I truly hate being afraid.
The cold, stone hallways of the dungeon echo with my footsteps as I return to my common room, and the swish of my heavy, tailored robes grates on me. I feel numb, as I have felt numb for the past four days, as though there is an icy stone in the pit of my stomach weighing me down. I've attended my classes in a daze, done my homework without seeing it, and sat with my friends without receiving comfort. I find myself making mistakes I've never made before. The other day, I nearly killed my Venomous Tenticullis by pruning it too much, and it shook me – even half-asleep, I never mess up with my plants. The only thing that makes me feel mildly better is swordplay. For four days, I've fenced invisible opponents until I nearly collapsed of exhaustion, and even then, I barely sleep. No amount of power in my sword arm can defeat the danger that stands before me. No amount of strength can conquer this fear.
Nothing can really help me forget that the person I love lies in the hospital wing, in a coma, thanks to James Potter.
Oh, James didn't mean to do it. I know that. He and I have been enemies since our first year at Hogwarts. Rather funny, actually. He should have wasted all his enmity for Gael Malfoy. But then, Gael Malfoy should have been the prince of Slytherin.
He isn't. I am.
James Potter II is, of course, prince of Gryffindor. His father's famous – good old Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, who defeated Voldemort. What? Yes, I'll say the name. My father told me no Isabourne has cause to fear the Dark Lord. My family has never followed him. We scorn him, and his ilk, and follow only ourselves, and my father absolutely refused to allow any respect for Voldemort's name, deeds, or methods to survive in our household. I admire my father. He always was one to go against the grain.
Anyway, James Potter. Thinking of him doesn't really make me feel any better. As I said, I know he didn't mean to do it, though it is definitely his fault. He inherited his wand from his father on his sixteenth birthday, and that wand has a great and terrible history. I'm quite a history scholar, so I would know. To let it anywhere near a Seer, let alone to touch him with it….
In all honesty, I'd like to kill James, but that won't help the situation at hand. Nothing will.
Sometimes my hatred turns in upon itself and becomes guilt. If only I'd stopped him, it whispers to me. If only I had been faster. It lies, of course, as guilt always lies. I didn't have the time to stop what happened. Even now as I replay it in my mind, I can see no way in which I could have prevented this tragedy.
I resent Potter for other reasons. Of course, guilt has been eating him alive since it happened, and he's spent quite a lot of time at Cillian's bedside, annoying Madam Pompfrey. He feels responsible for Cillian's illness, as well he should – he did, after all, cause it. But I refuse to go near Cillian's side when James Potter is there. Cill would have understood – he disliked Potter strongly. He wouldn't want Potter to be sitting with him now. I won't say their enmity was strong, because Cill rarely shows feelings of any sort, but for two members of the same house and year, Cill and Potter have always been estranged in a way that verges on hostility.
Wait, what am I saying? Cillian is hostile to everyone. It's part of the reason I love him.
When Cillian first fell, twitching and moaning, I went to him, tore off his glove, clasped his hand in mine, and called to him with every ounce of love in my heart. He didn't respond. Even I can't snap him out of a vision now, and it's partially my own fault. When we were children, I spent so much time sneaking contact, making him inured to my touch so that eventually we would be able to be lovers without sending him into a vision-fit every time we kissed. He hated me so much, those first two years… it makes me smile to think of it. I had to work hard to turn that hatred into tolerance, then into mild affection, then to love, but it was… HE was… worth every ounce of effort. Finally, halfway through sixth year, he became mine, and since then I've known such complete happiness it seems marvelous to me. I am special, because there's no one else he can touch without the magic gloves that block his psychometry, no one else he can kiss without being assailed by visions of their future, their accomplishments, their dark secrets, and their deaths. No one can make him laugh like I can, can erase the pain of the life he's led for even a minute to allow him happiness. I've dedicated my life to giving him all of this, and I could KILL James Potter for taking it away. If Cill doesn't wake up soon, I very well might.
Headmistress McGonagall was furious, of course, but it was an accident, so what could she do? Expel James Potter II for poking another wizard with his wand? He didn't cast a spell. He didn't need to. Upon the instant of contact with that powerful artifact, Cillian was overwhelmed by visions and fell where he stood. He's been in a fit since then. He won't wake up. Potter wasn't even really threatening him, just yelling at him, ironically because of me.
