Updated: 6-11-04

Author's Note: Ok, so sorry that it's taking so long between updates. Right now I sort of know where I want this story to go, but not so well how to get there. Thank you so much to those who reviewed. I was surprised by the long reviews but pleased by the enthusiasm for the story. Thank you, you help keep me going.

To SOPHIE B: If you really would like to archive this story, you are welcome, but you'll have to pull it of ff with copy-paste as my document handling skills are extremely minimal. I'm glad you like the story so far.

Chapter 44: FERMENTATION - a mind's brew

The images in my head are like old photographs, moving and smiling, but at the same time distant and detached, silent. There isn't any sound in my memories. I wonder if that's normal. It's always been like that. I can remember images and emotions, but no sound, and hardly any color. I say my memories, but these aren't all my memories, most of them aren't mine at all, just flashes of things I can almost understand.

"...the ten uses of mandrake root, to be handed in first thing Tuesday morning..."

I know my attention is wandering dangerously during Snape's start-of-class lecture, but I can't help it. It feels like something else is whispering to me, trying to get my attention, but it's like I'm under water and can only barely feel the sound of another's voice.

The way the wind was playing with her hair, making it dance in the sunlight. The feeling of the grass, wet with morning dew, squishing under my feet and brushing my bare ankles as we ran, chasing the shadows. Bill, Charlie and the twins darting back and forth above us on their brooms, diving sometimes to scare us and make us laugh. Her hand is tight in mine and the sun is warm on our backs as we run with the breeze and the shadows.

"...and be sure to add the frogs eyes BEFORE the scarabs wings, or whoever tries the potion will feel like their throat is on fire for the rest of the day..."

A vague part of my brain has enough sense to be grateful that Malfoy's my partner in Potions now, as there is absolutely no way I can focus enough to catch all of what Snape is saying. If I were partnered with Harry, something vital would most definitely be forgotten, but I know Draco will keep me from killing myself with a botched potion, even if only because his grade depends on it too. Funny, but I think I'm beginning to trust him.

She got tired of running and plopped down in a clump of daisies. Her hair blew in her face and covered her eyes as she grinned up at me. Then she was still so little that sitting, the daisies came up to her head. When I ran by the next time, chased by Charlie on his broom, she had picked a bunch of the flowers and was busy stringing them together. One chain was already looped haphazardly over her head in a lopsided crown. The sunlight dazzled as it shone off the white petals.

"...do you want to fetch the ingredients, or shall I?"

I scoot my chair in to let Draco past me. There is no way I'd get everything we needed if I went up there, and then he'd just have to go up and fetch what I'd forgotten anyway. While he's gone, I get out the cauldron, placing in directly in the center of the table. Then the rest of the various implements. Stirring stick, knife, because I vaguely remember that this potion requires slices of some root. I can't help noticing the textures of things. The way the metal of the cauldron is somehow coarse, yet smooth at the same time, cool. The dents in the handle of the old knife. Waiting for Malfoy to get back, I sit tracing the wood grain in the table. Some of the lines have been deepened over the years by people tracing them with their quills. I follow these with my finger, sliding over the smooth edges.

Someone else running through the grass and grinning against the wind. Three bothers swooped out of the sky on their brooms, the one in front reminding me vaguely of my father. Their robes billowed playfully in the breeze and they soared high again, circling lazily overhead like birds of prey. The other one stood still and stared up at them, then spun in a circle to mimic their motion from the ground. A raindrop landed on the tip of his nose and he grinned, dropping to the ground to lie looking up at his brothers still wheeling madly, dizzily overhead.

"...give me the knife before you cut yourself. Grind up the scarab's wings instead."

The knife is taken from my hand and the roots I was working on. A mortor and pestel are placed before me instead. It takes me a minute to realize that first I need to put the wings in the bowl. They lay cluttered in the bottom like fallen leaves, and it is a minute before I can raise the pestel to crush them. Some of the bits flutter up and stick to my fingertips and knuckles. They're light. I can barely feel them. It's almost strange not having sounds with these images.

The boy ran through the leaves at the edge of the forest, kicking them up as he went. He could feel them crunch satisfyingly beneath his feet, and the crisp air nipped at his cheeks and felt sweet in his lungs. It was just after dusk and there was a thrill running up his spine at doing something he ought not. He could just see clouds whisping on the horizon to the west and he raced towards them, ignoring the small branches that whipped at him. Small shadows flitted about to the sides, and he grinned, the euphoria of running rising up in his chest and almost making it hard to breath. More branches whipped at his face as the shadows grew deeper.

"...stop, Weasley, the wings are done."

The words filter into my consciousness and I stop, finally seeing what I'm looking at. The wings have been reduced to a fine, black powder that wouldn't get any finer even if I kept grinding it all night. No wonder Draco sounded cross. I hand everything over to him as I try to remember what comes next. Someone sneezes behind me, and I glance back, seeing Harry going at his scarab wings with a vengeance. The expression on his face is closed off and focused, almost angry. Smells come with some of the images, too. Just not sound.

The scent of earth and flowers lay thick and heavy on the still, evening air. The bush towered up to the left, conspiring with the side of the house to block out most of the sky. Only patches of it showed through, pale and colorless beside the dark silhouette of the leaves. The stillness felt like waiting. Waiting and getting ready for something to happen. Another shadow blocked out the last patches of the sky, and the boy stood, gripping the offered hand tightly in his own. The time had come to finish it.

"...has to be stirred continually while I pour this in. Remember, counter-clockwise."

