The Disclaimers

Don't worry, you won't have to hack your way through ten pages of disclaimers this time. As long as you've read "The Selkirk Grace", you'll do fine, both with this story and with the disclaimers to follow.

Firstly, all disclaimers from "The Selkirk Grace", with one exception, are in effect. I leave it to you to figure out what that one happens to be. Feel free to guess. It'll keep you (and probably me) highly entertained.

Secondly, there are a couple of extremely lengthy disclaimers that will appear at the head of the chapters they specifically concern. This is so that 1. This section will be more or less short, and 2. You won't have to deal with out-of-context spoilers.

Thirdly, if they appear in Rowling's books, they're hers. If they don't, they're mine, with the exception of Zarekael, Glaurung, and the Llewellyn family, who are the intellectual property of my friend and mad collaborator, Snarky Sneak.

Fourthly, yes, Snarky actually exists. She is not a product of my imagination. Someday you may hear from her, just not now; she's buried in the lab for the foreseeable future.

And lastly, the only songs/poems contained herein that are mine are the Skulkers' musical butcheries (and yes, all of those are mine). Everything else belongs to either Robert Burns or Edgar Allan Poe, unless it's otherwise credited in the text.

A Cautionary Note

This is the first story I'm posting that is not nearly finished. That is to say, it all exists in my head, but not all of it is on paper yet. As a result, it will probably post a bit more slowly this time around. HOWEVER! I refused to start posting until I had at least one-third of sixth year written and disked, and I will be working on the remainder of the story in the meantime. So hopefully by the time I get to the end of the first third of sixth year, at least the next third of it will be finished and ready for posting, and there won't be any interruptions in the posting schedule. But if there are, at least you've been warned ahead of time.

One Final Little Thing

"The Selkirk Grace" introduced most of the principal players in this story, and, consequently, it was relatively fluffy. "A Dream Within a Dream" chronicles the downward spiral of several of those characters and, as such, is something of a grittier story. That means harsher language, nastier and more frequent violence, and…well, to be blunt, it starts out with an innuendo or three, and goes rapidly downhill from there. This fic is rated R for language, violence, gore, adult situations,and vampirism. Kids, do yourselves a favor and don't try to sneak in on a fake ID; save yourselves some trauma and go check out the lighter fare on the PG pages. But for anyone hoping for hot sweaty anything…may I recommend instead a trip to the sauna; the story is disturbing enough without adding that to the mix, believe me.

And now, without any further ado:

Contented Wi' Little, Part II: A Dream Within a Dream by Ancalime Erendis

A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Prologue

PRESENT: MID-JUNE

Had anyone been around to see (and of course no one was), that person might have been a touch alarmed to witness the sudden arrival of two most uncommon individuals. This twosome appeared with a crack, as from thin air, near one end of an alleyway not very far from Privet Drive. They were in appearance more Muggle than most Muggles and more official than most officials—magical bureaucrats by all accounts.

The taller of the two had neatly trimmed black hair, parted precisely down the middle and combed backward from his face with a degree of care and attention that bordered on anal. He was clean-shaven and possessed steely gray eyes and a bland countenance.

His associate had shoulder-length black hair that was just as precisely parted down the middle and pulled back into a ponytail centered exactly at the nape of her neck—pulled back so tightly, in fact, that her age was impossible to tell, for the styling of her hair acted as a daily facelift. She, too, was possessed of gray eyes and a bland countenance, made a touch further severe by the judicious application of very dark lipstick. Both she and her partner wore well-tailored, unadorned black suits with black shirts and spit-shined black shoes.

This extraordinary pair neither spoke nor looked at each other, but on some unuttered signal, they stepped off on the same foot at the same time and made their way, in perfect marching rhythm, first to Privet Drive, then to house Number Four, where the shorter one rapped at the door.

The door was opened, and the dynamic duo watched dispassionately as the lady of the house did a double-take, then swallowed, then somewhat composed herself. "Er, yes?" she managed.

"Petunia Dursley?" the shorter visitor said abruptly.

"Er, yes—"

"Husband Vernon at home?"

"Er—"

"Good," interrupted the taller visitor. "We'll want to talk with him, too."

