A/N: This chapter would be having some major issues if not for Procyon Black and her quick and comprehensive beta. Thanks!
Chapter 8
The morning was cold, but he was relieved he had awakened. From the vague recollections of his dreams, he knew he had been on the verge of nightmares (or memories) when sleep had left him and the cold had snuck under his covers and against his skin.
"Tempus," he murmured. It was a bit past six. The others won't be up until much later, he thought, yawning and swinging his legs off the edge of his bed. He blinked groggily before staring at the empty space before him. Where was Severus's bed? Where was Severus—
Then he remembered that Severus—Snape, he corrected himself—had been mad at him for some stupid reason and was stubbornly refusing to talk, and had moved in with that idiot Crabbe. Harry shook his head quickly and padded into the loo. He came out refreshed, though a bit red from the vigorous scrubbing he'd given himself and the harsh shaving spell he'd cast.
He pulled on some clothes and glanced about, perfectly awake from all the times he'd sprung out of bed with wand in hand. The room looked exactly the same in morning as it did at night. The air felt clearer, now, but the floors and walls and ceilings were all bathed in shadows and dark red torchlight.
He thrust his wand into his pocket and walked out of his room with an air of determination, coolly pushing aside the memories of the quivering house-elf. There was no point in thinking about it; all he needed to do was get the Keys, and enter the Founder's Nest, but to do that, he needed to transfer the tracking spell—
He stopped in the space adjoining the three rooms of the dormitory, unclenching his fists. He turned and moved to the door in the middle. Is he still asleep? Harry wondered. He put his ear on the door and listened intently. Silence.
Reminding himself that Se—Snape was still mad at him for some unknown reason, Harry turned the knob and pushed, entering the room as silently as a shadow. He closed the door behind him and moved quietly over to Snape's bed. Hooked nose, thin lips, the slight, persistent frown on the forehead. Harry felt a smile glow on his face. He's beautiful, he thought.
Harry started. Beautiful? his brain squawked. Where did that come from? He looked around nervously. He's not beautiful, he told himself firmly. He's ugly. The sentiment felt as hollow as a dead tree. He is ugly, he repeated to himself, stubbornly. He frowned. The nose was far too large for so thin a face; the lips seemed rather twitchy; the hair was greasy, and would probably felt disgusting if he were to run his fingers through it; the skin was sallow, though it looked golden in the smoky light…
He shook his head again, sharply. He was wasting time.
He took out his wand and gripped it firmly, clearing his mind as he did so. Keeping his eyes fixed on Snape, he reached into the back of his consciousness and found the odd buzzing that was Dumbledore's tracking spell. Harry gripped it, pulling it the way he'd pull a burr off his robes—it came off, and jiggled precariously like a lump of jelly. But it did not fall apart.
Then, with the utmost caution, he let the spell dissolve into Snape, feeling it unravel and latching onto a new victim. Harry shivered, slightly, and waited tensely. But Snape's frown only deepened, and Harry felt a peculiar twinge somewhere in his chest. The creased brow stayed for a few moments before the thin lips parted, and the forehead smoothed until only a line or two of an uneasy dream were left.
Harry realized that he was staring again, and suppressed a spike of irritation. You're wasting valuable time, he thought, berating himself. You'll have to take the spell back by lunch; he has Ancient Runes, you have Charms. He stood up. With one last look, he strode decisively out of the dormitory, casting a strong disillusionment charm as he did so.
The crisp morning air refreshed him. It was time, at last, for his plans to come to fruition. It was a time, at last, for answers, for this dark entanglement of mysteries to be undone. He felt free as the wind, but he also felt more than a bit nervous. He could remember the solemn majesty when he had first invoked the Nest, just as he could remember the long years of nothingness and solitude. He shivered. I'm going to make Severus speak to me today, he thought suddenly.
Windows began appearing on the walls, letting in splotches of pale, morning sunshine. Not here, a bit further, Harry thought. Ah. The Hufflepuff common room guardian. The pudgy gardener in the portrait, who wore drab tan robes and was bald except for a ring of hair above his ears, was snoring peacefully. Now I wait, thought Harry, and leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. Shouldn't Hufflepuffs be early risers? Harry wondered and spotted a spider crawling down the wall above his head. He moved aside.
Finally, when Harry was on the verge of forcing his way inside, the portrait swung open and a gaggle of fifth-year girls came out. Harry slipped inside, nearly bumping into a sneaky-looking third-year boy.
How do the Hufflepuffs stand looking down? Harry thought as he stole towards a shadowy corner. The carpet was a blazing shade of yellow, made worse by the light that seemed to enjoy bouncing right back into his eyes. The walls were a bit better, though half the tapestries depicted plump women tending gardens.
At least the statues are tolerable, Harry thought, looking around at the six corners. Each corner had a black bronze statue of a badger the size of a small child. Bit of an overkill, though. He scrutinized each one, and stopped when he came to the sculpture of a badger poised with its front paws on a rock.
Harry took a deep breath. He approached it, and cast a second, stronger disillusionment charm about himself, as well as a silencing spell. After waiting until the common room was empty, he whispered, "Lady Helga, the hour of need is here at hand; by labor and by loyalty, we firmly stand." Nothing happened. Nothing's supposed to happen, Harry reminded himself, not after just saying a stupid rhyme. He looked around cautiously. But the first time he'd done it—Merlin, how long ago was it? four years?—Hermione had been so excited she had somehow tripped on Ron's foot and fallen onto Harry. After the three of them had finished snapping nervously at each other, Ron had attempted to calm Hermione by pulling her into his arms and nuzzling her neck, which only got her royally annoyed, which led to some spectacular bickering—
Harry jerked out of those thoughts. His heart was pounding, and pain throbbed in his soul with each beat. Don't think of it, he thought, swallowing hard. He put his hands around the oblong rock under the badger's front paws. Now, all I need to do is think loyal thoughts. He frowned, concentrated… No, not Dumbledore, he thought quickly. The first image of Dumbledore that he saw in his mind was not that of warm blue eyes, but icy cold ones, and right after that came the nightmarish vision of Dumbledore with his eyes gouged out— Think of James, or Lily, Harry thought desperately. For a moment he thought he might succeed, as he conjured one of the pictures in the ageing album he had left behind: his mother and father, smiling happily and waving out at him. But another image encroached the memory—the image of his father, sneering with careless arrogance, his mother, shouting angrily; the memory of her telling him that she never wanted to talk to him again—
No, Harry thought abruptly. It's useless. Four years ago, he had thought of Dumbledore, and his parents, and Sirius, but now… He could hear footsteps. Damn it, he thought. Loyalty. To whom am I loyal? His mind was blank. He squeezed his eyes together and thought, but could think of nothing, nothing at all—
He opened his eyes in defeat. I'm loyal to nobody, he thought, feeling empty. No one at all. But worst of all was that it was no big surprise. From the moment he'd put on his mask and smiled at the crowds of terrified Aurors and sent them to their deaths, he had expected it. Just like honor, or justice, or morality, or—he snorted disdainfully, bitterly—love, or any of those things. They were dead to him.
