A/N: Many, many thanks to Procyon Black for being my source of Icelandic! Isn't that awesome -- she knows Icelandic! Anyway, here's a long chapter for you all.
Chapter 6
Harry prodded the figure huddled under the green sheets.
"Snape. Snape, wake up."
Snape turned and muttered something indistinguishable.
Harry felt a wry grin pulling at the edge of his lips. So much for his claims of getting sufficient sleep, he thought as he poked the other Slytherin again.
"Sna-ape!"
No response.
All right. Let's see if this works, Harry thought. "SNAPE!" he barked, using his calm-the-frantic-aurors voice.
Snape's eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly. His greasy hair was tousled and disheveled, and in the uncertain gleam of the firelight, Harry thought that Snape's eyes looked a little wild, a little fearful.
"It's morning," Harry explained. "Breakfast, and then we've got Arithmancy."
Snape grunted and then flopped back into bed.
Harry sighed. "Sna-ape…"
A few minutes later, they were in the Great Hall. He looks as though he's sleepwalking, Harry thought. How is it that he was never like this when he became a teacher? Did he keep a secret brew of wake-up potion?
They sat at the end of the Slytherin table, and a mug of coffee appeared next to Snape's plate.
Aha. It was, Harry thought, like watching some complex Transfiguration. Snape drained the mug, blinked, wrinkled his nose, and suddenly became the waking, snarling, snapping Snape that he knew.
"Caffeine addict?" Harry asked, spearing a sausage. He probably kept a personal coffee machine in his quarters when he became a professor.
He glanced at Snape when the other Slytherin didn't answer after a long pause. "Perhaps," Snape said at last, carefully, and Harry suddenly realized that Snape probably had been scrutinizing the two careless words endlessly for any hidden, hostile meaning.
He's just as bent and broken as I am, but in a different way, Harry thought, sausage halfway to his mouth, and felt the notion hit something inside him—
The light flickered, and Harry glanced up to watch the owls soar into the Hall, that last thought lost like a pebble sinking into a deep lake. The owls swooped and darted, flapping their wings large and small as they wove over the students and staff, some screeching, others completely silent—
A gasp went up through the Hall. Harry turned to look.
A platoon of owls had just sailed into the Great Hall. Four snowy white owls were carrying a slender, glittering package, and leading the four owls was a hawk of pure ebony. The platoon circled once over the Hall, swooped over the Slytherin table, and dropped the package into Lucius Malfoy's lap.
Harry watched as all the Slytherins in Malfoy's vicinity leaned forward in eager anticipation.
"It's the Lightning 260, the latest model," Malfoy crowed. "There are only ten models in existence, and the other seven belong to the Harpies."
"You're sure to beat Potter on this broomstick!" squealed a girl who Harry thought vaguely resembled Pansy Parkinson.
"Of course," Malfoy sneered, letting a few of the Slytherin's run their hands reverently over the gleaming handle.
The broom seemed to vibrate, ready to leap out and fly, and Harry, watching it, felt a pang in his heart. It had been so long since he'd flown free and high above all the world and all its worries and woes. He realized, dimly, that he hadn't played Quidditch in years, not since… not since his sixth year at Hogwarts. He closed his eyes as memories flooded back and he waded through them to shut the floodgates—
He opened his eyes and neatly picked up his toast, biting into it.
"Frost."
Harry turned to Snape with an automatic smile on his face and didn't see the faint worry in the sharp black eyes. "What?"
Snape stabbed a sausage. "I was just thinking—why don't we do a little research after classes today in the library on our term project? We've got Potions last thing today."
"Of course," Harry answered. He threw down his napkin and stood up. "I'm all done with breakfast, and we have five minutes before we'd run the risk of being late for Arithmancy. You coming?"
Snape stuffed the last of his sausage into his mouth and slipped out of his chair without a word. Harry followed the other Slytherin out of the Great Hall, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead so that he would not have see Malfoy preening over his broomstick, nor meet the unwavering gaze of the black-haired prefect.
But as he walked, he glanced up, and—quite by accident—squarely met the penetrating gaze of the headmaster. Harry felt the smile of his Gryffindor mask slide onto his face with oiled ease as Dumbledore returned the smile. And then, waiting just enough for the timing to be perfectly natural, he looked away.
When he was out of the Hall, he let the smile slip and shatter. Dumbledore's eyes had been as cold as ice.
Don't think of that, Harry told himself, fixing his gaze on Snape's flapping robes. Don't think of anything at all.
He closed his eyes for a short moment, trying to snuff out sudden and bitter pain. Unbidden, the memory of Snape's presence last night, hushed by shadows and smoky light, rose like heat from a warm fire, and the pain eased like a receding wave, leaving only foam where the seawater had been…
"Hey, Frost!"
Harry's head snapped up and he stepped swiftly out of the way. His wand was in his hand as he shot out his senses to scan his surroundings of Death-Eaters in ambush or webs of hostile magic, or perhaps—
But the sole source of danger was standing in front of him at the other end of the short corridor, and as the spell hit the wall behind him and burst into a harmless shower of purple sparks, he turned his gaze dispassionately on Sirius Black.
Snape stepped up. "Black," he growled and took out his wand in a slow, menacing movement.
"No, Snape," Harry hissed, automatically slipping into his command-voice. Snape stopped, as though jerked back by a string, and he glared.
"I'm warning you now, Frost!" Black shouted from the other end of the corridor. "Stay away from Evans!"
Harry folded his arms. Don't pay him any attention at all, he thought, his mind steeling itself. "Come on, Snape," he said calmly. "We're going to be late for Arithmancy."
"Did you hear me, Frost?" Black roared. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, trying to rope Lily away from James. She won't fall for a dirty Slytherin like you! Keep your dirty little Death-Eater arse away from her, d'you—"
Snape whirled around, wand out and face twisted in a fierce snarl—
"SNAPE!" Harry snapped, but Snape didn't listen. The other Slytherin's black eyes glittered, and magic was bristling in his wand like a living thing.
"Confuto!" he snarled, a blast of angry magic streaking out like the lash of a whip.
With a speed and ease honed from years of training and experience, Harry flicked his wand. The arc of his magic spread out like a net, smearing through the bolt of Snape's magic even as Black was fumbling with his own wand.
Snape turned, face a mixture of shock and anger.
"Your suspicions are highly entertaining, Black," Harry said evenly, his voice cutting through the silence like diamond through glass. "Please excuse us."
Harry turned to go, but Snape stayed where he stood. Don't, don't turn around and start attacking Black, thought Harry, and he reached out to pull Snape's wrist; but Snape snatched his arm away at the last moment and stalked down the hall, his frayed robes flapping behind him. Harry watched him go for a moment before following him, feeling that today was not going to be a good day at all…
"You simply had to do that, didn't you?" Harry sighed, setting his satchel of books onto a stuffy library chair and taking a seat.
Snape remained silent as he stalked to one of the bookcases and began to look through the shelves.
