THE SANDGLASS
By Nenya Entwhistle
Beta'd by Ziasudra, Lesameschelle, and Irishgirl12000.
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.
Time is a tricky thing,
It ebbs and it flows,
Where it goes, who knows?
August 3, 1998 (Harry is 18)
Harry: "You will not be able to control the instinct to time travel at first," my Unspeakable says. "But eventually you will be able to control where you go, whenever you want. It's difficult to master, and only once you've gained significant experience will you be able to feel like you're in control, though you never really are. Time is a changeable thing, never constant. You must remember that."
"How do I do what I am supposed to do then?"
"The best you can," he answers. "You have that." He points to the metal file I'm flipping between my knuckles. "It will guide you whenever you need answers, and it will tell you what you can know and what you must leave unanswered."
"But…"
"You don't have much time," he says. "You're going to leave in about five minutes and there's something important that I must tell you."
"What?" I ask.
"You need to use a phasma phasmatis spell." My Unspeakable takes out an old, yellowed parchment and hands it to me. "I would specifically use this one, but you may use another if you choose."
I take what is offered. "I don't have much choice, do I?" I raise an eyebrow. "You didn't give me enough time to find another spell before I'll be shifted back in time."
"What makes you think you're going to the past?"
I wrinkle my forehead. "I'm going to the future? Then why would I need to be a ghost?"
"Clever boy," he says. "You are more so than you would think or others would tell you. And yes, you are going back to the past, but you cannot let yourself assume that you will always go back in time. Time is not something you can predict. You might be able to guide its momentum, but you cannot stop its natural impulse."
"Why must I be a ghost?"
"You have already shown yourself to Severus the child," he remarks, "but he cannot believe you are who you are. We are Unspeakables, Harry, and we are not to be visible to the world. I would have done the same if you did not need to know about us to join us."
"How did you know?"
He lifts his head slightly and I see a trace of a shadow on his face, but not enough to distinguish his features. "That is for me to know and for you to ponder."
"I…"
I lurch to my knees when the world starts to spin around me. It feels slightly different this time around. I don't feel like I'm disintegrating as much as I am disconnecting from my timeline and shifting to another. Is that what I am? A shifter… drifter?
March 19, 1968 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 8)
Severus: The ghost in the clearing looks familiar, like I've seen him before. I try to get closer, but there's really nowhere I can go without him catching sight of me. If he turns just a little to the right, the sun will be in his face instead of the shadows. Strange… it's like he hears me, because he's turning and—I quickly use my hands to cover my mouth to stop my gasp. It's the stranger from before! From that day.
What is he doing back?
And—I try to remember—was he a ghost before? He must have been. Unless he died sometime between then and now. I don't really know if I remember him being see-through like he is. But I think it's him. It looks like him, though it's hard to tell. I didn't really get a good look at him before and, really, maybe I only think this because he is in nearly the same spot as before.
Is he one of those ghosts that haunts a place? I sit back and think about it, careful that I remain hidden behind the tree. I can't be sure if that ghost is one of the friendly ones or one of the ones that aren't. I cringe when my foot steps on a twig and it makes a loud snapping sound. But when I peer to the side, it doesn't look like the ghost has noticed. I sigh with relief and lean back, only to feel something cold pass through me.
I look down and I see a hand, more white than skin-colored, sticking out from my chest. "Boo," the ghost says when I whirl around and see his faded image. I jump back and he smiles. "Did I scare you?"
"Of course you didn't!" I shout, but I still take a few steps back.
"Then why are you moving away?" the ghost asks and glides forward.
I twist my face, or at least try to, just like my father does. "That doesn't mean anything."
The ghost shrugs, that is if he can. It looks like one, but I could just be seeing the wind twisting him around. "So who are you?" he asks, and he doesn't seem to be looking at me as much as he's staring at something in his hands. "Your name?"
"Why should I tell you?" I retort.
This time I'm sure of the smile on the ghost's face. It's definitely one. "Then I'll tell you mine."
I sniff my nose suspiciously. Even if he did tell me the truth, I wonder if giving my name to a ghost would be a bad thing. If he knows my name, can he then haunt me? But don't ghosts only haunt people in their lives that were important for some reason, whether good or bad? He really has no such reason with me, but still… didn't my father tell me to always err on the side of caution?
Besides, why put my trust in someone who is more somewhere else than here? I can barely tell what he looks like. It's indistinct in some places, though I think his eyes used to be vivid, but they're murky and dull like the rest of him now. He looks young though, much younger than Father. He shouldn't be dead, and he doesn't seem like he came from another time. I could easily imagine him fitting into life now. How long has he been dead?