I'll just have to wrench it out, Harry thought grimly. And if that doesn't work, I'll have to do some tricky self-confundus spells.
He moved aside as a flood of Hufflepuff girls nearly ran into him. They're all heading for breakfast, Harry thought, a bit enviously. He was suddenly aware of his hunger. Two years of nothing but nutrition potions (he shuddered) and days on the field with nothing to eat had taught him to savor food. As long as I'm there at about the same time as Severus is, thought Harry, then Dumbledore won't suspect… He wondered, briefly, if Snape was still mad at him, or if he'd open up and finally talk. Knowing him, probably the former, Harry thought dryly. But he couldn't suppress a small spark of hope—
The stone under the badger's paws came free.
Harry stared at the piece of black bronze. Then, after taking out his wand and quickly spelling an illusory rock in its place, he darted out of the Hufflepuff common room, following the tide of second year girls.
It came free, he thought, skirting around a major corridor in favor for a smaller, darker one. It came free—when I thought of Severus. He was about to correct himself, but he thought angrily, suddenly, What's wrong with calling him Severus? He was nearing the Slytherin common room. Nothing. Everything. Why? The very notion that he should hold any loyalty—loyalty of all emotions!—towards Severus Snape—it was—
Harry remembered just in time to dissolve the disillusionment charms about him before he plunged into the common room, told himself not to look around for Snape, went into his dormitory, and hid the oblong slab of bronze under his bed and numerous spells of secrecy.
The common room was mostly empty when he emerged. Most of the students had gone to breakfast. I wonder if S…nape woke up in time, Harry thought, and felt a momentary impulse to backtrack and just peer into the room adjacent to his. But he shook himself and went into the Great Hall.
The Slytherin table was nearly full. Harry scanned the length of the table and found Snape hunched over at the end seat, wearing a set of tattered robes. There was one chair open next to him, and Harry made a beeline towards it.
"Hello," Harry said cheerfully, slipping into the chair.
The effect was instantaneous. Snape knocked over a glass of orange juice and nearly choked on a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Just as Harry was about to pull Snape out of his seat and do the Heimlich maneuver, the other Slytherin swallowed and drew himself up until he was as stiff as a poplar wand, and stared straight ahead.
"You all right?" Harry asked, waving his wand to clear up the spreading puddle of juice.
"I am perfectly fine, thank you," Snape replied frostily.
Harry shrugged. "That's good." He reached for a piece of toast from the toast rack, feeling very aware of how tensely Snape was sitting next to him. I'm not going to bite him, Harry thought. There's not need for him to be so strung up. And where's the marmalade pot? He glanced over the table. It's usually right in front of me, but today— Then he saw it, sitting on the other side of Snape's plate, a bit towards the middle of the table. Harry opened his mouth to ask Snape to pass it, but, instead, he reached over languidly and grabbed the pot. Snape stiffened. He's so close, thought Harry, retracting his arm. His heart was beating too fast.
"Very polite of you, Frost," Snape sneered after regaining his equanimity.
Harry smiled. "Yes, I know. I have impeccable manners, don't I?"
Snape opened his mouth to retort, but snapped it shut. No response, thought Harry, looking down and spreading marmalade over his toast. Oh well. He bit into his breakfast and wondered what to say.
"So," said Harry, clearing his throat. What did Professor Camentum say we were going to work on today? Er… oh yeah. "Ah—we're working on the Verisimilitude Potion today, aren't we?"
"Yes," Snape answered warily.
"The instructions looked quite complicated." He thought hard and remembered something… something about usage of hemlock with milkweed. "I don't really remember the part about hemlock and milkweed. I mean, I know we stir it counterclockwise to undo the toxic properties, but…"
Snape swallowed his mouthful of eggs. His glass of orange juice filled up by itself.
"Um, was the next step adding salamander blood? I mean, it might make sense, since salamander blood is supposed to direct specific properties of the milk—I mean, the hemlock—" He stopped. "Or was it milkweed?"
Snape drained his glass of juice and stared ahead stonily.
You'd better shut up now, Harry thought, and bit into his toast. He's probably sneering at how stupid you are inside that head of his. He gave Snape a sideways glance. The other Slytherin had stopped eating, and was just staring at his plate. At least I hope so. I wish he'd say what he was thinking, even if it's the worst things…
"Yes, I'm sure," Snape said, at length. His voice was toneless and cold. He set down his fork and napkin. "Now, please excuse me…"
It was on the verge of Harry's lips to shout no!, to force Snape to stop and give an explanation, to make the other man talk—but Harry didn't; he couldn't make a scene in the Great Hall. He watched Snape disappear into the milling crowd of students.
As it turned out, the Verisimilitude Potion did indeed require salamander blood, but the blood was to be added after the powdered fairy wings, and not after the milkweed and hemlock.
"Do I put it in now?" Harry asked, poised with a handful of diced frog spleen over the serenely bubbling cauldron. They were partners again, by default. Snape hadn't said a word besides parroting off, in a terse voice, the instructions, or snapping angrily or muttering under his breath as he counted the time.
"Not yet," Snape answered in a clipped tone.
Harry waited a moment. "N—"
"Now!"
