but still ... I just wish he would acknowledge us, our past-"here she sighed heavily, "-me. But he pretends as if none of it ever happened, and how can he do that?" Maeve shook her head dismissively.

"Because he's afraid to admit that he hurt then, just like we did. Because he is afraid to be human and show emotion. Remember what he said, what was it, thirteen, fourteen years ago? People who show emotion are weak. He doesn't want to be weak."

"I know." Juniper was still rather blue even as she mumbled these words. She did know, but it still didn't ease the dull ache of pain; pain she had thought had died so many years ago, but unfortunately, sometimes time does not give closure, as she was learning. He hadn't really changed that much, and yet, had changed so drastically, it was as if it was another person. Somedays she wanted to pretend that it was a different person and that she would find the real Severus lurking about the next corner, waiting to yell out 'Surprise!' and to--to--well, her mind never was really able to digest the lie, and she would snap back to reality aggressively.

Scraping back her chair, she clutched at the cane that was now becoming comfortable in her hand and took a swig from her goblet, "You know, I don't think I'm that hungry tonight. I think I'll go double check from ingredients for this potion I have planned a final exam question that I wrote yesterday." Quirking a brow, Maeve's dark eyes fixed Juniper with a quizzical stare.

"Did you create a potion all your own?" Blushing slightly, Juniper shifted from one foot to the other.

"Well, no, but it is a really difficult one. I mean, almost NEWT level."

"But what about the OWLs; shouldn't we be preparing potions for the fifth years to practice on as well?" Darkening, Professor Lunar lifted the hem of her robe in an agitated sort of way.

"I'm working on it." Disappearing as swiftly as she could, a wave of relief washing through her as she passed the Great Hall's doors, and the cold air chilling her broken ribs, Juniper began to slowly climb the stairs to reach the Library.

It seemed as if a familiar tune had been running through her mind quite often lately, one she remembered a certain gentleman playing at a few choice cafes when they had been young, carefree and idealistic. His lingering notes and rich voice soothing and moving her heart in ways she hadn't felt before those times, and leaving a hand print on her soul.

I'm calling you

Oh, ooh, ooh

Desert road from Vegas to nowhere

someplace better than where you've been

The swaying of bodies, both muggle and wizard swaying as one in the warm glow of the secret coffee shop, their differences forgotten as they shared in this muggle tune that had enchanted a wizard's hands and mind from the first moment she had shared them with him. It was so strange to see someone moved so deeply by words they clearly shouldn't have understood and somehow, they did.

A coffee machine that needs some fixin'

And a little café just 'round the bend

A hot dry wind blows right through me

the baby's cryin' and I can't sleep

The promise that he would do it justice as well as the American muggle who had orginally played it had. Many of the patrons had smiled, some bemused other confused, but all enchanted by the soulful crooning and sweet ballad that in moments had filled the small building.

We all know she just calls me in

coming closer to sweet release

Sweet release

I'm ca-ll-ing yo-u

As the song continued and then drew to a close, the smattering of applause became a thunderous recognition, starting a small fanbase for the trio, which had only helped them to infiltrate the mixed world of muggles and wizards. They had slipped so easily between the barriers that it was hard to believe one of them was a Deatheater and pure-blood wizard with a venemous fury.

And now, so many years later, she was still haunted by many a night that had been spent in that tiny home they had spent many hours a day in, playing tunes, writing poetry, sketching passerby. All for fun and still finding it as a way of income. She remembered being happiest in those days, the beauty of the world, the innocence of naivete and idealism running through her veins.

Hard to believe that times had grown so grim and dark, though few admitted they were. She had read of the attacks that Voldemort had launched recently. Nothing large, but still horrifying. Muggles having strange encounters and accidents, being found mauled by 'wild animals' with deaths and wounds that left Juniper convinced they were the handiwork of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The wizarding schools that were suspected of being the target for an attack having been destroyed and several innocent witch and wizard lives claimed did not lesson any fears. Needless to say, the Daily Prophet still vehemently denied the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and instead printed small, hardly noticeable articles on the deaths and disappearances, though they were becoming so many and so frequent, it was becoming harder and harder to write them off. Which was more than likely He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's intention.

She wasn't surprised that he hadn't attacked Hogwarts yet, he feared only one wizard in all the world and that was Dumbledore, who was taking this all rather badly. Students were more than likely to transfer or not return after the winter holidays-not all, but some were expected to-out of fear on their family's behalf. The Daily Prophet wasn't the only paper to be sounding off against Dumbledore; many wizarding families were unable to admit the return of so fearsome a foe from long ago. While their children had no idea of the horror from the First War, their parents remembered it in extraordinary detail. Turning up another twisting set of stairs, Juniper finally had reached the library. Still lost in her thoughts, she meandered about, pretending to look for a book for her lessons in the coming semester, while really attempting to piece together the information that she had been ferreting out the past few weeks. In those next few moments, she was attacked by a rather rambunctious owl who nipped at her fingers until she had retrieved her post from its leg, and then it was off. Unfurling the parchment, brows knitted together in confusion, with Madame Pince shrieking in her ear as she did so, Professor Lunar's green eyes suddenly lit up, and with a little yelp, she dashed away as fast as her cane would allow.

"Ow! That was my toe!"

"And that was my cane, sorry."

"You're sure you read the letter right? They want to see both of us, tonight?"

"Yep, at the same time, too." Juniper repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, as she and Maeve found themselves following the path she had just crossed no more than a few weeks ago, before the attack ... it felt like a lifetime ago.

"Well, it seems a little strange, just don't say I didn't warn you."

"I won't," Almost tripping over a root, she swore under her breath and gripped her cane tighter, "Evil forest."

"I've missed them-I didn't expect to miss them this much."

"I know!" Their voices faded to a hush as they came upon the dark shack in the middle of the Forbidden Forest that Juniper had encountered herself before.

"Got the password ready?"

"Yep," with a new rhythm, she tapped the knock, and then whispered, "Buckbeak's Brigade, reporting for duty, sah!" Maeve giggled uncontrollably, and a pair of rough, yet handsome hands shot from the doorway.

"Oh shut up, you loon. And would you get in here before you alert the whole forest that two St. Mungo's patients have escaped their ward?" They both were fighting down fits of laughter as Maeve was snatched inside, Juniper checking over her shoulder quickly before following suit. With a creak, the door closed, and a breeze rustled the frozen branches of the trees, sending a shiver down the frosty plants and flowers.

lyrics © Calling You by Jeff Buckley