A/N: I would like to express my appreciation for Procyon Black for giving this chapter an excellent beta and helping out with the Welsh. Thanks!
Chapter
9: In the Chamber
"Come in," he snarled, slamming his decanter down with a sharp clink.
The door opened; first a kind, gnarled hand, then the sleeve, strangely subdued in the flickering dungeon-light, and then the arm and the ancient face. The blue eyes held no twinkle.
"Albus," Snape growled deeply and ominously, not moving from where he slouched. A strand of oily black hair obscured his vision. "How nice to see you. I've been expecting you all day, did you know that?"
"Severus." The door shut, and Dumbledore quietly took a seat opposite to the potions master. "I see that you've taken the brandy out," he said after a heavy pause.
"Very good brandy it is," Snape hissed. "Very good, just like your tea. Didn't quite see the need to invite me over a cup of good old English tea to break the bad news, did you?" He snatched up the brandy and loudly poured himself a shot, tossing it back and slamming it down with the swiftness of a snake. His eyes were hidden in shadows.
Dumbledore sighed, very softly and almost unnoticeably. "I am… sorry, Severus—"
"Sorry?" The potions master forced out a bark of laughter. "Oh, I know you're sorry, and I know exactly what you're sorry for—that you must deal with such an uncooperative tool, that you must once again take the wearisome time to calm and soothe the feathers of your little black crow." The thin lips curled grotesquely, and the pale, shaking hand wandered back for the brandy.
"Severus." The voice was sterner this time, but it was also pleading. The brandy swished into the decanter, the decanter glittered through the air, and then with a snarling sigh slammed back onto the table. "Please, Severus." This time, the voice was gentle and open and truthful and aching.
"You swore!" The potions master shouted suddenly, his voice writhing bitterly, impotently. "You swore to keep him away from me, you promised!" One hand seized the bottle of brandy, but then slammed it back onto the table; the old headmaster flinched. Snape leaned forward and his eyes in the firelight were bloodshot and red. "You promised me!"
The old man reached out both his hands, and his voice was pained and sorrowful. "Severus, my dear boy, I am sorry, so terribly sorry, you don't know how I—"
"Shut up!" A swipe of a black sleeve, and glass shattered on the flagstones, streaking the alcohol over the ground like blood. Shards of glass glittered darkly. "You promised me sanctuary from what he did, and you lied!" He was on his feet, and with a swirl of black robes, he was behind his chair, as though keeping it a barrier between him and the outstretched arms of the headmaster. "You lied to me—again!"
"Severus, please, I am sorry—"
"I said, shut up!" He was panting where he stood, like a cornered animal. "Don't Severus me anymore! Just—don't!"
The old man's gaze didn't waver, and his throat worked once or twice. The silence stretched longer, like the shadows cast by the flames. His voice, when he spoke at last, was low and small. "Will you not simply let me say what I came to say?"
"No," Snape snarled. "I will not."
The old man closed his eyes briefly. "As you wish, Se—" He stopped, and his eyes opened. They stared at each other for a long moment. And then the old man was on his feet and was moving forward—
"Don't come any closer!" Snape cried, and cringed, but didn't move away, and then the old man had embraced him, and Snape's eyes were closed and his face twisted in a painful grimace of silent, soundless weeping, and the old man was rubbing his hand over the other man's back, soothingly murmuring nothing but, "I am sorry, so sorry, my dear boy, so sorry, so sorry…"
Snape was the first to pull away. He did so, silently, and walked with a stiff, slightly wobbly attempt at his usual stalk to the fireplace. The old man stayed where he was, one hand on the back of the chair.
"You know why I had to do what I did," Dumbledore said softly.
The other man closed his eyes. Dumbledore waited, the lines etched deeply on his weathered face. "Yes," Snape said brusquely after a pause. "I do." He shuddered, a deep, body-long shudder, and then he opened his eyes and his body lurched with an involuntary choke of laughter. "It seems a very big joke, though. You're hiring your old friend C-Caius Cinna to be the Defense professor. At least I will never forget the look on Flitwick's face."
A hint of a smile formed on Dumbledore's face, but it seemed only to deepen the wrinkles and shadows.
Snape staggered from the fireplace and collapsed ungracefully into one of the chairs. The headmaster glanced down at the shards of glass and the streaks of brandy across the floor, and took out his wand and muttered a spell. The mess vanished.
"Everybody here is going mad," Snape muttered. He glanced up. "Do you know what Potter said to me today?"
Dumbledore, who had been gazing contemplatively into the fire, stiffened infinitesimally and looked sharply at the potions master. Snape didn't seem to notice. "What did he say?"
"He told me—" He stopped. Dumbledore waited, and then Snape leaned forward, frowning. "He told me the oddest, the strangest thing. It—he—" He looked up again and continued hesitantly. "Everybody is mad, Albus. Even I. He said that I was his father. That's preposterous."
"Really," Dumbledore said neutrally. "And what did you say?"
"What do you think I said?" Snape demanded angrily. He launched himself out of his chair and began pacing, though his steps weren't very steady. "I told him no, of course. He's Potter's brat through and through, and—" He stopped and gazed owlishly at the headmaster.
The headmaster moved to a cabinet and took out a small bottle of light blue potion. "This might help you think."
"I can bloody well think," he growled, but downed it anyway. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Lupin," Snape said after a long pause.
"Remus?" Dumbledore asked, perplexed.
"Yes, that pet werewolf of yours; do you keep another that I don't know of?" Snape retorted, and continued pacing. His robes snapped about him. "He must have told Potter about it, to set him up as a prank." He stopped and turned swiftly at the headmaster. "Unless you told him," he barked accusingly.
"Told him what?" Dumbledore asked, taken aback.
"About what happened that night seventeen years ago!" he snarled.
"I did not, Severus," Dumbledore said, a bit sharply, and then added more gently, "I wouldn't."
The potions master snorted. "There are many things I'd thought you wouldn't do, but you still did, like—" He trailed off again, and then stopped his pacing. He looked up fiercely. "Well?" he demanded angrily, crossing his arms like a confused, surly child. "First the Potter brat runs to me—after a spectacular fight with Granger and Weasley—and then proclaims that I am his father, spilling out the secrets of seventeen years ago in the process!" He suddenly began pacing again, his eyes fixed on the floor before him. "This is—this is absurd, Albus, this is—"
"I think," Dumbledore said gently, "that we should find Harry, and ask him."
Snape stopped and opened his mouth, as though to disagree, but he snapped his mouth shut a moment later and nodded shortly. He opened his mouth a second time, a sneer on his lips, but stopped again, and closed his mouth almost sulkily. "As you wish," he muttered, and stalked out of the room.
qpqpqp
The putrid air tore at his hair, and he had no breath to scream with as he hurtled down the length of darkness. His fingers scrambled for purchase, but the rounded walls were slippery with slime, and as he twisted, his body turned helplessly, and he was falling headfirst—
He slid over the ground on his back and finally slowed to a stop. He lay spread-eagled, breathing in hard and deep, mind still spinning.
What happened? he wondered dazedly. It took a long moment before the memories would come: talking to Myrtle, the footsteps, the ground tossing him, and then falling...
He sat up, shivering. All his clothes were wet, and a bunch of his hair had got stuck in his mouth. He spat it out and got to his feet.