Harry scattered the spleen over the potion. The color changed from yellow to a translucent green. Good, that's right, thought Harry, and he glanced up at Snape's face. They were standing opposite to each other. Like enemies, thought Harry. Snape was looking away studiously. Why is he so afraid of meeting my eyes? Harry wondered.
"The quail feathers," Severus snapped.
"What? Oh! Right." Harry quickly snatched up a quail feather and stroked a figure eight on the potion surface.
"Exstinguo," Snape muttered, jabbing his wand at the flame. The fire went out in a brief breath of smoke. Snape slumped back and leaned against his desk, eyes still fixed on the floor.
Harry leaned over the cauldron and peered at the softly bubbling concoction. "Is everything right?"
"Yes," Snape muttered, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"That's good, then," said Harry, and leaned back against the desk behind him. "I'll clean up then, shall I?"
Snape nodded, tight-lipped. Talk to me, Harry wanted to say. But instead, he levitated some frog guts into the waste bin, and cast a scouring charm on the tabletop. Every movement he made seemed to creak with a ropy tension that tangled the air between them.
Abruptly, Snape stood. Harry stopped, his wand pointed at a bit of powdered pixie wings that had spilled onto the floor. He opened his mouth, but with a swish of robes, Snape was stalking up the aisle towards Professor Camentum.
Harry bent his head over the bubbling cauldron and stirred his wand in Snape's direction. The sounds began to separate, pulling apart like strands of spider webs in the wind, and one voice passed over another, until—
"—regards to the potions project."
The potions project? Harry wondered. There was a pause. Harry waited intently. Finally, Camentum spoke. "Well, is Mr.…"
"Frost," Snape said.
"Is Mr. Frost aware of this?"
"No, but there is a reason he doesn't know." Snape's voice was low, smooth, unhurried. He's lying, Harry realized suddenly, recognizing the tone for what it was. "Though I have tried to accommodate his behavior, I find it impossible to work with him productively."
Harry frowned. What is he talking about? "Well, certainly you may exchange partners," said Camentum, "but have you found someone willing to switch with Mr. Frost?"
Harry felt his stomach clench. So he wants to switch partners, does he? And he knows that I'd have none of it, so he thinks he can manage it without me knowing. The sneaking bastard! Harry took a deep breath and kept his wand steady. "No," Snape said reluctantly, after a pause. "But it still stands, sir, that—"
"Snape," Camentum interrupted. His voice was patient and slow. "If you cannot find another partner to work with, I'm afraid you must work with Mr. Frost."
"But sir, is it not possible that I complete the project on my own? Though traditionally—"
"Traditionally, all the NEWTS preparatory final projects are composed of partners, a notion that some historians allege to be in honor of the Sacred Band of Thebes. If, Mr. Snape, this class had an odd number of students, I would be willing to make an exception for you. But as things are, I'm afraid you will have to work with Mr. Frost." Camentum's tone became more genial, more kindly. "And your work together seems most satisfactory."
Snape was silent for a moment. "Thank you, sir," he said stiffly.
Harry quickly broke the auditory spell. He resumed his task, mechanically flicking his wand and sending little streamers of pixie dust or pieces of ground figs into the rubbish bin. He looked up, and for the first time that day, his eyes met Snape's. He felt his breath catch in his throat, and then he looked away quickly. From of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape do the same.
"What did you ask Camentum?" Harry queried nonchalantly. He scoured the floor around their worktables and found that there was nothing left to clean.
"Nothing," Snape muttered, leaning back against his table and folding his arms over his chest again. His gaze was fixed on the floor. Harry adopted the same pose and noticed, a second time, that Snape was no longer wearing the set of robes Harry had lent him, but his own threadbare ones. His pride probably couldn't stand it, Harry thought with a sudden bite of anger and bitterness.
"D'you think you can meet me later today to do some research?" Harry asked, lifting his chin and staring at Snape's face.
Snape shifted, as though he could feel Harry's gaze, and a lock of oily hair fell over the sallow face. "Research by yourself, Frost," Snape replied, and then looked up, a sneer on his face. His eyes flashed darkly. "Surely you do not require my supervision."
"I need you to keep me from getting distracted," Harry replied archly. His eyes were locked with Snape's now, and it was like falling into a smoldering pit of darkness. He couldn't turn away even if he wanted to.
A vein in Snape's temple twitched. "Don't worry, Frost," he hissed in a low voice and leaned forward slightly. "I won't be keeping you from ogling that Mudblood bitch."
Harry found himself clenching the tabletop so hard his fingernails hurt. "You don't want to say that again, Snape," he whispered, voice as tightly calm as a dueler's grip on his wand. "You really don't."
Snape's lips curled into the parody of a smile. "Defending her now, are you, Frost?" He leaned forward infinitesimally, and Harry could suddenly feel his heart pounding a hole through his chest. He could, in fact, almost smell the other man— "Do you not wish to hear me speak of her as what she is…? A Mudblood b—"
"Professor," Harry interrupted in a cool, flat voice. He nodded at Camentum, who was heading towards them with a placid expression on his face.
Snape drew back immediately, his face closing like the moon behind clouds and his gaze dropping to the ground. Harry stared at that face, that oversized nose and glittering eyes. His blood was still singing through his veins.
"Let me see now," Camentum said, dipping a ladle into the translucent potion. "Very good viscosity, a bit on the opaque side, but…" He brought the potion to his nose and sniffed. "Otherwise excellent. Good consistency, too."
Camentum dropped the ladle, gave both Slytherins a brief smile, and moved to the next potion.
Snape continued to stare at the ground. His arms were crossed sulkily over his thin chest and tattered robes, and a curtain of hair had fallen over his face. Look up, Harry willed mentally, but Snape only turned around and slipped into a chair, flipping open the Potions text and pretending to read while scowling deeply.
You're staring, Harry snapped at himself. He shook his head sharply and slipped into his chair, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead and his face as expressionless as stone. For a moment he wanted to laugh. Last night, he thought, you were so determined to make him speak to you, just like some idiot kid in a fight with his best friend. He snorted mentally. You are a fool, Potter. After all these years, still an utter fool.