Harry remained where he was sitting. I should have known he'd do something like that, Harry thought. Throughout the day, Severus had remained rather curt and silent, giving a new meaning to the word 'sulking.' Harry had weathered it patiently, but in Transfiguration…
"You attacked Black," Harry tried a second time, "unprovoked, and if it hadn't been for Lily, both Potter and Black would have riddled you with hexes, and you'd have to spend time in the hospital in addition to detention with Filch."
Snape stalked back to their table and slammed a heavy book down in front of Harry with a deafening thud.
"What is going on there?" screeched Madam Pince.
Harry quickly donned an innocent smile and muttered apologies. Snape crossed his arms and glared at a torch on the other side of the library. When Madam Pince subsided, he flipped open the book with harsh, angry movements.
"Look through this for information on the Kyrus and Mengele experiments," he hissed. "I'm going to go through the Alucinor experiments."
With that, he took a seat and began rifling through a different book.
Harry sighed. "Snape, I—"
"Shut up, Frost," growled the other Slytherin, still looking down at his book.
"I understand that you—well, hate them, Potter and Black, and that the animosity is mutual, but that's—"
"Understand?" Snape repeated scornfully, bitterly. "Don't think you can 'understand,' Frost. You have no idea…"
Harry thought back to Draco Malfoy and the future Snape, and all the scathing, hateful comments he'd endured and—well, responded to. He'd been young. Now he knew better. "How can you be so sure that I can't 'understand'?" he asked softly. If only you knew that it was you who helped me 'understand'…
Snape looked up, momentarily startled, but irritation clouded his face a moment later. He turned back to his book.
"Potter is an insufferable prat, I give you that," Harry continued, "but you need two wands for a duel. At least you shouldn't start anymore quarrels."
The other Slytherin sneered. "What you shouldn't do is associate with that—with Evans," he snarled.
Harry blinked, completely taken aback. "Lily?" he asked. "What does she have to do with anything?"
Snape sneered some more but turned back to his book. "Read your book, Frost," he muttered coolly after a pause.
Harry continued staring at the other Slytherin a moment longer before he looked down mechanically at the pages. What does Snape hold against Lily? He perused his mind and dredged up the memory from fifth year, of Snape's response to the Muggle-born when she tried to help him…
Perhaps it is his Muggle ancestry? But as Jonathan Frost, I am a Muggle-born as well, he thought. He frowned and peered surreptitiously at the other Slytherin.
Snape was frowning, studying the book intensely. The greasy hair fell down in tangles on either side of his face, and his nose resembled, more than ever, a giant beak. His mouth was curved in a harsh line, and in the dim light of the library, his face looked lined, older than it really was. A small part of Harry's mind noted, moments later, that he should stop staring, but he…
Snape stopped suddenly and looked up. "What?" he demanded, eyes narrowing.
Harry kept his face an impassive mask and his mouth blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "What do you have against Lily?"
The other Slytherin's brows drew together dangerously. Oops, thought Harry, mentally smacking himself. Agh. I shouldn't have said that. "If you are so abysmally stupid that you cannot figure it out for yourself, Frost, then I will not tell you," Snape snarled, biting out each word as though addressing a stupid child—or Neville Longbottom, thought Harry, feeling a faint shadow of déjà vu. "What did the book say about Mengele and Kyrus?" Snape snapped in his lecture-voice, and the bewildering feeling of déjà vu intensified. Here's to Professor Snape, through-and-through.
"Snape, I've hardly finished the first page," Harry answered smoothly. In fact, he'd hardly finished the first sentence.
Snape raised on eyebrow, though his eyes smoldered dangerously. "Dear me," he drawled. "Daydreaming of Evans, were you?"
Harry blinked. "What? I—" of all the conclusions he could've drawn! He regained some composure and replied shortly, "Don't be ridiculous, Snape. Of course I wasn't. That's ludicrous."
"You certainly weren't thinking of Rosemary Paean's discoveries nor the three stages of sleep," Snape countered nastily.
"Three stages?" Harry retorted. "I thought there were four or five."
Snape gave him a withering glare. "There are three, Frost."
Harry frowned. "But I'm sure there are five," Harry said seriously. "Plus the—what was it?—Rapid Eye Movement stage. I think the five stages were for non-Rapid-Eye-Movement stages, and… What?"
"What are you talking about?" Snape demanded.
"The stages of sleep," Harry replied slowly. "I read it in an article in a medical journal for sleep," he added. When the dreamless potions that had failed to block out Voldemort, he had decided to look for some Muggle medication, and had read some journals and articles of that nature. Muggle medical journals, he decided, were harder to read than even the most convoluted, complicated potions text. "In a Muggle journal, of course."
"Muggle journal," Snape exclaimed triumphantly. A look of disgust crossed his face. "Why in the name of Merlin would you go through a Muggle journal?"
"And pray, what is wrong with a Muggle journal?" Harry countered. "Many things in Muggle medicine and magical healing are interrelated. Take the cancer treatment, for example. A far smaller percentage of witches and wizards get cancer, and so advancement was minimal in that area, but by applying the Muggle concepts of radioactive treatment to terminate the fast-growing cells—" He stopped, noting the look of complete confusion on Snape's face.
"What are you talking about?"
Oops, thought Harry, realizing that the Muggle and magical medicine connection had not been made yet. In fact, it was only through Hermione's efforts that the complete bridging of things Muggle and magical medicine had come to pass. Damn it. "Regardless, there's a lot in Muggle medicine that you shouldn't discount," he said smoothly, fighting the flush that was creeping up his neck. Snape's stare was heavy with deep-set suspicion. Harry felt his heart sinking: the suspicion was all too familiar.
"Frost, you cannot be serious," Snape said, very slowly, again as though he were addressing Neville Longbottom. Harry felt a flash of exasperation. "The idea of any merit in any type of Muggle gibberish is completely absurd."
"It is not, Snape," Harry replied, feeling himself grow a little irritated. "Muggles have really been able to do amazing things without being gifted with magic. Take surgery, for example—and without magic. Even healers now blanch at opening up the body to do operations."
"That's barbaric," Snape exclaimed, looking disgusted.
"No, it is not, it's—" he replied, voice steely, and then stopped, aware of someone coming closer. He looked up, as did Snape.
It was Lily Evans. She had a stack of books in her arms, and she looked vaguely apprehensive. "Er—hi, Jonathan," she said, eyes slipping quickly over Snape and resting on Harry.
Snape sneered and buried himself into a book, but Harry noticed that the other Slytherin's eyes weren't roving over the page as though they were reading. Instead, they were glued to a spot.
"Uh—hi, Lily," Harry replied. He attempted a smile.
"I was wondering if you had time for the Charms project tomorrow," she said, shifting her stack of books. Snape sat frozen like an icicle. "I found a few interesting rituals in manuscripts by Myrddin ab Morfryn that we might look into."