Where am I? he thought, wrapping both arms around himself. It was very quiet. There was no other sound besides that of his breathing, which echoed enormously. He realized at once that he was in a very big room, or cave. The air tasted wet, as though he were in a cavern behind a silent waterfall. He shivered again: it was very cold.
How did I end up here from Myrtle's bathroom? he wondered, and with that, he realized where he was. His breathing stopped, and he waited for the deep, ominous hiss of the basilisk, or the whisk of air as the thunderous tail whipped by his head, or Tom Riddle's honey-smooth voice.
There was nothing.
He exhaled slowly, shuddering, and continued to breathe. There's nothing here, he reminded himself. No monster, no shade, no red-haired girl to save. He was alone.
He wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered. He tried to concentrate on the echoes of his breathing, but his mind flooded with thoughts and emotions and remembrance and it hurt. Existing was tiring and took so much strength, and he was weary and lonely and aching, and the only way he could keep on going was to block out everything, but it was like trying to stop the ocean's tide. He felt miserable.
He sat onto the cold, hard ground and huddled himself into a ball. An achy feeling had developed behind his eyes, and there was a tight knot in his throat. He wished—he wished to be touched. The thought bloomed inexorably, unstoppable, drenching his spirit with longing. He wished to be touched and comforted by a human who cared for him; he wished that there were someone who might whisper soothing nothings or hum a quiet melody, who would be here, next to him, caring, and he wished it was his father; but he was a freak, and he didn't deserve any of that, and even though he had tried his best, enduring each endless night and lightless day and throbbing, pain-drenched moment—even though he'd done everything he could. He wasn't good enough; and anyway, he'd probably bite off the hand of whoever would get close enough to touch him, no matter how much he yearned and wished for it. For the touch of those who loved him. A family.
He pillowed his face with his hands and squeezed his eyes tightly, wishing that there were someway to absolve the tightness in his throat and behind his eyes. The ground was hard and dug into his hip and ankle and shoulder, but he was tired, so tired, and wished it would all go away. It hurt so much, so much, why couldn't it just end? Please, let it end...
"Master. Master."
It was the insistent pain of the stony ground digging into his thigh and shoulder that made him realize that he was awake. Time seemed to be suspended, revolving slowly like the caressing sounds of the waves.
"Master."
The gentle hissing surrounded him like an army of ghosts, and he froze. A thousand jumbled memories tumbled through his mind— The basilisk, he thought, panicking, I killed it, it's dead, I—
"You have come at last, Master."
The storm of his thoughts abated abruptly. The voice. It was strangely familiar (it didn't remind him of the basilisk) and sounded somehow more relieved than hostile.
"I have been waiting for you to arrive."
Memory stirred, and he remembered.
"Is it—is it you?" he whispered. "You, the snake who helped me escape?" He could hear now another sound: the gentle scrape and slither of a snake moving over a wet flagstone floor.
"Yes." The voice was very close now, so close that Harry felt that he could touch it. "It's me."
"Why are you here? How did you get here?" Harry asked wonderingly, clambering to his feet. He lifted a hand hesitantly and felt a brush of smooth scales.
"Through ways you will learn in a time not far in the future. But first, take off your shoes."
"What?" Harry hissed after a pause.
"Take off your shoes, and your socks, or whatever those things are called."
"Why?"
"It would not be right otherwise," the snake answered with what sounded like a shrug of the shoulders, though a distant part of Harry's mind reminded him that snakes didn't have any shoulders.
He bent down and unlaced his shoes. Balance came haltingly in the darkness, so he sat down as he pulled off one shoe, and then another. The snake can't have been sent by Voldemort, Harry thought as he climbed back to his feet. It would have killed me already. But what if the snake had been sent to lure him away into the bowels of the Chamber for some terrible ritual? That's ridiculous, he thought, too wearied by his misery even to feel fear. Voldemort isn't foolish enough to sacrifice such a chance for another ritual. But as he took a step forward, he paused.
"You are sssafe here," the snake murmured, as though sensing his hesitation. "You are Hisss heir."
Harry shook his head and searched for the right words. "I—I don't understand." I'm just a miserable unwanted freak, he thought. Let me be.
There was a short pause, and Harry wondered if the snake heard his unspoken thoughts.
"Follow me."
The scraping sounds moved away, and Harry felt a twinge of panic.
"Wait! Where are you going?"
"To a place that has been waiting for you for a very long time," the snake replied, hissing from what sounded like far away.
Harry felt the echoes brushing him like so many butterflies, and he hesitated, unsure. His mind was too tired to think properly, but his feet seemed to make the decision for him as he took another step, and another. He stepped into a puddle and paused as the water lapped his feet.
"Don't go so fast," he hissed. The puddle ended, and another began. "I can't see."
"There's nothing here to see," came the hiss from somewhere far ahead. "Just listen, and follow."
Harry took a deep breath and, stretching his arms before him, slowly tottered to where he could hear soft, slithering sounds. The ground stayed flat and smooth, though not slippery. He remembered, distantly, there being rat skeletons the last time he had come, and the skin of the basilisk, but both were absent. He would have wondered, but he was preoccupied with listening to the elusive hissing and slithering of the snake ahead of him and placing one foot in front of the other.
"Where are we going?" Harry asked, moving more quickly. The echo of his voice seemed to rustle like the leaves of a forest in an autumn breeze.
"You'll find out once we arrive," the snake replied.
Wonderfully informative, Harry thought resignedly. The ground tilted downwards slightly. Harry wondered how far they had gone and how far they had left. Both felt infinite and eternal, like the darkness around him. Several times he felt like asking how much more there was, but he found it difficult to disturb the symphony of echoes.
"We are almost there," the snake hissed. The quality of the sound changed as well: the echoes didn't soar so much, and felt compacted, closer.
Harry followed the sound, and felt the ground dip down suddenly. He stumbled, nearly tripping, and stepped into an ankle-deep pool of icy water.
"Keep going."
"What is this?" Harry asked, heart pounding. His foot was growing numb.
"A place that has been waiting for you for the longest time," the snake answered. "Don't be afraid."
"How can I not be afraid?" Harry countered, shivering. The water stayed at the level of his ankles, and after wobbling a few steps forward, he continued more steadily. "How much further?" he demanded through his chattering teeth.
"Reach out your arm."
Harry reached out his right hand, and felt it brush something. He took a step forward and lightly traced his trembling fingers over the smooth, moist surface of a pedestal. On it was a... goblet. He dipped a finger over the rim, and felt something cool and sharp and clear and— He withdrew his finger. It was like nothing he'd ever felt.
"Drink."
"What is it?"
"The Water of Sight," the snake answered, and Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Apparently, it lets you see things, though what they are, I do not know."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked through the pounding of his heart. He swallowed the rising hope back ruthlessly.
"Drink it. The Water of Sight is one of His gifts to you, His heir."
"Who is this 'He'?" Harry demanded. The liquid in the goblet seemed to slosh around, though he couldn't be sure. He lifted his right foot (which was completely numb) and rubbed it against the side of his left leg, trying to force some life back into it. "How am I His heir? I am—I am nobody."
"He is our teacher, Salazar Slytherin, and you are His heir."