He glanced at Snape. Words abruptly returned to him, as if someone else had spoken them: He's beautiful. He hurriedly tried to dismiss that thought as well, to slap it down scornfully, but found that he couldn't. He looked away quickly, feeling… feeling so strange, as though someone had lit a fire in him, burning and aching and making him—
Harry took a deep breath. It's always Snape, he thought. Perhaps it was some magical aura Snape was born with, and he was allergic to it. It doesn't matter, though. Snape doesn't matter here. I just need to get the keys and get into the Nest, and find a way back home. Home to war, and his responsibilities, and his ceaseless fate.
Lunch was a silent affair. Harry still sat next to Snape, but only because no other seats were open. He didn't attempt to start any conversations with Snape. He simply ate, mechanically and dutifully, and looked over every so often, when his spoon was halfway to his mouth, or when he reached for the ketchup… It felt as though a writhing, unresolved mass hovered between them, and Harry felt that it was going to quietly drive him mad—
He quickly finished his lunch. While wiping his mouth, he took out his wand, and searched for the tracking spell on Snape. He found it, and gently detached it, scrupulously careful not to glance in Snape's direction. He finished wiping his mouth, left, and went to the library, where he found a Hufflepuff first year girl poring over a giant book that was twice her size and which delved into the various and versatile properties of mugwort. Good, Madam Pince is way over there, Harry thought. He promptly cast sleeping and disillusionment charms on the girl (sorry, he thought without much feeling) and levitated her gently snoring body into an untouched corner of the library, in the section about ancient goblin laws that didn't manage to get passed by the General Goblin Gathering of 879 AD.
Now, to Ravenclaw, thought Harry after sliding the tracking spell onto the sleeping Hufflepuff.
To his dismay, he found himself waiting again, and this time outside the stately Ravenclaw common room. He had thought that, in the after-lunch rush, he might sneak in without dally, that his mind would be able to stay suspended in his body's actions.
No such luck, he thought. He sighed and leaned back against the wall. Cleanse your mind of emotions, he thought dully, remembering from the Occlumency lessons he'd received from the Masters. Be the air beneath the sun when the rain-clouds have cleared. It was hard. Thoughts about Snape would stray into his mind, making him feel so—so confused, and so—
The sound of many feet broke his reverie. He darted aside as a three or four seventh year Ravenclaws approached, laughing and talking to themselves. Finally, thought Harry. He quickly spelled a strong invisibility charm over himself, and felt it washing over his skin like a sheet of icy water. It's taken them long enough to get back. I wonder—
"…talent, but considering the environment Potter was raised—"
"Oh, spoiled is spoiled, but he's still damn good with his wand," said a Ravenclaw wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses.
Harry frowned, listening carefully.
"I still say it's because of his upbringing. I mean, he's incredibly in touch with the Wizarding traditions, and if he hadn't been a Potter, I'd be shocked that he ended up in Gryffindor." The speaker, a thin and lanky boy with hair that already showed a bit white, stopped in front of a portrait of a graceful satyr. "Gnaritas."
The portrait sunk in and slid open. The Ravenclaws clambered in one by one, and Harry darted in swiftly as the painting moved back in place.
"Still, Potter's Transfiguration is better than anyone's—"
"Except for maybe Black," said the bespectacled Ravenclaw, who wrinkled his nose at the name.
"Maybe," conceded his companion, "but I've never seen someone do that bit of human transfiguration."
The other Ravenclaws snickered. "Yeah. Bet Snape'll have a hard time sleeping tonight." They laughed.
Snape. Harry felt a surge of anger that burned up through his body; he had an urge to cast a jinx or two on these sniggering, sauntering Ravenclaws—not to mention Black and Potter. But underneath his anger was a cold sense of guilt and confusion.
Don't think about him! Harry snarled.
The Ravenclaws streamed in endlessly, and Harry couldn't help hearing their conversations, noticing that more than half of them was about whatever Potter and Black had done to that 'slimy Slytherin.' I suppose they all stayed and watched, Harry thought with cold fury. I suppose they just stood there and did nothing—
He shut his eyes. Calm down, he told himself, unclenching his fists around his wand. Clear your mind. Calm down. He opened his eyes after the storm of anger had subsided, but he felt a shudder of cruel dislike when he saw that gaggle of idiot Ravenclaws.
The tide of students didn't abate. Harry glanced at the ornate mantle clock that sat on the bronze mantel of the Ravenclaw fireplace. I've only ten minutes left, thought Harry.
He sighed and took out his wand and pointed it at himself. I'm not sure it'll work, he thought. But here goes nothing. "Fluito."
He could feel his weight draining away, trickling off as though a warm furnace had blown away all the cold droplets. The contrast between the iciness of the Invisibility Charm and the buoyant warmth of the Weightless Spell felt… very strange—
A Ravenclaw standing a few feet away with a red-splotched test paper in her hand sighed in his direction, and Harry felt the movements of air waft him backwards. Not a very practical spell, Harry thought, grabbing the light-blue tiled walls and pushing himself up. He floated like smoke. I should stay next to the wall…
He looked up and kicked himself off the ground. Up he drifted, his eyes still fixed on the painting of an eagle holding a quiver of arrows in its claws. The painting was halfway up the lofty Ravenclaw tower. It's so high up I doubt anyone from down below would actually be able to notice if one of the arrows in the painting were missing…
He pulled himself up, clinging to the cracks between the stones. Almost there, he thought. He glanced down briefly. Everybody looked so small, milling about and peering down obsessively at books or parchment of tests. None of them looked up. That's Ravenclaw to you, thought Harry.
With a final tug, he drifted in front of the painting.
"Greetings," Harry whispered.
The eagle turned its solemn head a fixed Harry with a baleful stare, as though daring him to attempt to take one of the arrows it guarded.
"I ask you, on behalf of the witches and wizards that call this castle home—I ask you to bequeath upon me an arrow of your wisdom, so that I may open the Nest and use that knowledge to defeat the great evil that threatens this world." Harry lowered his voice even further, and surreptitiously kicked his legs to keep himself from sinking. "Cuidigh liom, a Choimeádaí Eolais."