"Sure," Harry replied. "Um. What time?"
"Oh, we have Charms last thing tomorrow, so I was thinking we could go do it right after class."
"That sounds great," said Harry, slipping a smile onto a face. "Thanks, Lily."
Lily smiled. "You're welcome, Jonathan. And good luck with your potions project." She turned for a moment to Snape, her face inscrutable, and then left after casting Harry a final smile.
The silence that descended buzzed like the air before the storm. Harry turned to look at the other Slytherin, almost afraid of what he'd see. But Snape was as still as a statue, eyes glued to the pages in front of him. With an inward sigh, Harry followed suit.
Snape stayed that way the rest of the day despite Harry's best attempts at bringing the other Slytherin to talk. Harry cursed himself for being such a rotten conversationalist. But he couldn't really blame himself: usually it was other people who were squabbling to talk to him.
They ate dinner without exchanging a single word.
As Harry entered the Slytherin common room, he noticed a crowd gathering in front of a wall next to the fireplace. Severus cast a derisive sneer at the crowd before stalking towards the dormitories. Harry moved to follow, but hesitated. His curiosity was piqued.
"Acies," he murmured, climbing onto one of the poufs.
The words were written in a strange, rather curly script. With his sharpened vision, he could see every stray spot of ink and uneven scratch of quill. As of tomorrow, September the Fifth, there will be tryouts for the Slytherin Quidditch Team on the Quidditch Pitch.
Harry wandlessly cancelled the spell and got off the pouf. Quidditch, he thought, and it was like thinking of water in a desert. He closed his eyes briefly and tried to forget the freedom of flight and the exhilaration of air rushing through his hair.
I expect Malfoy will be there with his new broom, he thought as he made his way through the dimly lit corridor and into the dormitory. For a moment, he had to clench his fists, so hard did he try to forget it all—second year, with Draco Malfoy insulting Hermione, and Ron—Ron: the remembrance was like a white-hot iron—
He opened his eyes swiftly and pushed open the door before walking in with firm, precise steps.
I need to stop remembering, he thought. Why? Why all these memories?
He looked around. Snape wasn't in sight. In the loo, Harry thought dismissively. He buried his head in his hands and took a deep breath. "Bugger," he muttered.
He knew why these memories were coming back. It was simple, really. It was because here, now, there was no more war. Just days ago (or twenty years in the future), he had had flung himself into the war, pouring everything he had into that ruthless, all-consuming, utterly hopeless war. It was easy not to remember when he was tired as death, when his mind buzzed with exhaustion and his bones ached.
Of course, there were times when it hadn't been so simple. There had been those nights of sweat-soaked sheets and endless tossing and turning when he simply had been too tired to sleep. And it was then, when he was exhausted and powerless to stop it, that his mind would rise like a hollow ghost and flow down forbidden paths, and unlock quivering doors of memory, and—
He swallowed and looked up. The door opened and Snape walked in. His face darkened when he saw Harry, and then he slouched to his bed.
Harry sighed and lay on his bed. Snape, he thought, mouthing the name to himself. Stupid stubborn suspicious Snape.
He got up and went to get ready for bed, ignoring the feeling of hollowness inside. It was easy to forget as he stepped into the steaming shower. He concentrated on the feel of hot water on his skin, and it was only after he'd finished that he thought of it again.
He glanced at himself in the mirror. Green eyes, black hair, a face neither young nor old. A grave face that held no smile.
He awoke with shuddering gasps. His heart was pounding like a hammer and his blood was pulsing like thunder in his ears. The sweaty sheets wrapped around his neck like a strangling serpent, and it was a long time before he realized that he was on hands and knees on the cold stone floor, and that there was no danger, no swarming mass of hate choking his heart and mind.
He collapsed face down on the floor. His arms and legs were suddenly weak and trembling, and he shivered from the cold sweat that soaked his body and the cold stone floor beneath his body.
Slowly, slowly, his mind returned. He slowly lifted his head, blearily taking in the dim embers of the fireplace and the shadowed tapestries on the dungeon walls. He was still weak as jelly, and his heart and breathing were still too fast, but he was aware of where he was, and why he was a pathetic, shivering wreck on the cold, cold floor….
He felt. A hand, on his back. An uncertain… hesitant touch.
His eyelids slowly drifted shut, and the world became as dark and as safe as a womb. Severus. For a moment, he could forget—he did forget—that Snape had been a bastard just hours ago. For now, all he could do was feel, and he felt… a kind of contentment. A kind of wholesomeness that he had long forgotten. He…
He took a soft, shuddering breath. The hand remained. There was something there, hovering at the edge of his mind, something that was important, that was… like clouds opening before the sun, or the flaming horizon that heralded dawn, but it—he—
He pushed himself off the ground and into a kneeling position. The hand left. He felt cold. He climbed back onto his bed, untangling the sheets, smoothing the coverlet. He glanced up.
Snape was standing there, between their beds, one hand on Harry's bedpost. His back was to the fire, and the nightgown hung loosely from his gaunt shoulders. His sallow skin looked golden in the red light, and his face was lost in darkness, except for two glints where the black eyes were.
"Thank you," said Harry, glad that his voice didn't break or shake (very much).
"There is no need to thank me," said Snape. His hand left the bedpost and he took a step to his own bed, and then stopped. Harry remained in a sitting position. He felt, vaguely, that he was waiting for something to happen.
Then, as Snape half-turned to return to his own bed, Harry blurted out, "How did I end up on the floor?"
"It was when I prodded you awake," said Snape, slowly. "You… flung yourself out of bed, and onto the floor."
Harry nodded.
There was a pause. Then Snape turned and made his way back to his bed, slipping between the curtains and crawling under his own covers, his sheets. Harry found himself watching and automatically turned his head to glance at the canopy of his bed instead.
"We should do some more research on our potions term project," said Snape, after a silence.
"Yes," Harry agreed. He added, before the pause got too long, "I wanted to compare how the Kyrus and Mengele experiments differed, since Mengele used Sidhe tears and dragon blood, and Kyrus just used dexamphetamines infused with peppermint."
A rustling of sheets. "Can you meet me tomorrow—or today, rather—in the library? after classes?" Snape asked in a terse voice.
Harry opened his mouth to say yes, but he shut his mouth. "I can't. I have to do the Charms project with Lily on the Quidditch pitch." A pause. "I'm sorry."
Another pause. "I see," said Snape, the sneer so audible that Harry had to suppress the urge to flinch. He had an uncomfortable sinking feeling.
"I can go research with you in the library about an hour, an hour and a half, after classes end," Harry offered. His voice was very calm. "I don't the research Lily has planned will take longer than an hour at most."
Harry heard Snape turning, and when the other Slytherin spoke, it was with his back to Harry. "Very well then," Snape said acidly. "And be sure to actually keep your mind on Mengele and Kyrus when you research them, Frost."
Harry sighed, very softly, and gave no reply. He turned so that his back was facing Snape and closed his eyes once more.