Then, before Petunia could do much more than blink, the pair were past her and showing themselves into her sitting room.

"Might want to close the door," the shorter one advised over her shoulder. "Nasty time of year to catch cold from a draft."

By the time Petunia had closed the door and followed them to the sitting room, the pair had seated themselves stiffly on the couch, directly opposite two armchairs. On one of these chairs perched the alarmed Vernon Dursley; on the other, the petrified bulk of Dudley. Harry Potter hunched in a corner behind his uncle's chair, where he could safely look amused as he regarded the visitors with interest. This happy family dynamic was not lost on the pair, but neither saw fit to mention it.

"Have a seat," the taller one said, indicating a chair nearby, and Petunia was off-balance enough to do so and thank him for it.

"Permit us to introduce ourselves," the shorter visitor said without preamble. "I'm Clarissa Clap, and this is Trevelyan Trap. We've come from the Ministry of Magic."

Dudley paled visibly, and his father went purple; Harry grinned.

"Right," Clap sighed. "Can't have the neighbors hearing, now can we?" She smirked. "Although I doubt they're more likely than certain others present"—she looked pointedly at Petunia—"to be eavesdropping." Then, arching one eyebrow, she added, "Mr. Trap, if you please."

Trap drew a polished black wand and covered the room in silencing charms. To judge by the expression Harry now wore, he recognized both the wand and the voice of its owner, neither of which were in the least affected by Trap's disguise and both of which identified him as not belonging to the Ministry of Magic. Oblivious (seemingly) to the boy's sudden scrutiny, Trap completed his task and stowed the wand up his sleeve, surrendering the floor to Clap once more.

She cleared her throat and began again: "As I was saying, I'm Clarissa Clap, and this is Trevelyan Trap. We've come from the Ministry of Magic."

"Clap and Trap?" Vernon repeated with a sneer.

He was treated to twin impassive looks. "Is there something wrong with that?" Clap demanded flatly.

"Er…no." Vernon fell silent.

"Good," she said. "Then we can continue."

Trap drew from his inside lapel a very thick envelope, which he lay on the coffee table in front of the Dursleys.

"Inside of that packet," Clap stated, "is a written form of what Mr. Trap and I have the pleasure of explaining to you today, along with a few hundred necessary forms that you may or may not wish to fill out—in triplicate, naturally, for your inconvenience." She leaned forward confidingly. "Whether or not you submit them makes no difference in the grand scheme; our superiors just like to have paperwork lying about—it gives them something to lose."

"Other than their senses of humor," Trap added.

Clap eyed him authoritatively. "Not so, sir," she countered matter-of-factly. "Operatives at our level are permitted senses of humor, but you can't be a superior if you're still afflicted by one. Regulation 10582, sub-paragraph B, you know." She caught sight of the Dursleys (and Harry, who was staring at Trap in mingled disbelief and amusement), then seemed to recall that she was here on business. "Enough of the small talk," she said briskly. "There have been some interesting happenings at a certain school for incurably criminal boys that actually have quite a bit to do with you."

Vernon and Petunia turned a sickly white, and Dudley screwed up the necessary intelligence to look surprised. Harry, who had suspected that these two were from Hogwarts—and who knew already that the Dursleys' St. Brutus' fiction was known to Dumbledore—smiled behind the others' backs.

Seeing these reactions, Trap narrowed his eyes in malicious amusement. "Yes," he drawled. "As you see, we know a great deal about you and your Muggle pettiness."

"Now see here, Clap," Vernon began, but Trap cut him off.

"I'm Trap," he snapped. "She's Clap. If you're going to use names, Petunia, have the good grace to get them right!"

Harry stared at Trap in astonishment mixed with a touch of delight and some alarm. There could be no doubt about Trap's voice, nor even his sharp-tongued reactions, but in this context, the fact that Trap possessed a sense of humor (something which Harry had never attributed to him) was disturbingly evident.

Vernon, meanwhile, fought an obvious battle with his tongue before returning to the subject at hand. "At least cut to the chase and tell us what this is all about, Crap," he growled nastily.