The eagle continued to stare. Harry stared back, letting down the guards of his Occlumency. The trick with Ravenclaw was truth, that high, Socratic ideal. I'm more of a Nietzsche fellow, thought Harry. But it's not as though I have anything to hide from the eagle, he thought firmly. His intentions were clear, and Hogwarts… Hogwarts was his home.
The eagle intensified its stare. It had been difficult to lay open his mind the first time he'd sought for the Ravenclaw key, and now… He suppressed the mental flinch he felt whenever he felt the phantom of Legilimency ghost across his memories. Images floated before his eyes: scenes from his childhood, scenes of his time as a Hogwarts student, scenes of the nightmarish hell at the end of sixth year, scenes of his recuperation and learning in the Nest, scenes of the war, and scenes—
Suddenly he felt the direction of the probing veer aside, and Harry felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. Images flashed by—images from his dreams, images of hatred and torment, of hot, concrete orphanages and rages so intense they burned the world— No! Harry screamed in his mind, but, with sheer strength of will, held his mind open—
And then the direction changed again, as quickly as a raw whiplash. He saw Snape, youngish looking with scowl and frown; Snape, snapping suspiciously; Snape, comforting him in the hazy dark of the night, so close and safe and warm and—
Harry slammed his mind shut.
He returned the eagle's stare. Shit. I've screwed things up, he thought. His heart was pounding too fast, his breathing coming too quickly… He had never felt so open and vulnerable before, nor so utterly naked… not even when the Death Eaters had taken him.
They continued to stare at each other, even when Harry began to drift into sideways position. And then the eagle turned its head slightly. Harry couldn't read any expression in those fierce eyes, though he thought there seemed to be a bit of a sad, knowing tilt to the noble head. But it was permission enough. Harry reached forward with an unsteady hand and pulled the arrow from the quiver.
"Thank you," Harry said softly, voice a bit hoarse and shaky. The eagle seemed not to notice. Harry slowly dissipated the spell that kept him afloat, transfigured the arrow into a quill, and idly tucked it into his robes.
What is wrong with me? he thought, frustrated and aggravated. Why did I react so strongly to… memories of him? He shuddered, still feeling rather weak. He understood why it had been so jarring when Voldemort's memories had been dragged up to the surface of his mind: he had been unprepared to relive them, those memories of the nightmares—or memories of memories, whatever they were. But the remembrances of Severus…
He shivered. His feet gently touched the ground, and he felt the last of his weight return, jarring him so that he nearly stumbled into a convoluted statue of something that resembled a waterfall.
I've got five more minutes before I'm late for Charms, Harry thought as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The crowd in the Ravenclaw common room had thinned out when he reached the ground. Prompt scholars, each and every one of them. But first, I need to get to the library. He waited for a frantic looking second year to dash out of the common room before hurrying out behind her.
As it turned out, he was late for Charms anyway, but only by a minute. The Hufflepuff girl had been rather uncooperative. She had stayed asleep even when he'd lifted all the charms from her, and he had had to prod her rather forcefully to awaken her. Then he had had to dash back down to the Slytherin dormitory to retrieve his Charms book and then hurry to the Charms classroom (which was at the other end of the school).
"Sorry," he said sheepishly, slipping into his seat next to Lily Evans as Flitwick gave him a reproving look.
Harry ducked his head and turned to see Lily giving him a more intense version of Flitwick's. Oh God, a second Hermione. Or rather, the first?
Charms was boring. They were once again working on the Patronus charm, and Harry was once again delegated as helper. Some of them will never succeed, Harry thought, watching a Gryffindor boy hold his wand so tightly that Harry was surprised it didn't break. Some of them can't think of the right things. Some of them don't know what to hold onto, what to remember.
But he smiled at them and spoke encouraging words, walking and talking like a machine. From the window he could see that the sky outside was gray and overcast, and that a wind was blowing across the chilled grounds. Harry shivered, and backed into a corner, hoping that none of the students would go to him for help. He wanted to watch. He wanted to forget.
He thought of Severus.
Don't, he berated himself. Find a distraction—just don't think of him…
"Lily, I think you're still trying too hard," Harry called over the various strained incantations the other students were grinding out. Lily Evans was off by herself, holding her wand straight ahead with her elbows locked and her eyes squeezed shut. "What memory are you using?"
Lily sighed exhaustedly and opened her eyes. "Going to the zoo with my sister," she said, a spark of defiance in her voice.
With Petunia? Harry was taken aback for a moment. "Are you are on good terms with your sister?"
"Yes," Lily said flatly, not meeting his eyes.
Harry shifted. "I don't have any siblings," he said quietly. "But I imagine you must love your sister very much."
"I do." Lily's voice was soft. "She wa—is very sweet to me, all the time. You know, the first year I was here, she sent me letters every week on Sunday for the entire school year. She'd always ask me all sorts of things, like the classes I took and the people I met, and…" Lily looked down. "I forgot, sometimes, to reply to her, because—there was so much here, and other times I said too much." Her eyes looked troubled. "But"—she took a deep breath—"we are very close, Petunia and I. I love her very much."
Harry nodded. "I think," he said slowly, "that when thinking of a Patronus, you must not try to forget the bad things. When there's a dementor nearby, you can't help remembering the bad things. But… you can't forget the good things, and if you manage to remember, and know that they'll be with you no matter what…"
He stopped. Lily was looking at him intently, and he looked down, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.
"So you… still accept the bad parts, but just don't let the bad parts ruin the good parts? Is that what you mean?"
Harry nodded. "Yes." Lily smiled at him and then took a deep breath, holding her wand with a determined air. I'm such a liar, Harry thought. He wondered idly what had compelled him to lie, and if the lie really was a lie, or if it was something else as well. Perhaps I'm just a bit—peaky today, he thought. He took a deep breath and told himself that he was not going to think of Snape, nor of what the Hufflepuff badger had made him feel, nor what the Ravenclaw eagle had made him see.
Suddenly, Lily gasped. Harry looked up, and saw that a silvery mass had poured out of the end of her wand. It glowed brightly, and just before it disappeared, Harry thought it resembled a thing.
"Wow," Lily breathed.
"Wow," Harry agreed, though his voice sounded dry and a bit sarcastic.