"But I'm not; I'm only—" He stopped, because he wasn't Harry Potter, and had never been. He was Severus Snape's unwanted son. Snape, he thought, and he swallowed. If he had been Harry Potter, being Slytherin's heir would have been entirely out of the question; but he was a Snape, in blood if not in name, and that changed everything.
"You are His heir, whether you believe it or want it or not," the snake hissed. "Drink."
Harry lifted the goblet, noting that it was quite heavy, though he somehow felt that it was because the goblet was stone and unwieldy, and not because the liquid had any weight; but halfway to his mouth, he stopped, doubt settling into his mind.
"But—" He began, but the moment he opened his mouth, the liquid seethed, and suddenly he felt it darting to his lips, and before he could close his mouth, it was in his throat and was pouring like a clear waterfall down his throat and into his stomach. It plunged deeper, to the pit of his abdomen, and from there he felt a heat that was like ice, burning coldly like nothing he'd felt before; and suddenly, he saw, and heard, and…
…was standing on the side of a hill. The mist had crept down from the hidden crests and rolled down into the silent valley. Far in the distance, he could hear the faint bleat of a lamb, sounding like the voice of a mourner as it echoed and died in the endless green hills...
Further down, near the placid stillness of the glassy lake, a crowd had gathered: milling about in colorful garbs were witches and wizards of all ages, their faces turned to the gray sky and gray lake, waiting and wondering. He was reminded from where he stood of a flock of birds. Ducks, maybe, or chickens. He smiled humorlessly.
The air changed. He looked up sharply, making out each space and breath in the white-glowing mist.
Y Cerddwyr Gwynt!" he heard the crowd cry anxiously. "Y Curyll Gwyn, yr Helfarch Adwythig!
It was a mere speck at first, but within moments, it had grown to the size of a man: a man with flowing white hair and flowing white robes, who strode through the air as easily and as swiftly as a hawk.
He felt the wind rising about him like his anger and hatred, and he was in the air, tasting the mist and feeling his hair stream behind him. Their eyes met: black against black, and the white-haired man was the first to turn away. You may run and you may fly, he thought fiercely, but you cannot hide from me, fy ngelyn marwol...
The image changed. The mist dissolved, and now he was in standing amongst the remains of a great castle. Stones had tumbled everywhere, and the only parts left standing were the hive-like dungeons and the skeleton that soared into the air and seemed to breathe as the sky shone through where walls had been. A moment later, with the force of a thunderclap, Harry realized that these weren't the remains of a castle, but a castle still being built...
He was lying down in the grass. A field of it, yellow and green, fading purple in the twilight, waving softly at the edges of his vision; but they were blurred: tears were in his eyes. He felt them running down the side of his face, pooling at his temple, and trickling into the soft dirt. He was in pain. A burning was at his wrists and the underside of his knees, like the throbbing of the pitiless sun, beating down and utterly relentless. It was too much to bear—the betrayal, the pain, the knowledge that he would die here, that his flesh would be stripped away by vultures, and that his bones would bleach and whiten under the shifting sky, and that his name and story and the great treachery wrought upon him would be untold, unavenged...
He felt a terrible jarring, and then the world exploded into white. But he knew that he had returned to the conscious world because his feet were numb from the cold water and he had fallen, sprawling, onto the stone floor. His elbow ached from having smashed it against the ground, and a bruise was going to form on his shin—
He was frozen by a sudden, furious hissing. It moved towards him, quick as the green light of the Killing Curse, writhing with malice and hate and fury—
He rolled out of the way instinctively, and in a flurry of movement, he was far away from where he had begun— What happened? he wondered, heart slamming into his chest as his mind reeled. What's happening? The world was drenched in light: bright, bright light, and all sounds became louder and louder, penetrating into his mind as though through a thick, misty veil. His own breathing rushed through his entire body; the splash of water rang with the clarity of a silver bell; the hissing sound crept to his bones and rattled and jarred them.
The hissing drew closer, sounding like a thousand snakes instead of just one, and Harry, his breath coming in frantic pants, somehow flickered out of the way. His mind whirled and awakened; he heard his pursuer veer towards him again, irrevocably, and he realized with a sickening flash that the thing chasing him was the snake that had helped him escape and led him to the Water of Sight.
"Snake!" he hissed desperately, flinging himself out of the way. "Snake!"
The hissing hurtled towards him—
"Snake!" he cried, rolling out of the way, but then he became aware of something slamming towards him— He darted aside and felt the heavy swish of a bludgeoning tail swipe his hair.
He lay in a heap, breathing hard and trying to control his terror. A small part of his mind wondered at how he was able to dart aside so quickly and so instinctively, but the thought was flooded by bewilderment at how the snake had become so huge, so intent upon killing him. Why? he pleaded in his mind; why—
He felt the snake approach, heard the hissing envelop him like a icy blanket. He rolled aside tiredly and felt the lashing tail slam through his robes—
For the last time, the hissing approached, hurtling towards him like the ground as he plummeted down in a dive. Instinct screamed at his aching muscles to dart aside, but he was exhausted in every way, and he only held up his hands before his face as the sound of hissing engulfed him— He felt the rush of air, the singing of the heavy tail as it cut off his last escape— Instinct welled up through him, uncontrollable, and he felt as though he were made of steel. He quivered, felt a strange chill simmer in his arms—
He flung out his hands. As the tail shattered the stone of the wall behind him and slammed into him, he pushed at the massive, scaly thing, and floated aside as though he were a wind-swept leaf...
He landed somehow, and then collapsed onto the ground. He waited for the snake to come and eat him, or squash him, or do whatever it planned to do, but strangely, the hissing sound was gone. A moment later, he realized that there was an utter silence besides his own heavy breathing. What happened? he thought, noting that his vision was still engulfed in brilliance. Why am I not... dead? eaten? Had the snake decided to leave? He searched for the right word, but it was too difficult, too tiring. His entire being was exhausted. He felt his limbs grow heavier, until they seemed to be made out of all the troubles in the world. His breathing slowed, and he felt his mind flitting away, hovering at the edge of consciousness. At last, he knew no more.
qpqpqp
"Remus will be here in a few days," Dumbledore said gravely. The bright light of the morning sunshine made his face look pale and deeply etched with lines of worry.
"Excellent," Snape snapped. He was pacing back and forth, his robes whipping around after every five strides.
Dumbledore sighed wearily. "Severus..."
"What?" the potions master demanded. His lips were contorted into a snarl, and a vein in his temple was twitching madly. He stared blankly at the headmaster for a short while before continuing his frenzied pacing.
"Severus, calm down," Dumbledore said at last.
"Calm down? CALM DOWN?" He whirled around and his fingers twitched, as though itching to seize something and smash it into a thousand glittering bits. Instead, his lips curled into a sneer. "The Dark Lord has been silent for months. Your precious savior is missing. He is also blind as a bat and can barely walk! You ask me to calm down?"
"Yes, Severus, I do." The headmaster opened a drawer and took out a small piece of candy. "You must remain calm." He stood up and moved around his desk towards the potions master. "Lemon drop?"
"Go to hell, Albus," Snape growled, glaring out at the brilliant morning.
"Has Caius done anything?" Dumbledore asked gently.
Snape flinched. "No," he snapped, and moved away from the headmaster. "Of course not. When did you say the werewolf was arriving?"