"I can't believe I've almost got my Patronus to materialize!" Lily chattered excitedly as they left the Charms classroom. She shifted her satchel of books from one shoulder to the other. "I could almost feel it!"
"Mm," said Harry, glancing back. He saw Snape stalk down the corridor, black robes snapping behind him as he left. Harry sighed and glanced down the other end of the corridor, towards where they were heading. His heart sank some more as he caught sight of Black and Potter, waiting there menacingly.
Lily must have caught sight of them too, for she immediately stopped talking. The flood of students carried them forward until Harry could see clearly Black's scowl and Potter's angry glare.
"Lily!" Potter shouted, moving forward. He spoke hurriedly. "What's he doing there? I thought I told you yesterday that—"
"What do you want, Potter?" Lily asked coolly. Potter looked as though he'd been slapped.
"C'mon, Lily, you can't have meant it! I mean, he's—and you—" Harry watched as Potter gestured wildly in his direction.
Lily's lips tightened into a thin white line, and her cheeks bloomed with angry color. "I'm afraid I don't see how my Charms project has anything to do with you, Potter." She turned. "Let's go, Jonathan."
"Jonathan?" Potter shouted, looking suddenly murderous. "So it's Jonathan now, eh?" He slammed his attention to Harry. "You!" he shouted. His face is very red, Harry noted and reflexively gave him a blank, innocent look. "Stay away from her, or I'll—"
"Let's. Go. Jonathan," Lily snarled through her teeth.
She is very red, too, Harry thought, as he let himself get dragged away. I guess there haven't been any overnight miracles.
"I can't believe him," Lily hissed under her breath, "and I thought he'd changed, since fifth year! I can't believe that he was just faking it, that underneath, he's still that bigheaded, conceited, bigoted—"
"Lily," Harry interrupted, before the girl's ranting could make him seriously doubt his having butted in between them and taking fate in his own blundering hands, "I was just wondering—where are we going?" We're certainly not heading for the library, he thought.
"To the kitchen, to get something to sacrifice," she answered shortly.
To sacrifice! Harry thought, nearly stopping short and shouting it aloud. But his mask, he found, had already surrounded him like an encasement of ice, and all that happened was that the smile froze on his face. Can she believe that she could waltz up and sacrifice something in broad daylight, with only a few days' preparation, and have it succeed? he thought with disbelief.
"I'm sorry, Jonathan, for snapping," she was saying. "It's just—he gets me so mad."
"Oh, it's all right, I can understand," he said easily, only barely hearing what she said.A thought that had only been half-conceived formed fully in his mind: perhaps I was meant to help her—or have helped her—understand these spells of sacrifice, so that fate would run its course and I would not die that Halloween night. The notion seemed to him to be—terribly surreal, but also terribly true: that this was proof that he came here, that his very existence was proof that what he was doing now, twenty years in the past, was what was "supposed" to have happened and indeed had happened.
Something in him clenched. Three years later, he thought: three years later, and she'd be nothing more than a corpse and fading memories. And they're so young.
"You seemed to have been having an—intense discussion with Snape yesterday."
Harry almost started: the mention of Snape brought his abruptly out of his thoughts. Snape. "Yes. I suppose so." They entered the corridor that would lead to the kitchens. "We were discussing the nature of dreams, and we had an argument over the merits of Muggle medicine."
"Let me guess—he said that all that Muggle stuff was worthless gibberish, didn't he?" she asked, sounding more scathing that Harry had ever heard her.
Harry frowned and opened his mouth to defend Snape, but Lily was right. Why am I defending Snape anyway? "Well—yes. That's pretty much what he said."
Lily reached up and tickled the pear. The portrait opened. "Frankly," she said, climbing over the portrait threshold, "I'm a bit—surprised that he's working with you." She looked down. "I mean, it's not you or anything, but Snape's not been known to be… objective when it comes to Muggleborns."
She climbed onto a table before Harry could reply and shouted, "Nobby!"
Harry frowned, pondering. Lily Evans had a point. Snape hadn't given him any trouble at all over his claimed parentage. The only time Snape had shown any prejudice had been when it had come to Lily, but that was random, to say the least, and—
What were Snape's opinions regarding Muggles and Muggleborns, anyway? Harry wondered, trying to dig up any memory that would help him solve the enigma. All that came was that memory from fifth year and Snape's pensieve, of the derisive tone and ugly words Snape had snarled at Lily when Potter had accosted him…
But was that out of prejudice or pride? Harry wondered. And why hasn't he made a big fuss about my—Jonathan Frost's—Muggle heritage?
Just then, a house-elf barreled out of nowhere and knocked Lily off the table.
He's scarily like Dobby, Harry thought as Nobby zoomed off and came back a few seconds later with two baskets. Or she. One was about the size of a regular picnic basket, but the other was about the size of a baby's cradle. It was covered by a white cloth.
Lily peered inside the bigger basket and then looked a little green. "Thanks, Nobby," she said. "Let's go, Jonathan."
"What's in the baskets?" Harry asked as Lily levitated them in front of her.
They turned a corner. "One's a snack that Nobby insisted we bring, and the other's what we're going to sacrifice for the ritual," Lily explained. "It's—er—it's a spring lamb."
So she's pretty serious about this all, Harry thought. Serious but misguided. He pretended to look surprised. "I… ah… presume it's dead?"
"Of course," Lily said quickly. "At first I just wanted to use fruits and vegetables, things like that, but I read in the book that things of flesh and blood are more—effective."
"I see," said Harry. He paused. "Did you go through Flitwick with this? Sacrifice rituals are restricted by the Ministry, I think." In fact, thought Harry, if you're not careful, you're liable to spend quite some time in Azkaban.
"I actually wheedled him about it all through last year," she said, grinning at Harry. He grinned in return like some kind of puppet. "We're allowed to do the simple kinds that are still used in certain parts of the British Isles. We're only allowed to explore the more… interesting rituals on a theoretical level, though."
"Hmm," said Harry, easily. "So… what specifically are we doing?"
They were at the doors of the Great Hall now, and with one push, they were outside. "Just a simple ritual to invoke wild magic. They still do it on the Isle of Arran. We'll need to make runic symbols and chant the whole spell, but I've got it all prepared."
"Ah," said Harry. She truly is serious about this sacrifice, he thought, rather impressed. Though the chances of her being successful are nearly nonexistent. He himself had learned a bit about the sacrifice spells while in the Nest, but only the bare bones. They weren't terribly useful in combat circumstances, unless one were in an absolutely life-or-death situation and were willing to sacrifice an arm or leg for a helping of the magic from the earth. He was rather glad he had never had to perform such a ritual.
"I could have helped with the preparations," Harry suggested. "I mean, you shouldn't have to do the project all by yourself…" They were nearing the Quidditch pitch, and Harry suddenly remembered the Slytherin tryouts. Harry looked around: the pitch was deserted. I suppose they're starting later. I hope that'll be after we're finished.