Lily sent him an irritated look, but smiled blindingly right afterwards.
"I did it," she whispered, voice full of awe. "I did it!"
Harry smiled, and found that it wasn't too difficult. "You did indeed." His lips twisted a bit as he said, awkwardly, "Good job." He was unused to being so sincere.
Lily smiled again, but this time it was directly entirely at him. "Thanks, Jonathan. I couldn't have done it without your help." She looked down, blushing slightly. Harry opened his mouth to reply but she looked up with a shadow of nervousness on her face.
"Um… about the Charms project…" She paused, and then plunged on. "I've read on the sacrificial rituals, and realized that—well, what we didn't shouldn't have worked. There wasn't enough blood, for one, for that type of sacrifice, and that there are many other kinds of sacrifices that don't require such… cruelty. And since you were—um—"
"Since I fainted?" Harry supplied.
"Yes, since you—er—fainted, I thought that perhaps we could try exchanging positions, so that you would be the summoner and I the conduit?"
"Of course," Harry said quickly. I'm glad she brought it up, he thought. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the whole fiasco, which had ended up with Dumbledore stationing a bloody house-elf to spy on him, and Snape being mad at him for some unknown reason—
Don't think of it, Harry told himself firmly.
Charms ended soon afterwards, with only half the class capable of producing even the faintest mist from their wands. Lily Evans had busied herself, swooping from person to person and helping them while Flitwick beamed at his protégé. Harry stood in the shadow next to a window. The wind outside had increased, and darkness had fallen.
"For all of you who can't manage a Patronus, listen," Flitwick called from his tower of cushions. "The Patronus charm is an immensely difficult charm, and certain people simply have the ability to do it, while others do not. It has nothing to do with your skill at Charms, and it certainly won't be tested on your NEWT's."
A collective sigh went up at this, and the room sagged with relief.
"Off with you, now!" Flitwick cried as the students filed out the door. "Nasty weather we're having… Hope it clears in time for the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tryouts…"
Harry slipped out of the classroom. Still an hour or two before dinner, he thought, and watched Lily Evan's retreating back. I wonder who's in the library right now…
This time, it was a Slytherin first year boy who ended up dozing peacefully with the tracking spell in the section about ancient goblin laws that failed to pass before the General Goblin Gathering of 879 AD. He shouldn't be missed, thought Harry as he made his way towards Gryffindor tower. Nobody misses Slytherins, much less first year boys.
He stopped in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, wrapped in an impenetrable disillusionment charm. It's too familiar, he thought sadly. Inside the portrait would be the crimson common room, with its soft couches and warm, wide sofas. Inside would be memories. But inside wouldn't be home. It hadn't been home in a long, long time.
The portrait swung open abruptly, and a gaggle of boisterous fourth years poured out. As the last one clambered over the threshold, Harry darted in, blinking as his eyes were assailed by the burst of crimson and scarlet and gold. Very bright, thought Harry.
The portrait opened behind him. Harry moved aside, and his heart skipped a beat when he noticed who entered.
Sirius Black came in first, snickering under his breath; next came James Potter, who looked as though he'd been having a good long laugh; trailing behind him were Remus Lupin, smiling wanly, and Pettigrew, who had some difficulty climbing over the threshold.
"Maybe he'll cut it off instead," Potter said between giggles and gasps.
Sirius Black roared with laughter.
Potter opened his mouth again, but then snapped it shut.
Harry turned, and saw why. Lily Evans had stood up, very slowly, from where she had been sitting, surrounded by mounds of books.
"Lily," said Potter, after a pause. The entire room seemed to have gone quiet.
Lily Evans simply turned around and walked up the staircase of the girl's dormitory.
"Lily! Wait—" Potter ran to the bottom of the stairs. "EVANS!"
There was a sound of a door slamming.
Potter turned around, running a hand angrily through his hair. "What're you staring at?" he demanded at the common room. All heads turned immediately, and a faint and excited whisper rose in the crowd.
"Calm down, James," Black said lazily. He doesn't sound very soothing, thought Harry, moving aside as Potter stomped back to his friends. "She's not worth it."
"What do you mean, she's not worth it?" Potter snapped.
"There's still plenty of other girls out there," Black said in a reasoning tone. "Like Goodman, Charlotte Goodman, in Ravenclaw." A smug look flowered on his face. "And I know for a fact that she's pining after you, James."
Potter glared. "You just don't get it, Sirius," he snarled and whirled around, storming towards the boy's dormitory.
Black leapt to his feet. "Hey, James! Wait—"
"You don't get it!" Potter shouted back. "You just don't get it, Sirius!" He ran up the stairs, slammed into a third year Gryffindor, swore, and disappeared.
Interesting, thought Harry. Though… don't get what?
"Don't get what?" Black muttered, echoing Harry's thoughts. He collapsed onto a couch, and shifted one of the scarlet pillows.
"It's obvious, Sirius," Remus Lupin said negligently, sitting back and opening a book.
"Tell me then, Mr. Moony," Black snapped irritably.
Lupin opened his mouth, but it was someone else who answered.
"It's love, isn't it?" Pettigrew blurted out.
Harry blinked in surprise and turned to look who had spoken. Pettigrew was sitting on a chair while the other Marauders were reclining in sofas. He seemed a bit nervous, as though afraid to be wrong, and he wrinkled his nose as Sirius gawked at him.
Harry felt anger mounting in him as the shock ebbed away. How dare you mention love? he thought furiously. You, who betrayed them? You, who turned traitor? You, who—
"Love?" Black burst out. "Psh! That's ridiculous."
Lupin sighed. "My dear Mr. Padfoot, Peter's right. It is love. Our Prongs is in love."
"In love?" Black said again, sounding utterly aghast and confused. "With Evans?"
"No, with you," Lupin retorted.
"Seriously, Moony—Prongs is in love with Lily Evans?"
"Yes," Lupin and Pettigrew said at once.
"Shut up, Peter," Black snapped. "And that's not true, Moony. James—he can't be in love."
Lupin sighed.