"Severus." The headmaster's voice hardened. "You must tell me if he did anything at all to you. Caius is one of the most powerful and most ingenious wizards I know, and we need him to counter Voldemort, but not at your expense." He sighed and his voice gentled. "Please, Severus."
"You don't understand, Albus," Snape whispered, eyes locked with the headmaster's. He backed out of the sunlight and into the shadows of a corner. "You don't understand him, Albus. You might have known him for the better half of a century, but unless you've let yourself be tied down, without a wand, defenseless, alone in a room with him, you haven't known him at all." He looked away. His hands were shaking.
"I will talk to him again," Dumbledore offered after a pause.
"No," Snape shouted. "No," he repeated, more quietly this time. "It's not important. Find your precious savior, Albus." He paused, as though thinking. "Did he not tell you anything? You talked to him."
"Harry rarely tells me anything. But he did mention that if he were to leave, Rosemary Paean would be able to give me the answers."
"Rosemary Paean?" Snape asked sharply. "Wasn't she one of the ancient Sidhe healers?"
"Yes, and it is believed that her mentor was the great Morgan le Fay herself. She lived and died long before Hogwarts was founded. Her grave lies on one of the Orkney Isles."
Snape frowned. "Is there anything of her in Hogwarts?"
"Nothing besides a statue outside the hospital wing."
"Did you check it?"
Dumbledore hesitated for the slightest of moments. "Yes."
Snape glanced up sharply, having heard the hesitation. "What did you find?"
The headmaster slowly reached a hand into one of his pockets and took out something that might have been a lumpy piece of parchment folded many times over. He handed it to the potions master. "I will leave you alone to read it."
"Albus—" Snape began, but the headmaster had already stepped out of the office into one of the adjoining rooms.
The potions master looked down at the thing in his hands. It was clearly a piece of soaked and dried parchment that had been folded over and over, opened, and folded again. There seemed to be something in the middle. With careful, precise hands, he unfolded the parchment once, twice; at three times, a tiny silver chain spilled out over the neat handwriting. His hands trembled as he smoothed the parchment and fingered the little pendant, hanging on the fine chain. He looked down and began to read.
Some minutes later, the door opened and Albus Dumbledore entered quietly. He was preceded by a quick rustle of movement as Snape stiffened and crushed the letter and pendant in his left hand and tried to smooth his face into an expressionless mask.
"Albus," he said, his voice barely more than a croak.
"Severus," the headmaster murmured gently as he sat opposite to the potions master. "Some tea?"
There was a pause. "Yes."
"I know you'd rather have some brandy now, but I don't keep any in my office," the headmaster said lightly as he tapped the teapot with his wand.
Snape's eyes flared madly for a terrifying moment, but the madness subsided, and he swallowed, the Adam's apple working over the pale skin of his throat. "Tea will be fine," he said, voice still raspy and hoarse. His eyes were fixed unseeingly on the rising steam. "Did you know, Albus?"
"I suspected," the headmaster answered as he poured the beverage into two teacups. "But I did not know until I read Lily's letter."
The potions master flinched at the last two words. He reached out a quivering hand for the cup and wrapped his trembling fingers around it. With movements as slow and deliberate as an old, old man's, he lifted the cup to his mouth, sipped the scalding beverage, and set it down. He continued to stare at the steam rising from the tea.
"Do not take it so hard, Severus," Albus said gently.
"He's my son," the potions master whispered hoarsely, still staring straight ahead. "HE'S MY BLOODY SON!" He snatched up the teacup and threw it with all his strength. It hurtled into a delicate arrangement of silver contraptions, and the resulting shards of pottery and jumbled metal tumbled to the ground. Snape squeezed his hand into a fist, opened it, and curled it again. "He's. My. Son."
"He is," Albus agreed gently. "He is, Severus. More than ever, now."
"Yes," he hissed and looked straight into the eyes of the headmaster, "that brat was my brat. My son, all this time. He tried to tell me last night, too, but I—" Words died, and his throat worked as he swallowed. He looked away, in pain or shame or anger. "I told him no. I told him no, Albus. And all this time, I'd thought that after—after what he did to me, I would never have a child."
"Severus..."
"I told him no, Albus. I told him no." His voice was barely more than the rustle of the wind through dead autumn leaves. His pale hands shook. "I told him no. I told him no."
"Severus, my dear boy," Dumbledore murmured, reaching out a gnarled hand—
"But it's better this way, perhaps," Snape whispered. His eyes were once again staring unseeingly ahead, and his mouth had hardened. "Better this way."
qpqpqp
Why's everything so bright? Harry thought and squinted. Then he realized that his eyes were still closed.
He sat up abruptly, and the memory of what had happened—of the fearsome hissing, his desperation as he scrambled away from his attacker, the rumbling as the heavy tail slammed onto the ground—came rushing back to him.
"So you have awakened."
Harry turned around in a movement so swift and sudden and instinctive, like the striking of a snake, that he surprised even himself. The voice echoed slightly, and Harry turned his face towards it, though all he could see was light: light flowing in every direction, as encompassing and deep as the darkness had been.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse, as though from screaming. "What happened? Where am I?"
"So many questions, bachgen, and what am I would be a better way of putting it," the voice said. "I'm sure that, by now, you're aware of the effects of the Water of Sight."
Harry nodded warily. He somehow knew with the instinctive knowledge that told him how far his nose was from his hand where the voice came from: how far he was from the slight whisper of breathing, from where the dying echoes came. It was as though a new sense—something beyond hearing—had awakened from deep inside him, making him achingly aware of things he hadn't been aware of even when he still had the ability to see.
"As for where we are, we're in f'ystafell dirgel, the Chamber of Secrets," the voice continued. "What happened was that... certain things that had been sleeping within you were forced awake."
His mind was still whirling as he tried to piece together everything that had happened. "Forced awake?"
"I will explain, bachgen. And as for what I am, or who I am—I am one who has been waiting to see you for a very long time."
Waiting to see you for a very long time... the phrase brought a brief flash of déjà vu as well as a cold trickle of fear, and Harry wondered if the person the voice belonged to knew why the snake had attacked him so ruthlessly. "That phrase is familiar to me," Harry said, when Slytherin didn't continue. "You're the person who I'm supposedly the heir of, aren't you? You're—" He was about to say Salazar Slytherin, but he hesitated. Slytherin was dead, and he still couldn't quite grasp the fantastical assertion that he was the heir of Slytherin.
"Perhaps the best way of putting it would be that I am the memory of Salazar Slytherin. And you, fy machgen, are my heir."
"Your heir?" Harry licked his lips. This was absolutely absurd and surreal. He'd somehow gotten into the Chamber of Secrets, met the same snake that had aided him long ago, and then drunk this strange—thing called the Water of Sight, and experienced inexplicable visions, and then nearly got killed by the same snake (except that the snake had suddenly become enormous), and now the shade of Salazar Slytherin was telling him that he was the heir to Slytherin. Somehow, it was this last that seemed the most impossible. "Then who is Tom Riddle?"
"A descendent of mine," the voice replied, and Harry could hear dark undercurrents in it. "But he is not my heir. He came from, perhaps, a nobler line than you, but he was not chosen. You were."