Some Gryffindors don't like it when they discover their housemate is in bed with a Slytherin.
Since I first laid eyes on Cillian before the start of term our first year, the moment I decided someday he'd be mine, I've done more research and experimentation on the phenomena of Seers than any other witch or wizard I know of. Nothing I've learned has been of any use. He'll come out of the fit when he'll come out of it, but in the meantime, I miss him terribly. I've read so many books, taken my weekends to search through so many libraries, and positively INUNDATED the Headmistress with requests for leave of absence from school so I can hunt down other experts and interrogate them, all of which she has denied. I've found nothing that could help him, and it makes me feel helpless, and I hate that too, as much as I hate the fact that I am terrified for him and it won't go away. No vision fit has ever lasted this long before, but he's never touched such a potent magical item before. Harry Potter's wand, twin of Voldemort's. I'd be dying to know what he Saw if I wasn't so worried about him.
He can't talk to me right now, my beloved Seventh Son. I'm alone, and it's not a good feeling. My friends offer me support – Dylan actually offered to kill Potter and make it look like an accident, but I told him to withhold his wrath – but it feels hollow. I'm missing the thing I value most in the world.
Am I maudlin? Am I moping? I am certainly lost in my own world. Inexcusable of me, really, because it allows James Potter II to seize me by the robes and throw me up against the wall before I have a chance to defend myself. Why didn't I see him coming? Oh, yes, that invisibility cloak. Passed down from Potter to Potter. Clever of him. Also clever of him to pin my left hand so I can't go for my wand. The handle vibrates, and I can almost feel the cold produced by the bit of Wendigo hair at its core, but I can't reach it, so I can't hurt him.
Well, if you can't beat them…. "Why, Potter, what an unpleasant surprise. If you wanted to speak to me, you could have sent an owl. That's generally the method favored by civilized people, though I know 'civilized' is a bit of a stretch for you."
"Shut up, Isabourne," he growls, and I am confused, and rather amused, by the rage in his face. What on earth does he have to be upset about? "You cold, heartless, unfeeling BASTARD."
"Potter, I'm insulted. My birth was quite legitimate." My expression is blank with a hint of sardonic disdain and my tone is bored.
"Your birth was a TRAVESTY," Potter snarls, shoving me hard against the wall at my back. My head smacks into it, and I have a moment to be annoyed before he is in my face. His breath smells of blueberries. This comes as no surprise to me, since he is fond of Every Flavor Beans. "If your parents had known what a wretch you'd become, I'll bet they'd have drowned you at birth!"
Now, that is uncalled for, but interesting. Potter is really upset. Given that I haven't seen him in four days, I can't imagine why. "What's crawled up your arse, Potter?" I wonder, eyes narrowing. "By rights, I should be the one slamming YOU into walls."
"Exactly!" he growls, releasing my cloak and slamming the heel of his hand into my shoulder. "Exactly! It's bad enough that you seduced Cillian Aladriss. I don't know what your reasons might have been for that, but everyone knows you're just using him. I don't know how he didn't see through you – you're smart, and I'll give you that – but how can you claim to love him and never ONCE come and see him while he's hurt?" Panting, James backs off, and I feel a sudden stab of pity for him. He feels so strongly, and has so little control, just like his father… "He's been lying in that bed, that damned bed, for FOUR DAYS and the only person sitting with him is someone he hated," Potter said, voice cracking tellingly. "We're not friends, but I've stayed with him because… because all this is my fault, and SOMEBODY should, but you… you walk around, you go to classes, it's as if you don't even care. Sometimes he's half-lucid and when he is, he always calls for you, and you're never there. How can you do it?"
There are times when you have to meet James Potter with just as much fire as he has inside him in order to force him to back down. I can be aggressive when the need strikes, but now is not one of those times. He looks almost teary-eyed, both furious and deeply saddened, and when I reach up and put my hand over the one he's using to hold me against the wall, it's a gentle touch.
"I haven't gone to see him," I say slowly and distinctly, "because you are always there, and I despise you. I don't ever want to be in the same room as you if I can help it."