"Oh, it's fine—or—actually—" She blushed. "I'm sorry. I tend to want to do everything by myself, my friends tell me I can get a bit overbearing…"
"I had a friend like that, too," Harry said. He smiled easily and glanced away when he noticed the Gryffindor looking up at him. "At my old school," he added. "She was—very dedicated."
"Ah," said Lily, sympathetically. "It must be hard for you, changing schools and having to make new friends."
Harry shrugged. "The people here are… mostly quite friendly," he said, and thought of Malfoy, Potter, and Black.
Lily looked as though she wanted to say more on that subject, but instead, she flicked her wand. "Let's head over there," she said, pointing in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. "We won't go in there, but the closer, the better."
Harry nodded, agreeing, and followed her to the fringes of the woods.
It was a beautiful day. The skies were cloudless and sunny, and a little wind came and wandered through the branches. The shadows of the Forbidden Forest looked more enigmatic than ominous, and the songs of the birds wove through the air like a brilliant tapestry.
"Here's fine, I suppose," said Lily. They were a few paces from the Forest. The ground beneath their feet was still grassy, though a few steps away, it was damp and covered with leaves.
She flicked her wand and the two baskets plopped to the ground. Her satchel of books slid to the ground next to them. She reached for the white cloth covering the larger basket, but paused.
"Are you fine with blood?"
Am I fine with blood? thought Harry, and felt an empty laugh swimming about inside him like a mocking fish. "I'm fine with blood," he said.
Lily peered under the cloth and turned a little green again. "The lamb is very—uh—very bloody."
"I'm fine with it," Harry said again, in a voice devoid of emotion. But Lily seemed not to have heard it. She had looked under the cloth again before straightening. Harry wondered curiously what the lamb looked like under the cloth to merit such discomfort, but he'd find out soon anyway.
"We have to make a rune of sacrifice before taking the lamb out," she explained, voice only a little shaky.
"What does it look like?" Harry asked, though he already knew.
"Like an 'X'," she said. "It's called Gebo. We should make it so that the openings are facing north, south, east, and west." She took what looked like a bunch of toothpicks out of her robe and enlarged them. "Branches from an ash tree," she explained and laid them on the ground. "That side's north, right?"
Harry nodded.
"All right," said Lily, sounding as though she were preparing to jump into an icy pond. She pulled the cloth off and looked away. "Time to take out the lamb."
She levitated the basket so that it hovered over the two ash branches and then flipped the basket upside-down. The lamb toppled out. It's not that bloody, thought Harry, almost amused. He'd been expecting something worse. The lamb had obviously already been bled: there was no blood pouring out from the clean cut in its throat, though the fleece around the head and neck was soaked. There goes any chance of success, though Harry. No blood usually means no sacrifice.
"Ugh…" Lily looked as though she might be sick. "So. Um." She reached out and pushed one of the ash branches that had been knocked askew by the lamb. She took a deep breath. "Now. I memorized all the words of power, so I'll be the summoner and chant those, and—do you mind being the conduit? From what I read, the conduit seems to be the person who can more or less direct where the earth's magic goes."
Harry reminded himself that Lily Evans could not have known what he knew—he, who had the benefit of all the Founders' knowledge, gathered in their Nest. "I don't mind."
"Good," she said, grinning. "I reckon you'd be a good conduit, since you could already conjure a Patronus and everything."
Harry schooled his face to mirror the grin. "It's just that one spell I have a knack with. I'm quite abysmal at Herbology, actually."
"Really? Herbology was pretty easy for me. What's your favorite subject?"
"I'd have to say it's Defense Against Dark Arts," Harry replied, and then asked, before the conversation could settle on him, "What about you?"
"Charms, definitely," said Lily. Harry let her constant stream of words wash over him as he helped her set up the runes. He looked up to reply when she looked up, and chuckled at the appropriate parts, and carefully pushed the conversation back onto Lily whenever the Gryffindor's curiosity manifested.
His face hurt from smiling.
"Right, this is it," she said, and took a deep breath. "All we need now are grounding points in case the magic goes out of control. Those are the runes we just made. And what's going to happen is that—if this works—you'll feel the power of the wild magic in you, like water in a vessel, or so the book says."
"All right. That sounds pretty straightforward," said Harry. Does she really believe that these flimsy ash sticks can serve her as grounding points, that the wild magic would respond like a tame lamb? He closed his eyes for a moment. She was still young. He couldn't help thinking again that she would be dead less than three years later.
Lily gave him a quick smile, closed her eyes, and began chanting: "Villtir töfrar jörðar, lofts og allurra fjörlegra hluta…"
The Forbidden Forest hasn't changed much, thought Harry. He waved his hand: a few flies had emerged and were circling the lamb. I wonder if there's a spell to ward off flies. He considered stunning the flies in a gentle, wandless wave, but decided against it. There's bound to be some kind of household charm…
"Hlýðu auðmjúku kalli mínu…"
Harry glanced in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. Still no one. In the far, far distance, he could make out one or two figures lounging near the lake. I wonder what Snape is doing, he thought suddenly, and found himself wishing that he were in the musty library and working with Snape…
"Og takdu við þá gjöf sem ég fórni…" Lily opened her eyes. She frowned and waved her hand at the flies that had gathered around the lamb. "Did it work?" she asked hopefully.
"No," said Harry, apologetically. He hadn't felt a thing.
Lily's face fell. "But I did everything…" She frowned and sat down. "Stupid flies," she muttered as she reached for her satchel of books. "A spring lamb, yes, and the runes are all right…" Lily flipped through the pages of an old, worn-looking tome, a frown creasing her forehead. "You might burn the lamb, but it's not necessary… We did the incantation, we have a conduit and a summoner… I don't understand. I did everything." Her face was downcast and she looked defeated.
I suppose I should nudge her along a bit, thought Harry, feeling compassion rise inexorably inside him. This girl, he thought. She is my mother. A thousand sensible thoughts rose instantly, and he grimaced, but he scooted over and glanced at the book. Ah, he thought. There's a copy of this in the Nest! How coincidental.
"Here," said Lily, pushing the book over so he could have a better view.
"Hmm. Well, I think that—for one—even though the Forbidden Forest is very magical, we're not really in it yet. So this place, perhaps, isn't magical enough. It might work under, say, a full-moon, or one a solstice night, or something."
"You're right…" Lily said slowly, creasing her brows.
"Also, the spring lamb's been bled dry, and I remember reading that sacrifice only really works if there's still blood that soaks the earth and the runes. But I suppose it might work if you burn it, so that the ashes may return to the earth. Plus, we need to have a—different attitude. To be humbler, I think, or else the wild magic won't respond."