"But—"
"Don't try to wriggle out of it. It's the truth."
"But that's—but I..." He wrapped his arms around himself. There was no sound except for his breathing and that of Salazar Slytherin. "I am not suitable as an heir," he said haltingly.
"What makes you think so?"
"I know myself well enough," Harry snapped. He tightened his arms around himself and shivered, waiting to be struck. "I am..." I am a freak, he thought. Nameless, unwanted. A freak. He waited for the blow, and even wished for it. To feel a touch, as hate-filled and careless it might be, and covet it in some shadowy, anguished part of his soul.
"And the prophecy?"
The prophecy. "You don't understand!" he hissed, snarled, pleaded. "The prophecy only said that I could defeat Voldemort, that I might have had the potential. But it never said that I would, that I'd have the strength to do so." Because he didn't: he felt beaten, broken, damaged beyond repair. An empty vessel, alone and miserable. He might've had the strength, a mere few months ago, but no longer. He knew it, too: knew deep inside that he couldn't do it, no matter what the rest of the world believed, no matter that the world's fate rested on his tired shoulders. And he hated—loathed—himself all the more for it. He didn't deserve any love or affection, no matter how much he longed for it. And there was nobody who would give it to him. Nobody. I wish that snake had squashed me when it could have, Harry thought morosely.
"You have been more hurt that I had seen," Salazar Slytherin said slowly. Harry was only vaguely listening to founder's voice. "Perhaps I did not believe it when I saw it. Perhaps I did not want to believe it." The voice seemed to drift further and further away. "We have very little time, but you cannot receive what I am to give you in this condition. Sleep is what you need. A little bit of sleep. It won't solve any problems, but it will help you. Sleep, bachgen, sleep... cysgu..."
qpqpqp
The sky was white-hot iron and the sun was lost in its blank expanse. The heat beat down pitilessly, but he hardly felt it. Already the shadows of vultures were reeling about, gliding over the burnt remains of the cottage that had been his home all his life; the ashen well, the bare-branched tree, and his father nailed to the smoky bark.
His mother's sobs throbbed in his mind and woke a headache sharper than the blistering heat. He took a step forward. He could make out each rivulet of blood, flowing from the gaping hole in his father's bare chest, soaking the unrecognizable garment and trickling down into the dust. The blood was black.
His mother's sobs continued, anguished and gasping like mad. He bent down and covered his ears and examined the thing in the dust. It was black and spotted with dirt, and around it was splattered a large black puddle, like the egg-yolk when a chicken's egg had fallen and smashed into the ground. He reached out a hand, and then his mother's sobs stopped.
"Don't touch it!" she screamed, black eyes devoid of any light, and he jumped back instantly. He hid his left hand—the hand he had reached for the black thing—into the sleeve of his frayed robes, as though afraid that it would fall off, and it seemed to him that the texture and feel of his father's heart stayed on his hand, like the resin of a sticky pine-cone: cold and clammy, sticky and hot, dead and grainy, alive and restless, flowing through him...
The first thing he realized when he awoke was that everything was still that blazing, brilliant white.
"I took the liberty of arranging a semblance of a bed for you," the voice—Salazar Slytherin—remarked. "I believe this particular mattress came from the third-year Hufflepuff dormitories."
Harry realized a moment later that he indeed was lying on something soft. "Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome. Are you hungry?"
"A bit," Harry admitted.
"We have éclairs. Not the healthiest food around, but delicious and filling all the same. The house-elves' ware has only improved since I was around."
Harry heard a slight clink from somewhere in front of him, and he reached out a hand and found the platter in the blink of an eye. It was the same instinct that guided him that had told him how far away the faintest sounds were, and in what direction, and of what movement. It's a good thing this place doesn't have too many sounds, he reflected, savoring the taste of food.
"How was your nap?"
"Fine, thank you," Harry replied, reaching for a second éclair.
"I trust the mattresses haven't fallen in quality either?"
"I slept very well." He hesitated.
Slytherin, when he spoke, sounded knowing. "But you dreamed."
Harry nodded slowly. "It was a—very vivid dream." He was used to dreams during his long convalescence, but they had been delirious nightmares, nothing like the sharp, wild clarity of what haunted his mind mere minutes ago.
"Eat first. I will answer any questions you have afterwards."
Harry ate. He got sick of éclairs somewhere after his fifth one; he wondered how many éclairs Slytherin had supplied. He wondered if he should be feeling anything besides a bewildered feeling of disbelief and uncertainty. He pushed away the plate and crossed his legs, face tilted towards where the voice came from.
"Why is everything so bright?" Harry asked, after a long pause.
"It's a side effect of the Water of Sight, I think," Slytherin answered immediately. "The whiteness was always there before and after I had any... visions. For you, I think, it will always be there."
Harry nodded. He heard a slight scrape, and after wondering for an endless moment what it was, he realized—or found somewhere in his memory—that it was the sound of a cup being lifted. Then he heard the sound of pouring liquid, and then the clink of the cup returning to the ground. "Water," Slytherin said, and Harry reached out and took the cup as though he could see exactly where it was.
"That's another thing of the Sight," Slytherin said. "For me, my sight grew keener, and I could see as keenly as an eagle. For you... every other sense, perhaps. Or maybe it awakened a new one. A sixth sense."
Harry nodded a second time. When he spoke again, the words came hesitantly, uncertainly: "You said—and you made me drink this Water of yours—that I am your Heir... but I don't understand. I can't—I don't see how—it's—"
"Ask me any question but that," Slytherin said sternly, and Harry subsided, suppressing a shiver. With his heightened awareness, he waited for the rush of air that would precede the harsh blow he was sure was to come. "It is for you to find out for yourself," Slytherin said at last, gently. "No matter what I say, you wouldn't believe me. Ask me anything else."
Harry nodded. It was some time before he found his voice. "The... what happened after I drank the Water of Sight. The snake attacking me... What was that? Did you..."
"It attacked you at my command. Do not worry for the snake, bachgen; you will be meeting him soon. I believe that you will soon experience a very strange thing: a snake's form of remorse and apology. But it was I who commanded it to attack you, and my purpose was to awaken things in you that had long lain sleeping." Slytherin's voice was still gentle, still soothing. "Yr ysgafnder o fod—the lightness of being—and y lleidr distaw—the silent thief."
Harry frowned. What?
"Did you not find that you could move much faster than before? That you could seemingly fly from place to place with movements so swift you made them without thinking? That, no matter how swiftly the snake struck, and how... well, blind, you were, you were never hit?"
"How... how did you know?" Harry breathed.
"That, bachgen, is yr ysgafnder o bod—the lightness of being. It has been sleeping within you all this time, but it awoke sometimes, such as when you were already in the air, soaring about in that broomstick game they have nowadays."
"Quidditch," Harry supplied.
"Yes, that. It would only awaken completely, though, when two factors came into being: the Water of Sight and mortal peril. And I forced both upon you to draw it out."
Harry nodded. "I see," he said, because Slytherin had paused for a long time. He realized a moment later the paradox of what he'd just said.
"Now, y lleidr distaw—the silent thief, is something else entirely," Slytherin continued. "It is the birthright of the line of Slytherin. Every wizard or witch born of my line had the potential, but only you can fulfill it, for only you, of all my descendents, have drunk the Water of Sight."