"Why should I trust you?"
He laughs and it sounds rich, like how my mother used to laugh. "I'm a ghost, I can't hurt you."
"But you can haunt me."
He looks at me and I see a glimmer of color in his eyes, though it's so little that I'm not sure what it is. "Why would I want to?" he asks, almost sounding innocent.
It's hard to believe that a dead person, especially one that is years older than me, could sound like a naïve young boy. It just doesn't seem right. Maybe that's the reason why he's dead. "Is that why you died?"
The ghost blinks. "Shouldn't you be asking me my name?"
I shrug. "I'd rather know how you ended up becoming a ghost."
"I died," he says simply.
I roll my eyes. "That's quite clear. But how did you die?"
An expression that looks like one of my father's crosses his face, but like everything else that might make him resemble a living, breathing human—it disappears. "A spell," he answers and pauses. "Just a spell."
"Did you do something stupid?" It's what my father would ask of me.
"I suppose."
"You aren't an idiot, are you?" He laughs and I scowl, which only makes him laugh harder. "Why are you laughing?" I cry, trying to screw my face into a more proper glare. Why is he laughing when I'm trying to intimidate him! Bloody ghost! "Stop it!"
He stops after a second or two, and unlike Father his colorless eyes are almost kind. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh."
"Then why were you?"
He smiles a little. "You reminded me of someone."
I frown. "Who?"
"Just someone from some time ago," he answers vaguely.
That reminds me that I still don't know who he is, but do I even want to? He doesn't seem that smart, and if he got himself killed by a spell—that certainly confirms his lack of intelligence. At the same time, a ghost could prove useful as someone to talk to and find things out from. After all, they're dead—they should know more than the living, shouldn't they? Except my ghost happens to be an idiot.
My eyes focus back on the ghost instead of the trees I had been looking at through him. "Will you tell me your name?"
"I thought I asked you first."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, as I often see my father do when he's frustrated with someone, usually me. "If I tell you mine, will you promise to tell me yours?"
His eyes look down again at something in his hand, as if he almost wants to avoid my question. "I can't, I don't have one."
I narrow my eyes. "Everyone has a name."
"It's been so long… and I've drifted for I don't know how long... I have forgotten who I used to be."
"You remembered you died by a spell," I point out, not quite believing him.
He looks confused. "I suppose every ghost remembers their death."
This ghost is going to be useless if he remembers nothing. I'm disgusted. I should walk off and just leave him here. There's no point in talking with him if he knows nothing. He can't teach me anything that I want to know. I turn and start moving my feet forward and away.
"And I remember I used to be lonely," he calls out. "It's why I'm here, I think." I slow down. "Do you mind if I was your friend?"
"I thought you said you wouldn't haunt me," I snap.
I feel him drift closer, and for some reason his presence doesn't chill me like a ghost's should. I've read about it in books, ghosts tend to bring cold air wherever they wander. But I don't feel any colder.
"Friends do not haunt."
"I am not your friend."
"But I would like you to be."
I turn to him and snarl, "And why would I want to be friends with an idiot?"
The ghost looks surprised, and then sad. "I see," he says and vanishes, like he did before.
And I am left alone. I almost wish the opposite.
August 2, 1998 (Harry is 18)
Harry: My life case is Snape. Severus Snape, of all people! And somehow I've agreed to this. I thought all night and then went back to my Unspeakable and said that, yes, I would do what is asked of me. And yet this time I didn't feel like I was being manipulated. This time I felt like this really is my calling.
It's strange. I didn't want to believe it at first. But when I consider his words, it's like he knows just what to say to me to get me to agree. He's almost like Albus—could my Unspeakable be him? It's possible, and yet why doesn't he just take off his hood and tell me? It's supposed to be a secret though. Unspeakables are supposed to be hidden, unmentionable, secrets. Too bad I've already blown it.
Why does my case have to be the Professor who hates me the most? Why couldn't it be someone else? But who could it be? There aren't many wizards who are more important than Snape in this war against Voldemort. I can only list a handful of names who might be more so, and that only by a tiny margin, if any at all. It makes sense, and if I must do this for the greater good—then so be it.
I will. I will guide him, be there for him. And hopefully, I'll keep the course of the world's fate in a steady procession of progression.
There will be no devastation.
August 3, 1998 (Harry is 18)
Harry: I was nice to Snape. The file told me to be, and somehow I managed it. I wasn't insolent like he always tells me I am—I was kind. It was easier than I though, perhaps because this young Snape isn't too hard to separate from the other one. I wrinkle my nose and press my head into my pillow.