For a moment, Harry wondered if he had revealed too much. She's not going to pull a Snape and get all suspicious on me, is she? Harry wondered, but Lily just had a thoughtful expression on her face. "You're right," she said, and gave him a look that was both shrewd and filled with newfound respect. "I really do think you're right." She got excitedly to her feet. "I read a bit about burning the sacrifice. I'll go get Nobby to get me some wood, like the book says. I just hope none of the teachers will see the smoke and pounce on us. Can you stay here and look after the lamb?"
Harry blinked. "Um… sure." She's indefatigable, he thought. But, well—why not. There is no harm in her failing again. And only half an hour has passed at most.
Lily turned to go, but she stopped and turned back. "Jonathan, if you happen to see James or Sirius, tell them that I'll give them a piece of my mind if they don't leave you alone." She looked grim. "They're just—just so unreasonable and immature sometimes." Then she flashed him a bright smile. "Well, see you in a few minutes then."
"Bye," said Harry, fixing a smile onto his face, and then she was off.
He felt the smile trickle away like blood out of a wound. The birds were still singing, the sun was still shining, but as he looked up blankly at the sky and air, he felt that he might as well have been staring at a wall. He felt hollow.
I should try the transfer a tracking spell again, he thought. He had tried it yesterday, thinking that perhaps it would work better if he shifted it from human to human (his test subjects were Malfoy and Crabbe at dinner). As before, he'd been unsuccessful.
The flies whirling around were beginning to annoy him, but he ignored it and picked up a branch at the edge of the forest. He had been thinking that he would try first transferring the spell from one part of one entity to another part, like a hand to a foot, or one end of a branch to another.
Here goes nothing, he thought, and cast a weak tracking spell on one end of the branch. He grit his teeth, and tried to hold it, tried to keep it intact… And felt the spell unravel and fade to nothingness.
He sat there staring at the branch. Then he picked it up and tossed it back into the forest.
I hate this. He thought with cold anger and burning frustration and wandlessly stunned all the stupid flies. The dead lamb jerked a little from the strength of the spell. There is nothing I can do. There is no war yet. I know nothing. I can do nothing besides wait, and wait, and wait! He still couldn't transfer this damn, annoying tracking spell of Dumbledore's, and plus, every single goddamned night, there were those—visions, or dreams, or whatever they fucking were
I'm thinking like an idiotic Gryffindor, he thought with a frustrated sigh, and closed his eyes. There's no point in feeling irritated or sorry for myself. I need to be strategic. I need to get into the Nest. If I can't transfer Dumbledore's stupid spell, there has to be some other way. He briefly considered sneaking up on Dumbledore and casting a strong Confundus spell, but discounted it immediately. If I know anything at all about Albus, he'd have keyed all his personal wards and spells specifically against me—the wild card of dubious origin—and in a fight—
He couldn't let it turn into a fight. It would—or would have—changed the future far too much. Nor, obviously, could he simply kill Dumbledore, or any variation of that… And gaining the headmaster's trust was impossible.
He felt the anger leaking out of him, replaced again by that emptiness he knew only too well. He unclenched his fists, which he hadn't even noticed clenching, and massaged the deep, crescent-shaped marks in his palm. If only Lily—or anyone at all—were here, he thought dully. That way, I'd be able to slip on my mask again and feel nauseated instead of hollow.
But no, he thought suddenly, remembering the hooked nose and greasy hair, the sallow cheeks and unforgiving eyes. There's Snape.
Snape. He hadn't even realized it until now: with Snape, he could let down his masks. Even—especially—those nights where he'd been a shivering wreck, when he'd been too shaken to put on a mask. For a moment, he wondered why: why it was that it felt right to let down his masks around that—boy, or man, who was too often a prickly, suspicious, cantankerous…
Memory drifted through his mind, and instead of them being the memories of a life long lost, of the faces of those long dead, he remembered the rare occasions that Snape had curled his lips into a smile, and remembered how he had felt. He took a deep breath: he had felt—felt real. And a little less… perhaps a little less alone…
Footsteps. He quickly took his mind off Snape (he had a bewildered moment when he wondered why it was that he was thinking of Snape) and found that the hollowness was not as acute as it had been.
"Jonathan?"
Harry looked up and smiled automatically. "Hello, Lily." He noted that she was levitating in front of her a stack of logs.
"I really hope this works," she said, drifting the logs closer. "I've sworn off lamb for an entire month. I don't want them killing more lambs than they have to." For a moment she looked indecisive, but she hardened her jaw and said, "We'll follow the book's instructions on how to arrange these logs and we'll burn it. I think magically lighting it on fire is fine."
Harry levitated the lamb as Lily carefully arranged the logs on top of the ash branches. "There're no more flies," she remarked.
"You're right," said Harry, pretending to be surprised. "That's strange."
"Right, then," Lily said, stepping back. Harry carefully laid the lamb onto the stack of logs. "I'll do the chanting again, but we'll have to do what you said. Put ourselves in the proper attitude. And burn the lamb." She took a deep breath. "Incendio!"
The logs began burning, a small hesitant flame that barely reached the lamb. "Shall I make it bigger?" asked Lily, sounding very queasy again. She muttered something under her breath that might've been, "I can't believe I'm doing this…"
"I'll do it," said Harry firmly. "Incendio!" he remembered to bellow, and felt very stupid in doing so, but it worked, and within moments, he could smell burning flesh.
Lily took a deep breath and looked away. This time, when she began chanting, her voice was soft, earnest, humble, and grew in strength: "Villtir töfrar jörðar, lofts og allurra fjörlegra hluta…"
Harry felt a prickling down his neck. The breeze changed abruptly, and the song of birds seemed to belong to a different world altogether. With a sudden shock, he realized that—somehow, despite the fact that they were working in broad daylight, that the lamb was stiff and bled dry, and that they were just a few steps from the Quidditch pitch—the wild magic was responding.
"Hlýðu auðmjúku kalli mínu…"
Harry suppressed a shiver as he felt the magic rising like ghosts from a shallow grave. This shouldn't be happening, he thought, but it was. He steeled himself but forced himself to relax. That was how to handle any situation: to remain alert, calm but alert—
"Og takdu við þá gjöf sem ég fórni…"
The magic was at a fever pitch. He had never felt anything like it before: always, in the Forbidden Forest, he would feel it sleeping, or sometimes even watching, but never howling like the winter storm and swirling as it was now—
With a sudden, furious gust, the flame suddenly went out, and the lamb, now barely more than a gruesome black thing on ashen logs, tumbled onto the grass—
—the little ash sticks scuttled across the ground, swept by the angry wind; the stack of logs and the rune underneath—all toppled, all fell like fragile leaves in a careless wind—
It is coming for the sacrifice, this magic, thought Harry, wide eyes meeting Lily's. Dimly, he thought: her eyes are like mine; and then he felt something inside him—breaking open a giant serpent from its translucent egg, filling him with a terrible pain—
he was in the dungeon, watching the silvery thing where Voldemort had been suddenly rush into him, feeling the pain that was more terrible than a dozen Cruciatus curses at once
—he felt nothing.