Harry opened his mouth, and Slytherin cut in quickly, "Don't ask why you're the heir. Anything but that."
"All right," Harry said, after shutting his mouth and opening it again. "But what is the Water of Sight exactly? And what exactly is this birthright, this silent thief?"
"Even I do not know exactly what the Water of Sight is, but your birthright..." Slytherin's voice gained a sing-song quality: "Silver needle in the night, Glimmering a silent light: Without a thread, It floats ahead, Stealing souls along it flight."
What? Silver needle? Harry thought bewilderedly. Stealing souls?
"That was how you fended off the snake. In your desperation, and with the Water of Sight, you awoke your birthright; you—" The founder broke off. "It's much easier if you actually do it. Again."
"Do what?"
"Find your birthright. Like any form of magic, it obeys your will or your emotions. Emotions are best, for now. Your birthright responds best, I think, to fear. It might help if you tried remembering how it was like to be attacked by that snake."
"All right," Harry said reluctantly, still thoroughly confused. He summoned memories of the snake. He wasn't feeling especially frightened. Perhaps it would be better if I thought of dementors, he thought, and tried remembering the clamminess, the coldness, the despair... As though he had fallen over the edge of an abyss, his mind spiraled to thoughts of his father, Snape, and his friends, and his cold fate—
"Bachgen!"
Harry jerked, legs clamping together tightly, hands fluttering to his face instinctively, and as he did so, he felt—felt as though something was born from the tips of his fingers and vanished into the air.
Moments passed, and Harry settled his shaking hands in his lap. His pounding heart slowed.
"Well, that perhaps was not quite as expected, but you managed it, bachgen," Slytherin said gently. "Do you remember how it felt: something blooming at your fingers and disappearing like water dripping?"
Harry nodded wordlessly.
"Concentrate on that. Try to pull out that blooming without it vanishing."
Harry nodded again, and then remembered: how little sparks seemed to creep from his wrist, up his palms and fingers, to the very tips, where there was a faint tingling, faint at first, and then with a sudden surge—
"Hold it!"
He stopped, concentration shattered, and felt something lighter than a feather drop into the palm of his right hand. He picked it up with his left hand. It was a needle, fine as a strand of spider-silk, almost as light as the air. Silver needle, he thought.
"That is the silent thief, y lleidr distaw. Be careful, bachgen. It is no ordinary needle. It is made of the ice of venom."
"Venom?" Harry breathed, and held the needle all the more gingerly.
"Yes. The poison from the St. Caducus moss, while potent, does not manifest itself until two years later, and while it is difficult to cure, it is not impossible. Basilisk venom can cause death in a powerful witch or wizard within a minute, but while it is quick, it is not especially potent, and can easily be reversed by one who knows how. The breath of a Nundu, though even quicker than basilisk venom, is rather impotent, and the song of a heartless Sidhe, though irreversible, manifests itself over a period of decades.
"This poison, however, that you hold in your fingers, is different from all the rest. The lesser venoms attack the body directly, or magic that is intermingled with the body; the poison of these silver needles freezes the soul. It does not cause death, bachgen. It is like the dementor's kiss."
"I don't want it," said Harry, feeling sick. He wanted to throw the needle away. He wanted to be rid of this y lleidr distaw, this birthright; he didn't want to turn into a dementor. The thought chilled him: he rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together, as though expecting the skin to be wrinkled and dead.
"You have it, bachgen," Slytherin said, voice firm and gentle at the same time. "You cannot escape it. It is like saying that you are not a wizard, or that the prophecy does not point to you."
The prophecy, Harry thought, and felt a rush of despair. His fingers parted, and he felt the needle dropped. He heard no sound of it touching the ground.
"Their tendency to melt and vanish isn't much of a problem, really, seeing how you have a practically unlimited supply," Slytherin continued. "The beauty of this venom, though, is that while it naturally takes the form of silver needles, it needs no form at all. Even if you are merely touching someone, you can imbue that person with poison. How soon they lose their soul depends on how much venom you use."
"I don't want it," Harry repeated. He clenched his hands into fists and felt more freakish than ever. "I don't want to kill anyone, or make their soul freeze." I don't want to be a murderer, he thought. I don't want to be a monster. He rubbed his hands over his robes, as though to rid himself of the poison.
"It is your fate, bachgen," Slytherin murmured gently. "Now, ask me another question."
How can I be your heir, even if I am your descendant? Harry thought, but let the question slip. He tossed about for what he might ask. There were so many questions he might ask, but many of them were so murky that he couldn't even put them in words. Others were too painful or terrible to even think about. "My... dreams, and visions. What do they mean?"
"Ah." He heard a thoughtful sigh. "Your visions. What did you see?"
"A lot of things," Harry answered after a pause as he tried to put his remembrances into words. The flashes of color and movements were dazzling, even in memory. "When I was sleeping, I dreamt that I was—someone else, and that there was a man. Nailed to a tree."
"And was there a gaping wound in his chest? And the blood was black?"
"Yes," Harry said, lips dry.
"You were in one of my memories. I suppose the Water of Sight saw it necessary that you lived it, and that I explain it to you." Slytherin was silent for a moment. "That man who was nailed to the tree was my father."
"Your father?" Harry breathed, horror-struck.
"Yes. I was... eight at the time, I think. The woman you must've seen was my mother. She died four years later. The winter had been very harsh."
"I am sorry," Harry said, because he did not know what else to say. So he, too, is an orphan, Harry thought, and felt a tug of compassion. "Who killed your father?"
"A man who was called y Gwyn Curyll, the White Hawk. Had he been more popular among the purebloods, the world today might know him as what he really was: a master mage who was to Merlin what the strongest wizard or witch was to a Muggle."
"Wow," Harry breathed wonderingly. "He was—that powerful?"
"Yes, he was," Slytherin murmured, the respect and awe coming clear in the founder's voice.
"But—why did he kill your father?"
"My father was not the nicest of men," Slytherin said slowly. Painfully. "I did not know that until much later, however. My mother never told me why he killed my father, and by the time she died, I'd forgotten that there needed to be a reason. I'd forgotten that y Gwyn Curyll was human, too."
Human, Harry thought. The word kneaded his mind and tugged at it, like a little whirling breeze pulling insistently at leaves. Is Voldemort human, too?
"Y Curyll Gwyn became my mortal enemy when I was nine. But by the time I had reached manhood, he disappeared, mysteriously. Some said he died, and some said he was biding his time before embarking on another spree of murder." He paused. "I think it'll interest you to know that it was during that time that I founded Hogwarts."
"Then you must've been... quite young," Harry said, hesitantly. "But the statue in the Chamber..."
"Ah, that," Slytherin replied, sounding faintly, very faintly embarrassed. "That wasn't really me. It was what I—er—hoped to become, when I reached that age. That was actually my grand-master."
"Grand-master?"
"Yes. The one who taught my father and mother their magic." He paused, as though uncertain for a moment whether or not to say something. "Well anyway, I think you know what happened after that: I had a big quarrel with Godric and Rowena and Helga about Muggle-borns, and then I left."
"But why did you hate Muggle-borns so much?" He felt a shiver of cold: what if he wants me to start murdering Muggle-borns left and right? He suppressed the thought. I won't let him, he thought with shaky determination. I won't be his heir. I won't.