"You oughtn't to talk to yourself, Petunia," Clap admonished him. "People will think you're mad." She smirked, then cleared her throat. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, there have been some interesting recent happenings at Hogwarts—a battle, to be precise, from which your nephew was fortunate to escape with his life." The Dursleys seemed rather less concerned than many (not including either Clap or Trap) might have expected.

"But what do you care about that?" Trap said blandly. "One less burden for you to deal with if he dies, and after all, you were in no danger at all." He turned to Clap. "Ordinarily, I would quite sympathize," he remarked truthfully. "Potter does seem such a weedy, troublesome thing, wouldn't you say?"

Clap nodded wisely. "Indeed," she replied. "Why, the trouble it must cost them to toss him hand-downs and a whole plate of scraps each day! The horrendous expense it must be to give him better than moldy bread and rain water! Think, Trevelyan—only think!—of all the drills Petunia has to sell in a day, just to take care of Harry Potter!" She shook her head. "I suppose I'd want him gone, too."

"Pity the Order confiscated the arsenic and cleansers," Trap sighed melodramatically, his eyes glittering as Petunia (the true Petunia) looked thoroughly panicked at the idea that her cleansers might be missing. "If I were afflicted with such a troublesome wisp, I might think to poison him myself."

Harry obviously had no difficulty in believing Trap's words, although their delivery could not possibly have been more sarcastic. Petunia opened her mouth to protest, but Clap smoothly cut her off.

"Whatever your theoretical or actual feelings in the matter, the fact remains that you are not as safe as you probably think you are."

Trap picked up exactly where and when she left off. "There is a strong possibility that the Dark Lord will target your family very soon," he informed them, suddenly quite deadly serious again.

"And why should he do that?" Vernon demanded. "What would be the point? The boy's one thing, but we're different; we're not—"

"Freaks?" Clap suggested with a nasty smirk. "That can only be determined by a jury of your peers, so we'll leave it to the court. But you are of importance to You-Know-Who"—it was clear by their faces that the Dursleys did not know who—"because you're the greatest protection Harry Potter has."

"Galling, isn't it?" Trap commented, speaking from personal experience.

Clap's face had resumed its customary blankness. "You-Know-Who's greatest enemy is Harry Potter; it is vitally important that he be as protected as possible. You-Know-Who, not being a fool, knows this, so his primary goal toward dispensing with his enemy is dispensing with that enemy's protection—namely, you."

Dudley gulped and Petunia paled, but Vernon looked skeptical and more than a little suspicious. "So what exactly are you asking of us?" he inquired.

Clap and Trap had anticipated this response; indeed, neither one (particularly Clap) had been under the illusion that their mission would be successful, no matter how they carried it out or presented themselves.

"We're not asking anything of you," Clap replied quietly. "We're merely letting you know that your lives are in danger." She approximated a smile, but her face was not made for such treatment, so the result was not at all pleasant.

"And we're offering you the opportunity to go into hiding or protective custody," Trap added.

"Absolutely not!" Vernon roared, standing suddenly to tower over the two oddities on his couch; the oddities in question did not so much as blink. "I will not be whisked away to be sequestered indefinitely by a bunch of freakish…mutants…who for all I know have made all of this up as an excuse for having us willingly submit to experimentation!"

"Impossible, sir," Clap said calmly. "The Ministry does not condone animal testing. And I do not have adamantium claws or strange mental abilities, so I fail to see the rationale behind calling me a mutant."

Trap turned to look at her. "I have adamantium claws," he told her in an injured tone. Behind the Dursleys' backs, Harry shoved most of a fist into his mouth to hold back a guffaw.

Clap raised her eyebrows. "Well, you're just special, then!" she replied, sounding a touch envious.

Trap raised his nose just a bit, looking as smug as it was in his nature to do.

"Will you stop?!" Vernon snapped. "I'm being serious!"

Trap looked hurt at the suggestion that his claws might not be a properly serious subject. Clap, meanwhile, narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits, and she suddenly looked very evaluatively at Vernon, as though contemplating the most efficient way to kill him. "Oh, so are we, Mr. Dursley," she said silkily. "We take the safety of Harry Potter very seriously, and you may or may not believe it, but we would take your safety just as seriously if you were not at all connected with him."