"…I couldn't! I tried really…"
He had a headache. The voices drifted through his mind as his others senses slowly awoke: the feel of grass on his neck and wind on his face, the light filtering through his half-open eyes, the lingering scent of burnt flesh…
"…and no wonder you couldn't, you filthy mudblood."
Harry's eyes opened wide. He knew instantly to whom the voices belonged: Lily, and Snape. He was aware of other noises too, other voices, and few words: "What's going on?" "Who's he?" "What happened?"
"Whatever. What's important is getting him to the hospital wing—"
"Don't go near him! You've done enough harm already!"
Harry blinked and tried to sit up. The world spun for a moment, but then he was in a sitting position. He shook his head, trying to clear the persistent headache… He licked his lips and frowned. There was a sharp metallic taste in his mouth, and something wet and warm on his chin. He swiped it with his hand: it was blood.
"Jonathan! You're awake!"
"Yeah," Harry replied, swallowing the taste of blood, and looked up, grimacing as his headache sharpened. There was as little ring of people—none that he could recognize right away—but the majority of them were Slytherins and holding broomsticks. People from the Quidditch tryouts? Harry thought.
"Frost!" barked Snape. "Can you stand?"
"Of course," said Harry, getting to his feet. The world whirled like swirls of autumn leaves, and then stilled. Snape was standing next to him and was holding one of his arms in a very uncomfortably tight grip. How did Snape get here? Harry wondered dimly, shaking his head again.
"Don't touch him, filthy mudblood!" Snape hissed furiously as Lily reached out a hand.
"Don't call her that," Harry said sharply, blinking hard in the sunlight. The little crowd of people holding their broomsticks was beginning to make him feel claustrophobic.
"Don't defend her, Frost," he hissed. "She was stupid enough to try a ritual to rouse the wild magic, and you"—this word he spat out furiously—"were stupid enough to go along with it! I—" He stopped suddenly. Harry turned to look and groaned inwardly: it was Potter and Black, hurrying towards them. He did not need them there. His headache was getting worse.
The atmosphere of the group, which had at first been cautiously hostile, immediately turned belligerent.
"Black, Potter," one of the Slytherins shouted derisively. "What're you two doing here at the Slytherin tryouts?"
"Sod off, Zabini," Potter snapped. "Hey Lily, are you all right?" His voice was very concerned.
Harry turned to look at Lily, and saw for the first time that eyes were a bit red a puffy. She quickly sniffed and composed her face. "I'm fine," she said coolly. "What're you two doing here?"
"We were—er—down by the lake," said Black, giving Snape a surreptitious glance.
"And we saw Snivellus running down the pitch," added Potter, sneering.
"Yeah," Black continued with a smirk on his face, having caught on. "We were wondering if he was going to try out for the Quidditch team and thought it would be amusing to see him attempt not to fall off his broomstick."
Harry was surprised when one or two of the Slytherins in the crowd snickered. The grip on Harry's arm tightened until Harry had to suppress a wince.
"Don't," Harry snapped through clenched teeth as Snape reached for his wand. He could barely manage that one word: his head felt as though it would crack open at any moment. Snape froze and gave him a furious glare that would have burned through metal.
Black snickered and crossed his arms negligently. "You've got him well trained, Frost."
Harry staggered back a step as Snape let go of his arm as though he had been gripping white-hot iron. Don't, Harry wanted to shout; don't respond, just ignore it! but his headache suddenly intensified as he himself felt a sudden surge of anger. He watched, throbbing with helpless pain, as Snape, sallow cheeks splotched with ugly patches of color, whipped out his wand—
"Noceo!" he shouted, and in a flash of light, Black fell to the ground, wand flying across the grass, his face contorting—
NO! Harry shouted in his throbbing, deliriously pained mind, but it was as though he was paralyzed. Potter had shot a spell at Snape, but Snape blocked it effortlessly. Harry watched as Snape's face suddenly twisted into a sneer, and then, as Potter was about to mouth another incantation—
"Impedimenta!"
Potter was knocked flying backwards—
"Suspendi!"
It was as though Potter had hit a brick wall. He jerked in midair, eyes bulging and head whipping backwards, his body in a nearly upside-down position—
"No! Stop it!" Lily shouted, looking horrified, and pulled out her wand—
"Expelliarmus!" Snape crowed triumphantly, and Lily's wand arced through the air into his hand.
No, no, no, though Harry, still frozen where he stood. A storm was raging in his head. The smirk was widening on Snape's face; Black was slowly inching towards his own wand; Lily was fearfully backing up a step; Potter was gasping; the crowd was murmuring apprehensively— NO! Harry screamed in his mind as Snape casually, but with a look of vindictive satisfaction, aimed his wand at Potter—
It was like something bursting out of him. Harry jerked forward—"Stop it, Snape!" he shouted, and felt an intense wave of magic rush out of him. The spell that had been hurtling towards Potter shattered and slammed into Snape instead. Snape flew backwards, a look of shock on his face before he smashed into a tree and slid face down onto the ground.
There was a moment of shocked silence before the crowd started sniggering. Snape shakily clambered to his hands and knees, pink soap bubbles pouring out of his mouth, and his face flushed an angry red.
Harry was only dimly aware of the noise from the crowd, only dimly registering that the Slytherins were jeering at their own housemate. His entire being was riveted by that look on Snape's face as their eyes squarely met: a look of deep humiliation, of anger and hatred, of hurt and betrayal.
Snape abruptly looked away, and Harry felt as though something had been ripped out of him.
"Wait!" he called hoarsely, reaching out a hand, but Snape had turned and was hobbling as fast as he could towards the castle.
"Hey!" Lily Evans shouted. "Hey, Snape! Give back my wand!"
Harry watched as the other Slytherin stopped and, with a fierce snarl, flung a length of black wood over his shoulder.
"Goodness," muttered Lily as she picked up her wand. "That's Snape to you." She turned to Harry. "Thanks Jonathan for stopping him. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't. That was pretty impressive, too."
Harry nodded, barely aware of what she was saying. His headache had vanished, gone with that same burst of magic that had tossed Snape backwards like a rag doll. It was magic, he thought dispassionately. Magic that caused the headache. And he knew with a hollow certainty that this magic was his, and somehow, the wild magic had awakened it. He should be wondering how, and why, and a small part of him did, but the rest of him was a roaring storm of nothingness.
He felt empty: vastly empty, and utterly numb. All he could think of, all he could see, was that look on Snape's face: the anguish, the hate and anger and hurt, the betrayal—
He swallowed. Lily said something else, he responded without really hearing what she said. His face was already in a mask, and he felt sick. Hollow. You did the right thing, Frost, he told himself. It was like throwing a pebble into a bottomless abyss. He shouldn't have attacked Black or Potter, and you did the right thing in stopping him.
But he still felt utterly, utterly empty.