His mouth gapes like a fish for a moment. Then he grits his teeth and slams his fist into the wall next to my head. I don't even flinch when his knuckle scrapes my cheekbone, and this seems to madden him even further. "You should love him more than you hate me!" he shouts into my face. "It shouldn't matter that I'm there! I hate that he's with you, okay? It's disgusting and it's wrong and I know, I just KNOW, that you're going to hurt him."
"Somehow, when you say disgusting, I get the feeling you're not referring to the fact that we're a pair of boys shagging," I return dryly, and his expression sours.
"Of course not. Don't be an arse, Isabourne."
"I am an ass," I tell him, raising one eyebrow. I can see right through him. Inside, he's wondering how I can possibly look so calm and unruffled in the position he's put me in. "But that's part and parcel of being who I am, isn't it? Being in Slytherin, I mean."
He scowls. "Don't think just because you're a Slytherin, and it's your nature, means you can mistreat people and get away with it."
"I'm not mistreating anyone," I snap, and he looks taken aback. He wasn't expecting me to get vehement with him. Stupid prat. "Aladriss hates you too, Potter. He wouldn't want you sitting with him right now. It's me he needs, not you, and no amount of watching over him while he experiences something so painful, so violating, you can't comprehend it will ease your guilt." I could say more, but I don't. I could say that Potter shouldn't EVER see Cillian in such a weak, helpless position, because Cillian deserves better than to be pitied. After all, he was Sorted into Gryffindor because of his strength and courage. It takes guts to be a Seer and remain in reality, to not try to escape the Visions by going mad.
"I know it doesn't ease my guilt," James said sullenly. "But at least he's not awake to see you acting like this."
"Acting like what?" I wonder, patience returning now that James is cooling down.
He sneers. "Wandering the halls. Eating. Lazing about. Going to classes. ACTING AS IF NOTHING'S HAPPENED."
I stare at him for a moment, pity returning full force as I finally understand just what's got him upset, and where he's getting all this bullshit about me not really loving Cill. He really doesn't understand anything. Poor idiot. No one deserves to be so dense.
"You really don't get it, do you Potter?" I wonder, and curse the deep weariness in my voice. I look up at him, stare right into his eyes, face down the lion, and suddenly I see his comprehension. Suddenly he notices the dark circles under my eyes, the thinness of my skin over my cheekbones, my pallor. Suddenly he notices the wrinkles in my clothing, which is usually impeccably pressed. Suddenly he notices that my nails, where my hand rests on top of his, are bitten down to the quick. He looks down at the books I dropped when he attacked me. He seems to dread what he'll see.
"Precogniscience – a guide for the practical Diviner", "Sons of Solomon – Those Who Dream Dreams", "A Short Appendix of Spells for the Comatose", and "Magical Maladies- A Compendium".
"I haven't eaten," I say harshly, wondering why I'm telling him this, but my mouth has a mind of its own, it seems. "I haven't slept. I feel as if I'm moving in a dream. I feel like I've torn the world apart looking for help for him, but there's no help to be found. I don't remember my classes yesterday, or my homework the day before. Snape's kicked me out of the dungeons for pestering him about potions, and the Headmistress has said that if I ask her for another permission slip to leave the school to do more research, she'll take fifty points from my house. I have exhausted myself and all of my resources, something I could not have done if I had been sitting in the hospital wing, wasting my time by feeling GUILTY. But since you're useless anyway, Potter, I suppose it doesn't hurt to have you there in my stead." My teeth are gritting, and my tone is nasty. James looks as if someone just force-fed him a lemon taped to an enormous brick. "The other half of my SOUL IS GONE," I snarl at him, "And I am helpless to aid him in any way, or bring him back. And you think I should grovel at your feet in shame because somehow in the midst of all this, I still manage to GO TO CLASS? You understand nothing, Potter, you're an imbecile! And if you ever imply that I don't love him again, I will tear out your entrails and string them around the Slytherin common room like Christmas lights."