I'm gripping the stirring stick tightly between my fingers, trying to concentrate on stirring steadily and not bumping Draco as he pours in the ground scarab's wings. There's a slight bump in the stirrer, right under my thumb, and I rub at it absently, feeling out its shape. His hands are rock steady as he pours in the powder, confident, like he's done this a million times and could do it in his sleep. I've never really looked at his hands before. Like the rest of his skin, they are very pale. The nails are cut short and look well tended. His fingers are longer than I realized, and not as thin as I would have thought. Strong. Quidditch hands. There are calluses along his palms from gripping his broom. Idly I consider the way the light glances off his fingers, compared to the way it shines off of the metal stirring stick. There is something cold about it in both cases, though skin softens the hard edge.

The boy stood, one hand on his father's shoulder where he knelt on the ground, and peered at the thing his father held in his hands. It looked soft, the feathers long and slightly ruffled. It also looked very dead. Nothing living would ever be that still, would ever twist itself at that angle. His father held it out to him and the boy took it hesitantly, startled at how stiff, how light. His fingers curled into the downy feathers and tentatively he reached out and touched the beak, small and sharp against his thumb. Then his father took the dead bird away and handed him something else. The beetle was set in his palm, but quickly began climbing towards his fingers and over his thumb. It reached the tip of his finger, and his father reached over and set the boy's thumb over it's back, trapping it. The boy looked up at his father uncertainly and his father looked back steadily, holding up his hand and pressing his own thumb and forefinger together tightly. The beetle's legs tickled at the edges of his finger as he pressed with his thumb. There was a strange, squishing crunch of the shell and the legs stopped twitching. His finger felt sort of sticky, and what was left of the beetle looked very black against his pale skin.

"...stirring for another five minutes. I have to go ask Professor Snape something."

I'm glad Draco's given me the simple jobs like stirring. I can do stirring. Stirring is my kind of thing, especially with my concentration like it is right now. I feel like my mind is the sun and the day is overcast. Things keep slipping into and out of focus, and not always the things I would expect. The back of my mind knows that I'm avoiding thinking about it. The lack of concentration thing is just to help me forget. I think. I stare into the potion, watching it swirl around and around. It's a deep forest green right now, but I think it's supposed to be black by the time it's ready. I glance up to where Draco is talking to Snape and wonder vaguely what it's about. My curiosity doesn't hold, though, and I start looking only at their posture, the way Snape has to lean forward slightly because he is taller, how they gesture with their hands, the fall of hair and robes. Today my mind can't process, but only observe. Snape glances up at me briefly and I notice that from here I can't make out the color of his eyes.

It felt like it must be very late, but the boy was still up reading. The light from the fire cast moving shadows over the pages of the book and deepened the black of the letters. Suddenly, an older boy entered the room and the boy looked up from his book to watch him pass. He was covered in blood, it even matted his blond hair into clumpy strands, and the boy pressed himself into his chair as inconspicuously as possible. It wasn't the blood that made him look so threatening, though. It was his eyes. They weren't steady, focused on one thing like most. Instead they seemed to shift, flashing through a myriad of emotions at once, struggling back and forth between different extremes. His eyes weren't the eyes of a boy about to finish school. They were younger, and older than that, innocent in a way only a very young child's can be, or a soldier just returned from war. In his eyes there was no time, and he walked as though completely unaware of himself.

"...ladle your potion into the bottle and bring it up to the front of the class once it's been labeled. I want each partner to taste it and note the effects in your notes."

I set the stirring stick to the side and step back as Draco moves in to ladle out our potion. It's quite black by now, and looks something like molasses, though it's got a deep green tinge to it. I wish I could remember what it's for, but that was something Snape said at the beginning of the class, and even though the name of the potion is written on the board, it's in Latin. I hate making potions when I can't remember what they're for. The effect always seems to come as a nasty shock. Malfoy licks some of the potion off his finger, grimacing slightly at the taste, before handing the ladle over to me so I can do the same. It's not as bad I as expect, though strangely spicy. Malfoy looks like he's waiting for something, so I figure the potion must take a couple of minutes to take effect. My mouth feels really dry.

Her skin beneath my fingers, beneath the knife, was so soft, was so pale against the dark contrast of the cuts and her blood. It was like a dark fire burning inside of her, burning through her blood and hollowing her out inside. It was hard to imagine that this strange girl, naked and carved all over with archaic symbols, was somehow my sister. I couldn't see her eyes, but the knife I held flashed wantonly, and I could see a strange otherness trembling through her hands. Her hair spilled carelessly to one side, untouched by the blood.

"...you crying? Ron. Ron, open your eyes."

I flinch and open my eyes to see that Malfoy is standing in front of me, grasping me firmly by the shoulders. He's looking intently into my eyes, looking more concerned than I would have thought possible for a Malfoy a year ago. His grip relaxes when my eyes open, but he still seems tense. I reach up, putting a hand to my cheek, and find it wet. I look at my hand in confusion.

"Is she getting to you again?" He actually sounds worried, and I look back at him, shaking my head.

"Only the memories." He presses his lips together in a tight line and I feel like I have to say something more. "It was like a dark fire was burning her blood."

"I know." His hands fall away from my shoulders and he looks tired. I glance around the room to see if anyone noticed our strange behavior, but find that most of the class is staring at the walls, or up at the ceiling. I look back at Draco and notice something.

"Your eyes are green again."

He looks startled. "Of course. Yours are too. That's what the potion does, gives you pixy vision; turns your eyes green and makes it so you can see through walls and things. Don't you remember?"

"No." He just gives me a strange look when I don't elaborate. "You know, Ginny's the youngest, too," I think aloud. "How often do you think that's happened? That the youngest Weasley son wasn't the youngest Weasley?"

"I've no idea," Draco turns away to stare through the wall at the back of the potions classroom. I look there too, and can just make out the ratty couch we've both become so familiar with over the last month.