So it's love, is it? Harry thought, slowly. He turned around and carefully made his way to the other side of the room, where the fire roared in the fireplace. Love. He shoved it from his mind. It was dangerous to think of love, especially when he remembered the two weary-eyed lovers who had entered the Aurors as fresh-faced youths. They had died together, and very gruesomely. That's love, he'd told himself.
He ran one hand down the wall next to the fireplace, trying to find the right stone. Gryffindor, Gryffindor, he thought. Courage unending, valor unyielding. But you understand valor, don't you? I think I understand it now. Now that it's too late. Like that thing called love. His hand stopped, his eyes having found the stone: like all the others except for a faint carving of a griffin in its center.
My old friend, Gryffindor, Harry thought, closing his eyes and thought of Ron. Ron—who had died because of his—Harry's—foolish, valorous acts. Ron, Ron. Faithful friend unto the end, whose eyes (Harry could see them so clearly: blue, glassy, pained) never held recrimination, not even when Harry had, broken by Voldemort's power, turned his wand on his best friend and tortured him into madness.
The griffin shuddered and slid back. Harry reached inside and found what he was looking for: an unsheathed falchion, the short, one-edged sword that Gryffindor favored.
"Thank you," Harry whispered, casting an invisibility spell over the falchion. The stone slid back into place, and Harry crept back to the portrait hole, taking special care not to accidentally stab someone.
When Harry finally returned to the dormitories (after retrieving the tracking spell and releasing the first year Slytherin from his sleep, which had been a bit nerve-racking, as the young boy had blinked at him suspiciously after awakening), he was quite tired. Four Keys in one day, he thought. Not bad.
He dissolved the disillusionment charm and slumped onto his bed, enjoying the silence. The air was heavy, both from the storm outside and the usual weight of dampness. It's a bit cold, he thought and approached the fire.
There was a chair in front of the fire, and in it was folded one of his robes. He blinked at it for a moment before he realized that it was the same set he had lent Snape. He reached out a hand and touched the small, neat pile, mind slowly processing the realization: Severus. He must have put this here while I was gone. So he has returned to me what little I had given him. So he tries to cut himself from me.
He ran his hand over the fabric. These clothes, Severus had worn them, up until a day ago. Just a few hours—minutes, maybe?—Severus had entered this room, his room… Had he looked around, perhaps? Stared at the spot where his bed had been? Where he had soothed Harry after the throes of a nightmare? Harry wondered if these robes—if these robes smelled different, or felt different if—when—he wore them, or— He knelt in front of the chair and put his face onto the cloth. He took a deep breath, and let it out…
"WHY?" he snarled. "Why won't he TALK to me?" He snatched up the robes and threw them at his bed. They plummeted down like a stricken bird. "Why? Why do I even care? Why can't—what is wrong with me?" Why do I feel so strange, so unexpected when I think of him? Why am I feeling… feeling—all this? Why?
He jumped to his feet. It doesn't matter, he thought. It doesn't matter at all. I have the Keys. Tonight, I will open the Nest. And soon, I will have returned. He squashed the sudden, strange reluctance he felt at the notion. Don't think, he thought. Don't think, don't feel. He paced some more. Don't feel at all.
The night was cold. Harry breathed on his hands as he stealthily approached the gap between the bookcases. The Four Keys felt heavy in his pockets.
Sneaking out had been relatively easy. The wait had been hard. Dinner had been a silent affair, the tension between him and Severus so brittle and edgy that both he and Severus had finished in record time. But while Snape had stalked into Slytherin territory, Harry had snuck into the library to find a book and pass the time. He had managed to, after finding a tome on the worst criminals in wizard history.
He had left the library when Madam Pince had announced curfew and just as he finished reading about Elizabeth Bathory. After putting the book back onto the shelf, he had returned to his room.
And waited. And paced.
At one, he had crept out. Snape had been asleep when Harry had entered his room. The little perpetual frown had been a bit deeper, Harry thought, and the face wearier. Harry remembered thinking, with fierce satisfaction, that Snape had indeed managed to sleep soundly, no matter what trick Potter and Black had played. Though I wish I had helped him…
He'd withdrawn after that, quickly yet reluctantly. While sleeping, Snape had seemed so… open. So vulnerable. Harry could almost imagine that they were on speaking terms again, that whatever grievance Snape held (it was probably something really petty) had vanished.
Harry shook his head and looked at the shadowy corner of the library. What's become of me, he thought wearily. I've taken to gazing secretly at Snape every night. He sighed and took out the four Keys and laid them on the floor.
Four keys to a rose of five points, thought Harry. Few people knew that the Hogwarts library was constructed in the shape of a pentagon. The symbol of Venus and of war. Ravenclaw must have planned this.
He held the falchion and the arrow in one hand, and the dagger and club in the other. He pushed both hands against the walls that met at the corner of the pentagon. Let me enter, he thought, willing the door to open with all his might. Let me enter, Founders. On behalf of the sanctity of fate, let me enter…
Suddenly, the wall fell away from his hands. When he opened his eyes, it was dark, as dark as night without star or moon.
Harry took out his wand and lifted it up, feeling a spark of nervous excitement. This he could remember, this endless dark… "Lumos," he muttered. The light leapt forth like tongues of flame and he saw, sweeping up the side of the library with narrow walls on either side, a flight of stairs.
It was exactly as he remembered it.
Turning, he found the four Keys fixed to the wall behind him. All right, then, he thought. Everything is set. He looked up and began walking up the steps, swiftly but without hurrying. His mind felt feverish, as though on fire.
He came at last to a tall and narrow door. He shifted his wand into his left hand, and with his right, gave a hard push. The door creaked and slid against the floor before moaning open, and Harry stepped in.
This—this isn't what it was like, he thought, looking around with wand aloft and mouth agape.
He could remember the Nest as clearly as he could remember the green flash of the Killing Curse. Vast, empty, pentagonal, walls lined with ancient scrolls, a glowing mirror in the far corner, and in the other four, the Masters—bowls of memories, like Pensieves, but not quite. The floor, as expansive as the library below it, had been utterly bare.