"I hated them because I was taught to hate them," Slytherin said gently. "I was... wrong to hate them."
"Oh," Harry said, trying to digest this thought. He felt relief trickle through him. "That's... good."
"Yes, indeed," said Slytherin, sounding faintly amused. "After my mother died, I was taken in by a very old and very noble family, because of my father's connections to them. The noble and most ancient house of Black."
"Black?"
"Yes. I see you know about them. As you can imagine, I was bred to hate all Muggle-borns and those whose blood was less than pure. I believed what I was taught. I was young, then, and perhaps I'm just offering excuses for what I cannot undo, but losing the only one who cared for you and then losing your soul to vengeance leaves you quite crippled.
"They let me see only how pathetic and cruel and small-minded the Muggles were. They surrounded me, gave me everything I wanted and needed, made me feel important and needed. My life revolved around two things: the Blacks, and hunting the White Hawk. I even married and had children with one of the Black heiresses."
"You did?" Harry asked disbelievingly. "Am I—was that heiress my—"
"No, no," Slytherin said quickly. "Her children became shunted aside after I served my purpose."
"Served your purpose?"
"Yes," Slytherin said grimly. "When I was thirty or forty, a decade after I had left Hogwarts, half a decade after I had married into the Black family, the White Hawk returned. I, of course, joined the hunt for him. In the end, we managed to corner him somewhere in Wales, and I fought him." The founder paused, and Harry waited. "He could easily have defeated me, even though I was the strongest of wizards, a mage among men. But he did not defeat me. I defeated him. And did to him what he did to my father."
"You killed him," Harry breathed, chilled. "And..."
"Took his heart, yes." Slytherin's voice was hard, and grim, and Harry could understand how Slytherin may have done such a deed. "I found out too late that he was my uncle."
Harry could scarcely believe what he heard. "Your uncle?" For the briefest of moments, a flash of memory cloaked his mind, and he remembered the pain of his lacerated back, the hatred and malice as a hand smeared blood and phlegm over his face; but the moment passed, and what he saw instead was a man, white-haired and white-robed, lying spread-eagled on a grassy knoll...
"Yes, my mother's elder brother. He and my mother and my father were all disciples of my grand-master. My grand-master died before he could teach them everything he knew, but my uncle was the strongest of the three, and he was the oldest. He was called the White Hawk because of his hair, which was white as mist, and his robes..."
Images came: Harry remembered, with dawning realization, the meaning of the first vision that had gripped him when he had drunk the Water of Sight—that memory of silvery mist and sloping green hills, of a crowd that gathered before a still lake, of a white-haired man that walked in the air and met his eyes squarely...
"I saw him," Harry muttered, "in my visions."
"You did?" said Slytherin. "That is good, I think. In many ways—" He stopped. "You and I are like him in many ways. But I was blind to it, and did not realize sooner that he was my uncle, my mother's brother, and that there was a reason why he was a murderer.
"I will not justify murder. I will not justify anything of the sort—nothing in the world can be justified, because it's never that simple. My uncle killed the Muggle-killers: pure-blooded wizards and witches who hunted Muggles the way Muggles would hunt game. And my father was more than a Muggle-killer. Had he not married my mother, he would have died much sooner. But my mother loved him even when he was dead. She would always cry in her sleep and stare blank-eyed at his grave in the short time before she joined him."
A Muggle-killer, Harry thought. Why did she love him? he wondered, not daring to ask it. James Potter was a real prat, and yet my mother loved him, and married him, he thought. As he pondered, he felt as though he were probing at the edge of a great, nebulous mystery, one that held the secrets of death and birth and the heat of life.
"After I killed the White Hawk, I became useless for the Black family," Slytherin continued, his voice becoming more and more somber. "I became a threat as I began to search for clues. You remember how I had touched my father's heart when he had died? From that I received what Water of Sight he had obtained, and then from my uncle, I gained more. I saw, and the Black family became scared as I uncovered one secret after another.
"So one night, they drugged me and severed the tendons of my arms and legs. I could not move my hands or feet: I could not walk, I could not defend myself, I could barely move. I was never closer to death."
The blades of grass from his first string of visions appeared in his mind, waving and changing colors as the sun sank behind the horizon, and he asked, "Why didn't they kill you?"
"My uncle forbade it. Before he died, he cast a spell on me, and that protected me from death. He must've seen what was to come, and saw his fate, and let it happen, just as I later saw what it was that he had done, and what part he had played in my own fate."
Harry nodded slowly. He wondered how it would feel to see your own death and let it come, unflinching.
"I would have died where I lay, but I was rescued." Here, Harry could distinctly hear the smile in the voice. "A Muggle rescued me. Her name was Enid, and she, bachgen, was your grandmother many greats back."
"Oh," Harry said, rather startled at the statement. "What was she like?"
"She had a temper that could burn all the hills to crisp, and nose not much smaller than mine. Or yours."
"Mine?" said Harry, feeling his nose.
"Yes, yours, bachgen. It is inescapable, this nose thing. It was a very pressing matter when I was with the Blacks, and there were even spells I used to shrink it. Of course, they had to be renewed once every month, and you had to be careful or your nose might fall off."
"I think I'll keep my nose the way it is," Harry said hesitantly, not sure if Slytherin was serious or not.
"Mm," the founder said. "Well, it certainly wasn't my nose that caught her. And I was quite useless at everything except for a bit of wandless magic and spitting."
"Spitting?"
"Yes, spitting," said Slytherin. "I was a champion spitter of berry pits. I could nail your eye standing seventy paces away. And it was rather hard to use the y distaw lleidyr when I couldn't move my hands or feet. So I spat out little pellets. Not nearly as convenient, but I got used to it."
"Oh," said Harry, wondering how many souls Slytherin had frozen. "So... since this y distaw lleidyr is something every one of your descendants has, wouldn't Voldemort have it as well if he ever drank the Water of Sight?"
"Ah, yes, but that is a very big if, bachgen. He does not even know that it exists. He may suspect, but like your prophecy, he does not know."
The prophecy. The prophecy. Thinking of it was going to drive him mad soon. "How do you know about the prophecy?"
"The Water of Sight showed me it. The Water, I understand, is usually not so willing to yield information as it did for me: it let me see your fate, my part in it, and the part Voldemort would play."
The words wove through Harry's mind uncomprehendingly for a moment. "You mean"—he whispered—"you know? How it will end?"
"I do," Slytherin said softly, "but you do not. It isn't for you to know, bachgen; not yet. It is not for the pilgrim to see the shrine and altar at the start of his journey. But have faith, and be strong. And I have more gifts for you."
I don't want any gifts, Harry thought. I just don't want this prophecy. I don't want this fate. But he said nothing.
"I awoke in you the gifts of lightness and venom. I gave you the Water of Sight, and now I will gift you with knowledge. Follow me."
Harry got to his feet and hesitated, wondering which way to go: the echoes died, and Slytherin had fallen silent. Which way is he going? Harry thought, and then, as he strained his ears, he heard—or felt, or became aware of—something entirely different: like the faint tingling he felt whenever he held his hand close to his forehead, or like the rushing sound of distant waters as waves washed a rocky shore, like smelling something that wasn't there but might have been some time ago, or would be there soon—
He realized that it was magic, and that it was slowly drawing farther and farther away. He followed it distractedly, still in awe of being able to feel it: it was like hearing a beautiful new melody that had never been heard before, or discovering a new color. Except I can't see, he thought.