Vernon sneered at her. "Somehow I doubt that," he retorted.

"The fact that you're no altruist does not prevent us from having a genuine concern for others," Clap shot back, actually sounding rather hot under the collar as she got to her feet and stood nose-to-nose with him. "How dare you presume to judge me or my associates, about whom you know nothing accurate, you bloody-minded, pigheaded, scumsucking pathetic excuse for anything even remotely resembling a reasonable human being!" By the end of this eloquent litany, all present were thankful for Trap's silencing charms; Clap's voice had raised itself progressively to an all-out shriek.

Everyone, with the sole exception of Trap, was staring at her in shock; she had betrayed a flicker (and then some) of genuine emotion, and it was rather unsettling. Trap merely looked sidewise at her until she had finished, his expression as bureaucratically impassive as ever.

Once Clap had stared Vernon back into his chair, Trap spoke. "There, there, Clarissa," he said soothingly. "He's not worth another heart attack."

"I know, I know," she replied, reassembling her own bureaucratic mask, slowing her breathing, and resuming her seat. "I just have…difficulty dealing with useless, narrow-minded—"

"Oh, no. No, don't start again," Trap ordered calmly, catching her arm to hold her in place before she could leap to her feet again. "It's all well and good to be passionate about your work, but you must remember your health."

"My health." By now, Clap was once more fully collected. "Right. My health."

Trap turned now to the Dursleys. "We won't take any more of your time," he told them coolly. "Should you decide to accept our help—and I truly wish you would—the packet contains instructions on how to contact us." He and Clap stood in perfect unison.

"We'll just show ourselves out, shall we?" Clap said airily, then paused and turned back to the Dursleys, a reptilian sheen in her eye. "And be aware: We will be watching. If you raise a hand against Harry Potter, or mistreat him in any way…we'll know."

Trap nodded sagely. "And we'll enjoy the consequences far more than you will," he advised them darkly.

"Have a lovely evening!" Clap called over her shoulder as they departed. "Cheerio!"

---

They apparated to the Forbidden Forest, where "Trap" turned to "Clap" with a sardonic look. "What, exactly, is adamantium?"

Clap let out a laugh, then shook her head. "I didn't think you were the type to read X-Men, but you had me a bit worried there," she didn't quite reply.

"And I didn't think you were the type to be short-tempered," he rejoined. "Didn't Dumbledore originally send you along to keep me in check?"

Clap shrugged, then drew her wand and turned it on herself. "Finite glamourie," she said. Her appearance charm faded briefly, but Trap had no opportunity to glimpse the face beneath before she put in place a very different appearance charm. She was now a bit taller, with waist-length blonde hair and mischievous blue eyes.

Trap shook his head. "That's more than a little unsettling," he remarked.

"No more unsettling than you telling me to think of my health," she countered.

He smirked, then he, too, canceled his appearance charm, returning to his only slightly different normal countenance.

"Welcome back, Severus," his companion said dryly.

"Thank you," he replied, in a similar tone. "Though I'm not sure what to call you at the moment, Neshdiana."

She smirked. "At the moment, my name is Margaret Dashwood," she told him. "But I'd prefer it if you'd call me Rasa."

Part I: Rasa (Sixth Year)

Chapter 1: Sleeper Wake

A FORTNIGHT EARLIER

The hospital wing was in thorough chaos, the expected aftermath of a costly battle. At one point, an American Auror who had emerged unscathed from the battle itself was brought in screaming, restrained by several conjured bindings and by a fellow Auror. She was sedated quickly, but not before uttering an item of news that served only to darken the mood further: Meli Ebony, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, had fallen in battle.

An hour or so later, painful confirmation followed in the person of Dumbledore himself. Poppy Pomfrey looked to the door just as he entered, levitating Ebony's lifeless body before him. He beckoned the mediwitch with a look, then, when she was close enough to hear words intended for no one else, he murmured, "Is there a private room available?"

