Chapter 22

Author's Notes: Ducks flying fruits and vegetables...oh, look, dinner--thanks, guys! :)

I had a little trouble with this chapter. Don't know why, just did. And I definitely made up the spell that Neville uses, because the only spell like it that I can recall from the HP books is the one Lockhart used, and considering how well that one worked, I don't think I'll try it here.



Neville Longbottom learned something new about his Potions professor--with proper motivation, Severus Snape could run, fast as wind.

As the sky hunter soared upwards with Hermione, Snape paused only one moment, wand in hand. Unwilling to trust his impaired magic, the Potions Master sprinted forward. Neville raced to follow. They ran across the plaza, slipping and sliding on the loose gravel. Snape led them down the most promising walkway, a straight path between progressively taller growing beds, their attention locked on Hermione's dangling form.

Both of them stumbled as the hunter veered in the sky, his prey dangling from one backpack strap. When Hermione fell, Neville screamed, "'Mione!" even as Snape roared, "No!"

Within minutes, they reached the area where the young witch had disappeared. The two wizards paused to look around, gasping in one lungful of air after another. Neville Longbottom leaned forward and clutched a stitch in his side, while Severus Snape fought to stop his body from swaying with fatigue.

They found themselves in a narrow canyon of sorts, a thin, Y-shaped intersection that wound between three tall beds. Weighty shadows at ground level created a premature twilight, stealing away all visibility. The longer they stared upward toward the narrow bands of sky and light, the closer in the towers leaned, leaving them with the dreaded sensation of being buried alive.

"From down here, all of the taller planting beds look the same," Snape complained. "I can't tell which one she fell to."

"Hermione!" Neville cried out, hoping his yearmate could give them some clue to her location. His voice rebounded off the close-standing, gray stone towers until a dozen calls of varying strength echoed around them. "'Mione, where are you?"

They waited the span of three heartbeats but heard no answer.

"We can't afford to dither about it. We'll just have to pick one and hope we get it right."

Neville stared up, unable to decide. "But which one?"

They had three choices--three towers nearly identical in height and size--and only one chance. Severus Snape climbed the ladder of the nearest planting bed as fast as his robes would allow. Neville followed hard on his heels, desperate to stay with another living soul, even if it was his most dreaded professor.

A single glance around the floral garden, with its daffodils, hollihocks, foxgloves, blue forget-me-nots, and rose-draped trellises, all reminiscent of an English country garden, revealed no young witch.

"There she is!"

Snape followed Longbottom's gesture and snarled a curse. He'd miscalculated. Hermione was one bed over.

The young witch lay partially buried on a carpet of flowers and was only now struggling to sit up. From that distance, she appeared shaken and dazed but otherwise unharmed. The students exchanged relieved smiles even as Snape shaded his eyes against the westering sun and searched for the nearest ladder on the side of their particular planting tower.

"The beds!" Neville cried. "They're going to shift any second. There won't be enough time to climb down then up again!"

"Jump." The Potions Master pointed to a column of metal rungs imbedded in the stone blocks of Hermione's tower. "You aim for the left side of the ladder. I'll aim for the right."

Neville stared, eyes large as saucers, as Snape threw his pack up and across the distance that separated them from Hermione. He stared over the edge--the crushed shell and stone walkway lay some eight or more stories straight down, lost in shadow. Neither of them would survive a fall from that height.

"Jump? Across that? You're barmy!"

"We dare not become separated. Merlin alone knows how far apart we'd be, and Potter has no time. Now gather that renowned Gryffindor courage and JUMP!"

Gathering the hems of his robes behind him, Snape moved five paces back, took a deep breath, and raced for the edge. He kicked off the low wall and stretched across. The Potions Master caught a ladder rung with his right hand. Momentum swung him around until his back slammed against the outside of the planting tower. Rough stone dug into his skin and snatched at his hair. He dangled wildly for a moment, left arm and both legs pinwheeling madly in an effort to help his balance. The strength of one strained hand saved him from a deadly fall. Snape contorted until his left foot found a lower rung and stopped his wild swinging.

The Potions Master's near-fall did nothing to bolster Neville's confidence. The view down left him dizzy and nauseous. The last time he'd been this high was during his first flying lesson, one of the most traumatic events of his life and one he most definitely did not want to repeat. If he fell here, he'd break much more than his wrist.