"Then why don't you just SAY so," Potter protests, releasing me and backpedaling. Poor boy, he doesn't like what he's unleashed. "It looks like…"
"It looks like nothing! I'm not a bloody Gryffindor," I snarl at him. "You have no enemies, no one waiting to stab you in the back at the slightest perceived weakness. You live your happy, naïve lives in the light, never doubting your friends and never sympathizing with your enemies, but we don't live like that down here. Down here, the only thing that matter is where you stand on the ladder of power, and if you stand high enough, there's always someone below you just WAITING for the chance to knock you down. Your friends would never dream of using your emotions to hurt you, but I have the only heir of the Malfoy family waiting, practically slavering, to find a weakness he can use against me. Mine is not the privilege of my feelings, Potter," I return, yelling now, furious. "Mine is not the privilege of whinging and carrying on! It is not for me to behave like YOU, so free with my emotions! You are a Gryffindor and everything you think and feel is out there for the world to see, but I am a Slytherin, and everything I am, everything I'm capable of, all my strength and weakness, rests in my control, my pride, and my ability," I say sharply, "to keep going even when I am in so much pain I feel like I would rather die. I could grieve, but I haven't lost him yet, and if there is any way… any at ALL… that I could save him, I will tear apart the fabric of the universe with my nails until I find it. Do you understand, Potter? Can you understand? I will summon demons and bargain with angels. I will sell my soul. But what I will NOT do is collapse by his bedside like a bereft maiden in a romance novel and weep over his fallen body, because that is the one thing guaranteed to not do him a bit of fucking good!"
Potter is staring. He reaches toward me, then thinks better of it and lets the hand fall. I can see now that he does understand – whatever else I say about him, he does possess a modicum of intelligence – and now that he understands, he feels terrible about the things he has said to me.
Good for him. I am disinclined to pity him in return. Not now.
"Troy," he says quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I didn't know, it was wrong of me to say those things…."
"I don't want your apologies, Potter," I say, sneering in his face. "I want nothing to do with you. Leave my lover alone. Go back to your tower. Let your friends reassure you that you're not as bad as you think you are so you can sleep at night. I don't need sympathy from you." I push off the wall and seize my wand. Potter looks uneasy for a moment. I'm not sure why – I am actually not a very talented wizard. Memory charms are my particular forte, that and Herbology. Of course, I know from experience that I can cast an Obliviation Curse so powerful that the target loses his or her mind completely. But he doesn't know that. Much to his relief, I use an elegant sweep of my wand to wordlessly summon my books back into my hands. Calmer now, I look at him and see him standing alone, looking lost and small in our unforgiving territory. "Incidentally, Potter," I say, quietly now, having regained my equilibrium, "if you repeat one word of what was said here tonight to anyone, even in your diary, I will never be satisfied until I have made your life so hellish that you beg for death from any who would pity you."
Potter frowns. "I won't tell anyone," he says, sounding affronted. I know he won't- James takes his word seriously. But even so, I am not happy with him, and I give him my best hateful glare before turning and sweeping, as gracefully as possible, off to the dungeons.
Potter is not there when I return from dropping off my books, only one book ("Magical Maladies- A Compendium") still under my arm. It is past curfew. If I am caught out of bed, I'll lose points for my house, but that is really the furthest thing from my mind as I slip behind a statue of Griselda the Grieving and into the hidden stairwell that will take me to the same floor as the infirmary. I move in perfect silence, with the predator's gait I learned from hunting with my father, and even when I emerge and slip down the hallway, listening carefully to the darkness, I know I will not be found. A murmured silence spell keeps the doors from creaking as I slip into the hospital wing. The moonlight streams in through the windows, casting long shadows, but I don't fear the shadows. I live in darkness, and resting somewhere here is my only light.
He is the only patient. I find him sprawled in his bed. His eyes are closed, but his breathing comes harshly through gritted teeth and his fists are clenched as he writhes on the mattress. I take the abandoned chair, set the book down on the bedside table, and pry his fingers apart. He captures my hand in his, a reflex of his body, no will of his own, and I take a moment to run my fingers through that flame-red hair before resting my head on the mattress beside him. He's stayed in this vision-coma for four days now, and I've done all I can do. Given Voldemort's history, and the history of Harry Potter, I'm sure he's seeing terrible things. But the only thing I can do for him now is be here when he wakes up.
Besides which, it certainly won't be the first time I've slept in the hospital wing.
Finis