It feels like it's been a long day even though, according to my Unspeakable, I was only gone for a few minutes. Ron even flooed earlier to ask me if I wanted to head over to his place. He was going to cook for himself and Hermione, but I didn't want to get in the way of those two lovebirds. Besides, I really am exhausted. I could use some sleep.
Who knew time traveling could be so tiring?
March 31, 1968 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 8)
Harry: "You're back," Snape the boy says. It's odd to think of the Potions Master ever being this young, let alone seeming innocent, and yet he is. There's no doubt that the boy tries to be imposing, but his small stature makes that impossible. "I didn't think you'd come back."
I don't feel the file burning. It has nothing to tell me, and I would like direction. What am I suppose to say without revealing too much? I almost got myself trapped last time, almost gave Snape my name! "S—eems like I had no place else to go," I say and mentally kick myself. I don't know his name yet. No bloody piece of metal has to tell me that. "I guess that's why I'm here, and if you don't mind—I would like to stay."
His face twists into such consideration. It reminds me of his older self, the Professor I could hate if only he hadn't saved me so many times over the last few years. It's funny that I'm his Unspeakable, his guide, when he's been my savior. It's fair, I think, that it's his turn to be saved.
Besides, as I told myself before, it's for the greater good.
"As long as you don't do anything stupid," the boy says, "you may stay."
So kind and generous of him, I think with an inner grin. He doesn't like to concede anything, even at this age, does he? "I can't do much as a ghost," I point out. "All I can do is be, it seems."
He nods his head just enough to agree. "You can't do much damage."
"Not much good other than scaring people," I remark.
"Do you?" he asks, his voice getting that curious note that younger people tend to have. Children, but I wouldn't call Snape a child.
"Have I scared you?"
He shakes his head. "No, of course not."
"Then I must not scare people."
"You're a rather pathetic ghost," he retorts, something gleaming in his eyes that isn't quite nice.
How like him, I reflect. "I guess I am."
"You are," the younger Snape insists. "What ghost doesn't remember his own name?"
He has a valid point. But it's not like I can tell him I'm his Unspeakable, can I?
"But I have a name for you," he declares.
I blink. He does? "What is it?" I can't help but ask.
"Drogo. I think of you as Drogo in my mind. It's better than mere 'ghost,' isn't it?"
I don't think I've heard of the name before, but something tells me I should have—if only to wipe the weird shine off the boy's dark eyes. "What does the name Drogo mean?"
The smirk on his face is too reminiscent of the elder Snape's. "Ghost of course."
"In what language?"
"English."
I bite my tongue. I can't very well yell at this younger version of my former Professor. But why does he have to be so full of himself even at this age? "It doesn't sound English."
"It was introduced by the Normans," the boy explains in a patronizing tone, as if he were speaking to a child instead of being one. "I forget what century, but it was quite a while back. Don't you know anything about history and the origins of the English language? How the words are rooted from many different places?"
I count to ten in my head. It's what I often had to do in Potions class to prevent myself from just losing control of the situation. Hermione taught me the trick, though why she hadn't told me sooner I have no idea. Then again I wasn't the best listener in my 5th year. I cringe at the memories of what I was like. I was such a… such a teenager. Not that I'm that much older now, but I'm not quite as prone to emotional outbursts anymore. Trying to avoid being killed numerous times tends to sober childish antics.
"I guess you don't," he concludes when I don't respond.
I'm too busy imagining myself gritting my teeth and clenching my fists in an attempt to sooth my growing annoyance at his utter Snape-ish behavior. Merlin, he must have always been like this. I'm beginning to think I prefer the older Snape. At least he has a reason to shoot me down. What does this boy have against me? I'm just a sodding ghost, for god's sake!
"Well, I'm Severus Marcellus Snape," he says and holds out his hand, then drops it when he remembers that I am a ghost. "But you may call me Severus."
Why do I get the feeling he thinks he's bestowing a huge favor on me? "Severus," I say in a strained voice, pretending not to be, "it's nice to meet you and thanks for the name."
He almost smiles, but it ends up looking more like a grimace. He shrugs his shoulders. "I couldn't very well call you 'ghost' forever, could I?"
I guess not.
TBC
A/N: Thanks for all those that reviewed, you definitely make studying and going to MCAT classes a bit more bearable. Updates should continue at a steady pace for a few more weeks, as I have backups.
Thanks to noctu (it was), wolfawaken, Aycelcus (bahleetion? Deletion?), Asrai (thanks for commenting again, I really really appreciate it), Wingdance (there was some mild R-rated stuff, but it was mostly implication. Though I have to agree about Aspen's story), koryan'shea, Rowana S.