Poppy nodded once, then led him to the room opposite the sedated Auror's. "There are two beds in here," she pointed out. "If the need arises, we can move one out." She did not ask why he had brought Ebony's body to the hospital wing; it was obvious that the remains had to be kept out of sight and protected. More than that Dumbledore would probably not readily reveal.

---

Dumbledore returned at about four in the morning, and even though Poppy had her hands full, he asked her to accompany him to the room in which Ebony's body had been placed. Something in his tone compelled her to follow him, but she first took the time to notify one of the mediwizards on loan from St. Mungo's that she was stepping away. Even if the earth had been bare seconds away from falling into the sun, Poppy Pomfrey was not one to leave her patients unattended.

Meli Ebony lay just as they had left her. Her jet black hair splayed across the pillow, her face and hands paler than Poppy had ever seen them. Marble lids shielded sapphire eyes…there was, in fact, no blue visible anywhere on Ebony's face. She looked to be asleep, not at all dead, though she had been so for several hours.

"Please close the door, Poppy," Dumbledore said quietly. When she had done so, he drew his wand, aimed it at Ebony, and said only one word further: "Enervate."

Poppy felt her jaw drop to her collar bone as the dead body before her drew a deep breath, coughed, then opened her eyes with a moan.

"Judging by the post-seizure pain I'm experiencing," Ebony remarked dryly, her eyes riveting immediately on the headmaster, "I assume we won."

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, indeed," he replied. "But that doesn't account for all of the damage done."

Ebony tried to nod, but her head jerked to the side, and Poppy now noticed that the young woman's hands were twitching uncontrollably. "I don't think people are meant to stupefy themselves," she sighed. "Certainly not with someone else's wand."

Dumbledore now turned to Poppy. "Meli simulated her own death by stunning herself with a peculiarly strong charm," he explained. "After a battle like this one, neither Death Eaters nor Aurors pause to check for a pulse when they find a body. Unfortunately, she did it using Collum Fell's wand, which was damaged."

"And I had an improper grip on it," Ebony added. "Not to mention that I didn't exactly employ the proper swish-and-flick motion. I'm lucky to have lived through it."

"That will be why you're showing symptoms of light neurological damage," Poppy told her, covering her shock with a businesslike manner. "Fortunately, Severus and Zarekael replenished our supply of the potion necessary to repair that."

Poppy was the only one present who was unaware that the replenishment was due more to luck than to precise design; the brewing of that particular potion had been entirely for the purpose of covering up the two spies' extracurricular activities when an Auror had chosen an inopportune time to visit Hogwarts six months before.

"You'd better give me a sleeping potion or a pain potion powerful enough to knock me out," Ebony said. "Just in case Voldemort's not done yet."

Poppy frowned, but Dumbledore nodded. "I'll see to that, Poppy. Bring her the healing potion—and I don't need to tell you not to say anything about Meli to anyone."

"Of course not." She turned to leave, then froze, her hand on the doorknob, at what Ebony said next.

"What about Severus and Zarekael? Are they all right?"

Dumbledore answered immediately. "When last we saw them," he replied, "they were fine."

---

The door closed once more behind Poppy, and Meli turned her attention fully to Dumbledore.

"They reported to Voldemort and haven't come back yet," she surmised.

He nodded slowly. "Between his costly loss and the report of your death at a Death Eater's hands, Voldemort is most displeased," he replied.

"Which is why you've waited this long to revive me."

He nodded again. "If you wish to remain dead," he said wryly, "your voice is best left unheard until you are once more recalled to life."

Meli smiled wanly. "I take it, based on your words to Poppy, that you intend to medicate me from my own stock."

Dumbledore's smile displayed less humor than pragmatism. "I doubt, somehow, that Poppy stocks most of your potions of choice," he answered. "A few of the necessary ingredients would be considered suspect in some circles." He gave her a knowing look. "But in terms of potency, they are far better than what Poppy keeps on hand."

Meli tried to shrug, but the motion went awry, and she nearly punched herself in the face instead. "I don't believe that many people would see the same gray areas I do," she sighed, intentionally ignoring the disturbing evidence of her damage. "Perhaps that makes me wiser…or perhaps it's one more sign that my past still has too much of a hold on me." She took a deep breath. "Either of the bottles at the left end of my worktable will suffice. The taller one holds a sleeping draft, the shorter a pain potion with a knockout punch. I leave it to your discretion."