But this—this— The shape at the far corner resembled the mirror of his memories, but it was dusty and dim. The Masters in the four corners were invisible, obscured by the dust and grime that seemed to hang in the very air. There was no open expanse of space. All over the floor, piled up on desks, chairs, broken tables, were scrolls—yellowing with age, cracked, rolled, open, cluttered like craggy mounds in a desert; and over everything was the dust: deep, dark, thick, and ancient.
He suddenly wished that Severus were by his side.
"Lumos maximus," Harry whispered. The light expanded. In the eerie half-light, the scrolls and rising dust seemed to be smoking piles of bodies on an ashen battlefield…
Harry took a step forward. The dust swirled up around like a choking cloud of smoke. He waved his hand in front of him, wrinkling his nose as the dust coated his face and hair and burned his nostrils. At least it's proof that I was—am here, he thought. I cleaned it up. He smiled wanly to himself and took another step. I wonder who had left this mess, though, and where all this dust came from anyway…
He stopped for a moment and looked around, the silence suddenly too oppressive. The Nest seemed dead. There was only the sound of his shuffling footsteps and the soft in and out of his breathing. Of course, he thought. You haven't awakened the Nest yet. Of course it's quiet as the dead.
He was nearly there when he saw it. In the weak yet oddly harsh light, it seemed just another haphazard pile of scrolls and broken furniture, but when he got close enough to be able to touch it if he reached out his hand, he realized that it was a shriveled body, nearly a skeleton, slumped over a cluttered table.
That certainly wasn't there when I first came a second time around, Harry thought, frozen where he stood. The body was shriveled and decayed, flesh black and bone white in the wandlight. Harry could see a mass of curly gray and white hairs on its scalp. It had been wearing some kind of thin garment, and when Harry moved closer and stirred the air, the cloth fell away, revealing more of the withered flesh.
It's little more than a skeleton, Harry told himself, stepping back. It's probably some old guy who died in here and nobody found him. He turned away to face the mirror again, but he was acutely aware of it as he moved away. Somehow it felt an ill omen to just leave it lying there… But what can I do? he thought, a bit irritably. I must awaken the Nest first.
The mirror was coated in dust and grime. It was tall and round and dim, and the ornate design around its surface seemed ancient. It is ancient, Harry reminded himself. But when he had first seen it, it hadn't reminded him of dead things, of memories and secrets that had lingered too long in the world.
"Adflare," Harry whispered, pointing his wand at the mirror.
A breeze lifted, and Harry covered his mouth and nose and closed his eyes as the dust swirled through the air. He could feel it coating his hair and face, collecting on his robes as it spiraled away and settled across the Nest.
Harry looked up, and felt his heart lift when he saw that the mirror looked almost—almost—as he had remembered it. The carvings around it glimmered silver and winked with precious stones of ruby, sapphire, emerald, and topaz. The surface itself shone brilliantly that Harry had to squint when he looked into it. He saw no reflection, but expected none. It only shows reflections after it is awakened, and the Nest with it, Harry thought. And the reflections it shows are only reflections of truth.
Taking a deep breath, he began the invocation.
"I am the stag: of seven tines,
I am a flood: across the plain,
I am a wind: on a deep lake,
I am a tear: the Sun lets fall,
I am a hawk: above the cliff,
I am a thorn: beneath the nail,
I am a wonder: among flowers,
I am a wizard: who but I
Sets the cool head aflame with smoke?"
His voice was muffled, throbbing like a deep drum. It had been different the first time he'd chanted the invocation. Then, his voice had echoed, flung back by the five walls; but this time, it seemed as though the Nest, living, were listening and whispering back to him in a hundred different tongues.
"I am a spear: that roars for blood,
I am a salmon: in a pool,
I am a lure: from paradise,
I am a hill: where poets walk,
I am a boar: ruthless and red,
I am a breaker: threatening doom,
I am a tide: that drags to death,
I am an infant: who but I
Peeps from the unhewn dolmen arch?"
The mirror shimmered. The light seemed to swirl, frothing and murmuring as his voice grew stronger. He could feel power in the room: power from the other four corners, from the walls and the ceiling, from the scrolls on the ground, from the air…
"I am the womb: of every holt,
I am the blaze: on every hill,
I am the queen: of every hive,
I am the shield: for every head,
I am the tomb: of every hope."
Harry could the feel the air on his skin and in his lungs quivering as power awoke and the mirror flashed like a blazing lighthouse. The ground groaned under his feet, and the light in the mirror grew until it cut through all his other senses. He had thrown up a hand to block the light as it pierced his eyelids, but for a moment he could hear light, smell light, taste light—
And then, like a bolt of lightning, the mirror winked out. Harry blinked in confusion: it was so dark he could barely see.
"Lumos," he whispered, holding his wand before him. He looked into the mirror.
The face that stared back at him was very pale, almost as pale and white as death. The lips were thin and cruel, and seemed to be curled in a knowing half smile. The eyes were red. There were no pupils, no irises, no whites, just red; and on the right side of the face was the Dark Mark, contrasting with terrifying sharpness against the white of the skin.
Harry gaped. The face in the mirror gaped back, and Harry saw, then, the jagged line on the forehead: the scar. His scar.
This… is me. It's— He touched his face, traced his hands over the Dark Mark. I—it can't be! He stared at his reflection. His reflection stared back. My eyes. They're red. They are Voldemort's eyes. Garbled words returned, haunting his mind: The mirror reflects… only the truth… to awaken to the truth…
The swirl of shadows and light behind him seemed to shift, and suddenly the reflection smiled. It was a cruel smile, and Harry found himself copying it. He picked up his wand—thirteen inches and a half—and traced the air, as his reflection did the same:
"Tom Marvolo Riddle."
He stepped back then, and watched his reflection take a step back as well. Just as the light in the mirror began to absorb the edges of his image into a sea of glowing white, the fiery letters rearranged themselves languidly, moving in perfect accord:
"I am Lord Voldemort."
A/N: Harry's invocation is the 'Song of Amergin', which the Gaelic druid Amergin (from 'Amhairghin', meaning 'birth of song') incanted while wresting for possession of Ireland from the Tuatha Dé Danann.
A/N2: I know that JKR never wrote about an 'invisibility charm'. Therefore, Harry either learned it during his stay in the Founder's Nest, or he invented it himself while in the Nest.