And so he continued his way, treading softly as he followed the elusive trail of magic.
qpqpqp
Hermione pushed back her bushy hair irritably. At times like this, she really wished it were straight, or at least very short, but straightening her hair took far too long, and she actually liked her hair long.
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was impossible to concentrate on Arithmancy, no matter how fascinating the relation between the path of a wand and the area a spell would cover was. Just last night, after yelling at Ron (her heart clenched), she'd tossed and turned endlessly, still thinking of Harry and his—most unexpected revelation, and bizarre, puzzling behavior, and Ron's terrible reaction, and Harry's blindness, and Ron's anger, and Harry's strange aura of fear, and Ron's unforgiving—hate, and Harry, and Ron, and Harry, and Ron, and it had been impossible to fall asleep, and she'd awakened bleary-eyed and very grumpy. The talk of breakfast that morning had been Harry Potter this and Harry Potter that, how he must've been totally insane to have attacked his best friend like that, the newspapers must've been correct. Even now, Hermione could feel her blood boiling; but then, the bomb had been dropped: Harry Potter was missing. The gossip exploded, and everyone was swearing up and down that Harry Potter had been expelled.
And Ron hadn't even said one word the entire morning.
Hermione turned her attention back to book before her. She stared blankly at the text a moment before trying to focus, but the words zoned in and out of her mind without meaning. She sighed in frustration and leaned back, glancing up instead at the darkened ceiling of the library.
Everything's so changed, she thought. Harry was missing, and Ron was being close-mouthed and stubborn, and all the teachers were as closed-mouthed as ever. And she didn't even have Ron to talk to, or take silent comfort in.
She shut her book decisively. It was no use working herself up. She had to follow her mother's advice, and relax. That was impossible, she knew, but perhaps she could knit some more things for the house-elves to work off some of her agitation.
She was about to leave when she saw Neville coming towards her. He was walking directly towards a bookshelf, and Hermione was surprised by how confident he seemed. Then he looked up and caught her gaze, and smiled. Hermione thought she caught a fleeting expression of relief in the smile.
"Hey, Hermione," he greeted.
"Hi, Neville," Hermione said, smiling weakly. "In the library already?"
"Yeah," said Neville ruefully. "Snape's assigned us with that horrible essay on the properties of that counter-Veritaserum potion. There's plenty of information on Veritaserum, but nothing on its counter-potion."
"Really? I found a really useful book—here, look." She lifted her Arithmancy book from off the pile in front of her and scanned the titles. "It's somewhere here, I'm sure of it..."
"Where's Ron gone off to?"
Hermione froze, and then continued to look at the titles. "He's... not very happy right now. Here's the book. Help me move these books off."
"Is it about Harry?" Neville asked quietly.
Hermione looked up sharply, but Neville kept his gaze on the stack of books. "Well—yes. It's about Harry." She watched Neville remove the last two books and finally reach the potions book.
"Harry seemed quite different, didn't he?" Neville remarked. He looked up and met Hermione's eyes, and then dropped his gaze, blushing. "I mean, I'm not even talking about him being—well, blind, and what he—um—well—did to you..." His voice had gotten really small. "But when I first saw him, I..."
"Didn't even recognize him?" Hermione suggested coolly.
"Don't get mad, Hermione," Neville said quickly, looking flustered. "But—" He chewed his lower lip and thumbed at a book in front of him. "Don't you think he looked—just a bit—like Snape?"
Hermione felt her stomach turn to ice. "A little bit, maybe," she replied vaguely.
Neville glanced up sharply, and this time, Hermione dropped her gaze. "I s'pose Ron's really upset about Harry disappearing like that," Neville commented.
"Oh he's"—Hermione reached for a book and randomly flipped through it—"quite fine, actually. We—Harry, Ron, and I—got into something of a fight, after... you know." She looked up to gauge Neville's reaction, and was surprised to see him gazing off into space. "Neville?"
He started, and then smiled weakly at her. "Sorry, I was just—remembering, you know." Hermione frowned. "It's just..." He took a deep breath. "You know how, at the end of last year, we went into the Ministry of Magic and everything?"
Hermione nodded, feeling puzzled what Neville was getting at and extremely curious as well. She'd never gotten the details of what had happened in the Department of Mysteries after she had passed out. All she knew was that Sirius had somehow died, and another big mystery had been introduced or revealed, and that was all.
"Well, after Harry's godfather—Sirius Black—went through the veil of death—"
"Veil of death?" Hermione gasped. Several heads turned.
"Yeah, I reckon that's what it's called," Neville said in hushed tones. Hermione leaned closer. "Well, Harry sort of went... berserk after that happened. And then he went after Bellatrix Lestrange." Hermione couldn't help glance up at Neville's face at the mention of Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville's eyes were still focused on the book in front of him, and he only paused for the slightest moment. "I went after him, and—I don't think he noticed me, following him—but I saw..." He glanced around and leaned closer; his eyes focused on Hermione's face. "I saw him cast the Cruciatus on Lestrange."
"What?"
"Shh!"
They looked around furtively. Madam Pince was eyeing them suspiciously, but nobody else seemed to notice their presence.
"What did you say he did?" Hermione hissed.
"He cast the Cruciatus on Lestrange," Neville said hurriedly, "but it was only for a minute—less than that, even, maybe two seconds."
"Wait, you said a minute, and then—"
"It was two seconds. It didn't really work. And then Lestrange kept talking, and then I got hit by something from behind by a Stupefy—I think one of the Death-Eaters got loose and sneaked up on me—and then I ended up in the hospital wing."
Neville sat back into his chair and kept his gaze on Hermione's face for a few moments longer before looking back down at his book.
Hermione stared. And then she began slipping her books into her bag. "Excuse me," she murmured as she left the table, and nearly forgot to check out her books on her way out.
Harry, cast the Cruciatus? she thought. She felt as though she had been knocked over the head by a bludger: thoughts refused to form; her mind remained blank. Harry. She closed her eyes and shook her head sharply. He was obviously distraught, and Neville said that it didn't really work. She continued her way blindly down the corridors, remembering the frightening surge of magic as he lashed out at her just yesterday. He was distraught. He couldn't really cast it.
She didn't notice the blue eyes watching her leave.
qpqpqp
So Dumbledore does not know where the Potter brat isss.
Do you think he may be in the Chamber, Massster?
Perhaps. But... if Dumbledore placed the blocking spell on the entrance, he must know that Potter entered. He would use a ruse to cover Potter's disappearance, but he would not use a ruse of this kind: he would create some explanation, to please the press, if anything.
What do we do now, Massster?
We wait. And we will find the secrets of this castle, and the secrets that I am heir to. It is good, though, that Potter's friends are turning against him in his absence.
Yessss.
The redhead boy is lossst: his thought-ssscars have reached his soul. And the Longbottom boy no longer has faith in the Potter brat. The bushy-haired mudblood will turn, soon, and when Potter emerges from wherever he is hiding, he will find himself alone. Alone.