He nodded, his eyes twinkling, then left. Poppy returned long before he did, and they had a fun little adventure administering a large dose of healing potion in spite of Meli's "fit of the jerks" that came on any time she made more than a minor motion. The mediwitch proved quite up to the task, however, so, by the time Dumbledore entered with a bottle, Meli was once more lying back to rest and Poppy was capping her own bottle.

The headmaster had opted for the pain potion, as it happened, and for that Meli was grateful. She would be a touch more groggy when she woke, but she would be further along the path to recovery.

There followed another adventure, accompanied by a second fit of the jerks, to force down that dose, but the potion went swiftly to work. Even as Poppy lowered her slowly to the pillow, Meli was covered with a thick blanket of dark, painless sleep.

---

She awoke shortly before noon, groggy as predicted, but feeling a touch better than she had. It really was fortunate, she reflected, that she had taken more damage than that of the seizures and so had to remain here for treatment, or she'd go insane with boredom. It would be impossible to smuggle her out of the hospital wing until Poppy emptied it out, and it was quite clear that Dumbledore intended to keep her survival secret, an arrangement of which she highly approved. She had been too visible before and too much of a danger to people she cared about; now, in death, there was a chance that she could do more good than harm and get in several painful digs against Voldemort, as well.

These happy reflections kept her occupied as she came gradually awake, and along with consciousness came a tangible sharpening of her wit. She lacked only company on whom to inflict it.

Shortly after thinking that evil thought, Meli was rewarded by more company than she could quite handle all at once. The door opened and in came Poppy, levitating a large, unconscious figure that proved to be Zarekael, and followed by a bedraggled but conscious Snape. This last visitor seemed quite surprised to see her alive, while Poppy looked apologetically at her.

"This is the only place we can put him," she told Meli.

"Quite all right." Meli caught Snape's eye. "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," she remarked. "And, hopefully, will continue to do so."

Snape, who stood inside the doorway, narrowed his eyes in understanding amusement, then glanced to Poppy and gave Meli a significant look. She could not safely nod, but she smiled an acknowledgment.

All right, Severus, I'll cover for you. By all means, flee from the overzealous mediwitch.

Clearing her throat, she looked to the overzealous mediwitch aforementioned, who had by now arranged Zarekael on the room's other bed. "I hope you're not planning to give me anymore sleeping potion until he comes to," she said. "I'd like it if Zarekael and I could respect one another in the morning."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Snape smirk as he sneaked away. Poppy, by contrast, was not so amused; she turned to Meli with a disapproving eye and a long-suffering sigh. "I can already tell you're going to be my favorite patient," she muttered.

Meli smirked. "Actually, poor dear, I honestly believe that you prefer your most difficult patients unconscious." She looked at Zarekael. "He's your least troublesome charge, I'm sorry to say."

"But at least the more troublesome patients will still be treated," Poppy said firmly, then turned to the door. "Wouldn't you agree, Severus?"

There was no answer, though, for Snape was nowhere to be found. His accomplice found herself instantly under the mediwitch's eye.

Meli smiled unrepentantly. "Birds of a feather?" she suggested impishly.

Poppy glared, but she had no scathing reply for that. With a persevering look, she turned her attention to Zarekael's still form, clearly trying to figure out how to examine him without displaying evidence that he was a Death Eater.

Dumbledore, fortunately, chose that moment to return. It seemed to Meli's eyes that he was laughing to himself, most likely because he had seen Snape making tracks a moment or two earlier. "How is he, Poppy?" the headmaster asked.

She turned toward him, then looked pointedly at her other patient. "I haven't examined him yet," she replied.

Dumbledore closed the door behind him. "It's all right, Poppy," he assured her. "Meli knows."

Poppy was startled by that revelation, but she made a quick recovery. "All right, then," she said. "I will still put up a screen, though."