The day was dizzyingly hot. His mouth was dry and parched, like a cardboard desert, and his tongue felt like a rolled-up length of sandpaper. His entire being throbbed with thirst, but there was no water. His mother needed the water, and his mother had told him not to go far. The nearest public water fountain, at the orphanage, was too far away, and he did not want to go to the orphanage, even if it was to drink its water.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and sniffed, even though heat was descending from the sky like plumes of hot, white flames. He was thirsty.
At the sound, he turned. Approaching him were Muggles, three in all. Two of them had those ugly mop haircuts, and the third one was tall and thin and freckled. He recognized the freckled one: Roger something. He couldn't remember if Roger had done anything mean, but his mother had always told him never to trust Muggles, and he wasn't about to now.
He was thirsty.
"Hey, Riddle-boy!" Roger shouted. He held something up, and Tom squinted through the sweat that beaded his eyelashes. It was an orange Popsicle, and under the sun, it glimmered in the sun. "You thirsty?"
Yes, he thought. He opened and closed his mouth, feeling the roughness and dryness, and he was so, so thirsty—
"Not really," he lied politely. But he eyed the Popsicle hungrily and licked his lips with a sandpaper tongue, wishing it were his…
"Yeah, right," Roger snorted. He waved the stick mock-enticingly. "C'mon, now, Riddle-boy. My friends and I got three Popsicles, and Joey here didn't want his." The one called Joey sniggered. "I'd hate to see it go to waste."
He hesitated—but he was so thirsty.
"All right," he said reluctantly, slipping off the bench he was sitting on and timidly reaching for the Popsicle stick. He was relieved the Roger didn't pull the Popsicle stick out of his reach at the last moment.
The stick was wet and sticky in his fingers, and little rivulets of the juice were running down as though it had been sweating. He licked the bar of ice cautiously. It tasted good. He licked again, lapping at the delicious water—
The three Muggle boys burst out laughing.
"What do you know?" Roger asked between gasps of laughter. "Riddle-boy likes sucking on toilet water!"
He froze in mid-lick and jerked the Popsicle out of his mouth. His lips were sticky but he didn't dare lick them. He felt the blood rushing into his face, and his already scorched skin burned. He felt sweat running down his ear and dropping off his earlobe.
Roger stepped forward and clapped his shoulder in a mock-friendly fashion, though a brainless sneer was on his face. "Fancy some more, Riddle-boy? I know you want it."
He felt a suddenly rage of anger and humiliation. The other boys laughed as though it were the funniest thing in the world. He snarled and shoved the Popsicle into the Muggle's grinning face.
The grin faded fast. For a moment, Tom felt a plateau of satisfaction, seeing the big smear across the shocked, freckled face—and then he was on the ground, his face throbbing from the blow that had landed on his cheek.
"Little bastard!" Roger shouted and kicked his ribs—hard. He cried out, unable to bite it in. Something had cracked. "This is it. You are going to worship toilet water. C'mon, boys!"
He struggled, but it was three against one, and he was so much smaller, and his ribs hurt. In a matter of seconds, his hands were in a tight, iron grip, and he was lifted into the air, two rough hands grabbing his struggling feet—
"Mum!" he screamed in desperation. Roger laughed and spat in his face.
He felt panic, then, and fear, and hatred and anger, and he tried to concentrate on magic, tried to call it up and melt Roger's stupid, laughing face, but it didn't respond. Sweat was dripping into his eyes and he tried to wipe his face against his arm to get rid of the spit, but he couldn't, they were taking him, he was utterly helpless—
"Mum!" he screamed. Panic rose like a hideous cloud—
"SEVERUS!" he shouted, and in a jarring moment, he wasn't there anymore. There was no heat, there was no thirst, the boys had vanished, there was only an endless emptiness—but in another moment he was there again, sweaty and struggling.
"MUM!" he screamed again, and he thought: why do I call for her? She is so young still, I need— A flickering of darkness; the images contorted and faded—I need Severus—
It was like drowning. He opened his mouth to shout again, but he was falling, and the void stretched over all his senses, and he mouthed the name again, feebly, but nothing came to wrench him out, to pull him through. It was over.
He fell deeper and deeper into darkness.
The fire in the hearth had sunk to a few glittering coals.
Snape sat up suddenly. He looked around quickly for a moment, but then slowly sank back into his pillows.
A low moan sounded in the room.
Snape turned his back to the sound and squeezed his eyes shut.
There was the sound of rustling cloth. There was another low moan, or perhaps slurred words.
Snape opened his eyes for a moment before squeezing them shut again, more tightly than before. He pulled the sheets more firmly around himself and folded the pillow over his head to block out the sound. His hands were clenched into fists.
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence and quiet, slow breathing. And there was another moan, groggy and pained—
Snape's eyes snapped open and he abruptly sat up. He turned his head and looked at the direction of his roommate. For a moment he seemed to be poised, reading to spring out of bed in his tattered nightgown, but then he flung himself back down onto his own bed and stuffed his fingers into his ears.
Another moan, this one ending with a gasp…
Snape turned his back to the sound again and curled into a tight ball. He could feel that strange something coming form his roommate. Always before, he would have clambered out of his bed and awakened the tortured sleeper, but tonight—
Not tonight.
He squeezed his eyes so tightly it hurt and clenched his fists until his fingernails were digging deeply into his palm.
And suddenly it was over. There was no strange something nagging at his mind. There were no groans or miserable moans. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Snape rolled over onto his back and stared at the canopy for a long moment, holding his breath as he did so. There was no sound. Absolutely no sound at all. He stared a moment longer, wrenched with indecision and a vague, nameless fear.
He leapt out of his bed and crept hesitantly to his roommate's bed. On the way there, he groped on the wall and took down the torch.
"Candeo," he whispered, and his voice was unsteady.
He held the torch up and parted the curtains, peering through. He stared for a moment: Jonathan Frost simply looked asleep. His lips were parted slightly, his eyelids gently shut, his hair plastered over his moist face, and Snape found himself staring a moment too long. But he realized suddenly that there was no movement: no gentle rise and fall of the chest, no drifting of the eyes under the eyelids. Nothing.
When Snape reached out his hand, it was trembling. He held it over Frost's mouth, under his nose.
Nothing.
Seized by panic, he searched frantically for the pulse, moving his hands over the moist skin of the neck—
Nothing.
"Jonathan?" he whispered. "Jonathan! Jonathan, wake up!" He pointed his wand: "Ennervate! Jonathan! Frost! Jonathan—wake up!" His voice caught.
Barefoot and clad only in his nightgown, Severus Snape stumbled out of the Slytherin dormitories and raced to the hospital wing.
A/N: Here's the incantation translated from Icelandic to English:
Villtir töfrar jörðar, lofts og allurra fjörlegra hluta
Hlýðu auðmjúku kalli mínu
Og takdu við þá gjöf sem ég fórni.
Wild magic of earth, air, and all living things,
Heed my humble call
And accept this offering that I sacrifice.