"Jump, boy! Now! Or by Merlin, I will make your Potions classes a living hell!"

"Like you don't do that already," Neville muttered even as he started running.

Longbottom made the distance, but only just. With a single, barked scream, he slid down five rungs, banging his chin on the rough iron, before at last catching one.

No sooner had he stopped his fall than Snape yelled, "Climb!"

Snape, straddling the top, reached down and snatched the shoulder of Neville's robes. He yanked with all his strength, pulling Longbottom over the edge and onto a cushion of grass an instant ahead of the shimmer and shift. The trailing end of Neville's robes, draped over the side, vanished as though sliced off by a hot, sharp knife.

The two wizards sprawled on their backs across the spongy ground, fighting to pull in air to fill burning lungs.

"You realize--of course--" Longbottom panted, "--that had we taken a moment--to think it through--we could have--lightened ourselves and--floated across."

"Hindsight," Snape wheezed, "has ever-perfect vision."

Severus Snape recovered first, or rather chose to move before Longbottom. With a smothered groan, he rolled onto his side, from there rising to one knee. He looked around through sweat-stung eyes until he spotted the third member of their party.

"Granger?"

The young witch sat amidst the flowers and cradled her right arm close to her body. She offered her companions a rueful grin.

"I'm fairly certain that it's broken."

"Well, Mr. Longbottom," Snape sighed as he settled back onto one heel, his trademark sneer firmly in place. "It's time to see what you're really made of."

Neville blinked in his professor's general direction. "Sir?"

"Due to the Vulcan's vine, I have uncertain control over my magic. Enough to do what must be done to create Potter's remedy but little else. Nor can I imagine Ms. Granger casting it upon herself. By a simple process of elimination, that leaves you."

"ME!"

"You can do it, Neville," Hermione said.

"The spell you will need is-"

"I know the spell, Professor," Neville cut in even as he crawled over to his friend and drew his wand with a shaking hand. "Madame Pomfrey used it to fix my wrist back in first year."

"Get on with it then, boy."

Neville drew in a deep breath and let it out again. At Hermione's encouraging nod, he braced himself, swished his wand over her injured arm, and intoned, "Brachium . . . percuro."

A soft hum touched the air. A brief flicker of bronze light flitted across Hermione's forearm. The three waited a moment. The young witch twitched her fingers. A great smile lit her face as she wiggled her fingers, flexed her wrist, and bent her elbow without pain.

"Excellent, Neville!" She hugged her yearmate in gratitude. "I knew you could do it."

"One would hope so," Snape drawled, "all things considered."

"Blessed Merlin," Neville whispered as he gazed, dumbfounded, over Hermione's shoulder. He pointed with a trembling hand. "Look."

Hermione sighed, a heavy sound that carried away every stress and strain, every worry.

"There it is. Dawn's Glory."

Nestled inside the ring of green, spongy moss grew hundreds of the plant. Uncounted blossoms filled a space some thirty feet across, their sword-shaped central pedal peeking through the pale blue cup. A scent like baked cinnamon filled the air.

Snape snatched his pack and rummaged through its contents. He passed two containers to each of the students and pointed them toward their own gathering spot.

"Harvest as many of the flowers as you can. Leave the pedals and stems, they're not necessary."

Hermione picked her first blossom only to pause, its pedals balanced over the lip of her flask. "How careful should we be with them?"

"It's the pollen we need. Stuff as many into every container as you can."

Within minutes, their fingers were coated with thick golden pollen that they carefully scraped into their current containers. The trio said nothing more until every last one of the dozen jars and flasks were crammed solid with blooms from Dawn's Glory. Neville even pressed handfuls of the blossoms into the pockets of both his pants and his robes.

"We have what we came for," Snape said as he tapped down the final stopper and placed it in the pack on top the others. "Now, all we can do is wait and hope the next shift takes us closer to the wall. And to the way out."

Three faces tipped up. The sky overhead dressed itself in the first muted colors of sunset.

Author's addendum:

brachium--the forearm, arm from elbow to wrist; any limb of a living creature; any other thing like an arm, e.g. branch, spur, yard, outwork of a fortification, mole

percuro--to cure, heal thoroughly