"By all means," Meli agreed. "I don't want to see what that sick poseur did to him this time." She could see from where she lay that Zarekael's hands were covered in blood, and she wondered how much damage Voldemort had done. He was a potions teacher; he needed his hands for his livelihood. And if the Dark Lord had been angry enough to damage Zarekael's hands, what else had he been angry enough to do? Meli squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of the shredded and oozing mass that had been the Potions apprentice's back not eight months before.

Poppy directed an unreadable look at her, then put up a screen that blocked both mediwitch and patient from Meli's view. Dumbledore moved around to stand at the foot of the bed so that he could see the examination.

Various muttered words and phrases reached Meli's ears: "Blood on hands…not his…minor scrapes…serious scratches…torso…frock coat shredded." Poppy raised her voice slightly once her examination was completed. "He hasn't wakened since we last spoke?"

Dumbledore's voice was grim. "No."

"That worries me," Poppy replied, and Meli's heart sank. "There's some neurological damage, but not enough to cause a coma like this—he's in far better condition than Meli." She was silent for a few minutes, then suddenly growled in mild frustration. "Zarekael, you are entirely too big!" she fumed. Her mood probably did not improve at Dumbledore's chuckle.

"Thank you, Poppy," the headmaster said, stepping out from behind the screen. "Let me know when he wakes up." He turned back to give her a significant look. "Oh, and don't forget to notify Severus."

Poppy pulled the screen back, and Meli was hard-pressed not to laugh. Zarekael's shredded clothes lay in a pile, and Poppy had had to levitate him and dress him in clean garments. He now lay on the hospital bed, clad in Slytherin-green short-sleeved pajamas. Green was most definitely not his color; it gave a sickly tinge to his complexion and made him look even more ill than he actually was.

Poppy favored Meli with a disapproving look, then sighed. "I need to see to other patients, but I'll be back shortly to check on Zarekael." She left, taking the apprentice's wand with her.

Meli soberly met Dumbledore's eye. "Is he going to be all right?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head. "Neither Poppy nor I have seen anything like this," he replied. "But in the past, Zarekael has shown a considerable capacity for recovery and a tenacious will to live. I see no reason why this time should be any different." He paused, then smiled. "Is there anything I can bring you, Meli?"

She gave him a relieved smile. "Oh, books would be lovely." Anything to take my mind off of Ruthvencairn's condition, she added silently. "I'm tired of counting ceiling cracks."

His smile broadened a touch. "Very well."

Once the door closed behind Dumbledore, Meli turned her attention to her new roommate. "I like the green pajamas," she commented. "It's a very nice color for you. It doesn't quite go with your eyes, but, oh, well." She paused, then attempted to arch an eyebrow (her eyebrow didn't arch, and she had no idea what did happen—she couldn't account for a movement that quite matched that particular sensation). "By the by, I don't suppose you know any good mind games for passing time in the hospital wing."

Zarekael made no answer.

---

Dumbledore had made a clean sweep of Meli's favorite bookshelf, bringing to her most of her best-loved volumes. Among these were nearly all of Charles Dickens' novels, and she found herself in the mood for that peculiar author at the moment. A necessary first move was to find Great Expectations and fling it (after a few comical mishaps, thanks to her battle damage) as far away from her as possible. She had only bought the book because it was required for a university class, and she had only kept it because no one would buy it from her and because she believed that books, even exceptionally bad ones (which, admittedly, this wasn't) were too sacred to be burned.

With that ritual completed, she was free to work her way through the rest of the collection. Within twenty-four hours, courtesy of her being a fast reader, her not being tired, and her having nothing better to do, she had quite a stack of already-read books: Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, Hard Times, and A Tale of Two Cities. She was now making steady progress through Our Mutual Friend, after which she planned to read Bleak House, and, due to lack of sleep, lack of conscious human company, and lack of a break from Dickens, she was beginning to show slight signs of mental stress.

So it was that she took to apostrophizing her comatose roommate and, when she stumbled over a particularly amusing passage (which became more and more frequent as her faculties slid slowly into the Twilight Zone), reading aloud to him. Thus Snape found her the evening of the day after Zarekael had been admitted.

Meli didn't hear the door open, and she neither saw nor heard Snape slip in. She was busily engaged in reading aloud:

"…But there's nothing like work. Look at the bees."
"I beg your pardon," returned Eugene, with a reluctant smile, "but will you excuse my mentioning that I always protest against being referred to the bees?"
"Do you!" said Mr. Boffin.
"I object on principle," said Eugene, "as a biped—"
"As a what?" asked Mr. Boffin.
"As a two-footed creature;—I object on principle, as a two-footed creature, to being constantly referred to insects and four-footed creatures. I object to being required to model my proceedings according to the proceedings of the bee, or the dog, or the spider, or the camel. I fully admit that the camel, for instance, is an excessively temperate person; but he has several stomachs to entertain himself with, and I have only one. Besides, I am not fitted up with a convenient cool cellar to keep my drink in."
"But I said, you know," urged Mr. Boffin, rather at a loss for an answer, "the bee."
"Exactly. And may I represent to you that it's injudicious to say the bee? For the whole case is assumed. Conceding for a moment that there is any analogy between a bee and a man in a shirt and pantaloons (which I deny), and that it is settled that the man is to learn from the bee (which I also deny), the question still remains, What is he to learn? To imitate? Or to avoid? When your friends the bees worry themselves to that highly fluttered extent about their sovereign, and become perfectly distracted touching the slightest monarchical movement, are we men to learn the greatness of Tuft-hunting, or the littleness of the Court Circular? I am not clear, Mr. Boffin, but that the hive may be satirical."
"At all events, they work," said Mr. Boffin.
"Ye-es," returned Eugene, disparagingly, "they work; but don't you think they overdo it? They work so much more than they need—they make so much more than they can eat—they are so incessantly boring and buzzing at their one idea till Death comes upon them—that don't you think they overdo it? And are human labourers to have no holidays, because of the bees? And am I never to have a change of air, because the bees don't? Mr. Boffin, I think honey excellent at breakfast; but regarded in the light of my conventional schoolmaster and moralist, I protest against the tyrannical humbug of your friend the bee. With the highest respect for you."

Having finished reading off this lengthy passage, Meli turned to the silent Zarekael with a thoughtful countenance. "Somehow, I doubt Mr. Eugene Wrayburn would approve of my work ethic," she remarked. "Though I believe he would get on quite well with a number of people I knew at university." She sighed, shook her head, and returned to her book, all without noticing Snape standing in front of the room's closed door, a strange mixture of amusement and concern on his face.

"I see you're keeping busy," he commented dryly.

Meli very nearly jumped through the ceiling at the sound of another voice. She had made great improvements in motor control over the past day, so Our Mutual Friend did not go the way of Great Expectations, but it was a near miss. She came in for a landing, then grinned madly. "Severus! How are you?" She surveyed his figure briefly, then sobered a touch. "You look terrible."

"And you sound more like a mental patient than a corpse," he rejoined sardonically. "You do know that Zarekael's unconscious, don't you?"

Her features brightened. "Oh, you noticed!" she crowed. "And here I thought he was laying there like this"—here she did a masterful impression of a dead basset hound—"for the fun of it!"

Snape was nonplused, but more amused than ever. "When did you last have a visitor?" he asked.

"Umm…" Meli's brow furrowed in thought. "Dumbledore came 'round about five this morning." She consulted her watch. "Twelve hours, then." She paused, looking a bit worried. "Only twelve hours? I got through Hard Times and A Tale of Two Cities in that time; I've been reading fast, then."

"All Dickens, I see."

"Naturally," she replied sagely.

"Too much of anything, even Charles Dickens, can be unhealthy," Snape told her, smirking. "Perhaps you should consider Pride and Prejudice or Jane Eyre as an alternative to Barnaby Rudge."

Meli shrugged. "Perhaps. I've seven hundred pages left before that decision."

Snape eyed her with some concern, then evidently decided to change the subject. "How is Zarekael?"

Now she did sober. "I hope he's only tired," she replied. "He hasn't come to. Sometimes I have to watch and listen fit to give myself a migraine, to tell that he's breathing at all." She set her jaw with a firmness peculiar to incredibly stubborn Gryffindors. "He's all right, though. I refuse to let myself believe otherwise."