Happy Friday lovelies!
This chapter is a bit intense, a bit graphic, so please be mindful of that. I don't think I should say anything else as it may spoil things, but I hope you all enjoy the chapter. I'm going to try to update on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays this month...I'm going to try. I want to reach a certain place by the end of the month, so hopefully I achieve said goal.
Please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
Thursday, April 21st, 1977
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
In the blink of an eye, Easter Break was over and the Marauders returned to Hogwarts, only to have the threat of their impending exams looming over them; time was flying by, and it would be June before they knew it.
It was only two days since their break had ended, but James's every move was sluggish as his body was stiff with tension and stress.
Which led to the youngest Potter deciding to go for a run that particular spring afternoon; he didn't care that the sky was spraying a fine mist that gathered on his glasses, clung to his hair and clothes, and covered his exposed skin. He was far too focused on sprinting as hard and as fast as he could, and soon a slick sheen of sweat was mixed in with the water droplets sticking to him.
The tension slowly slipped from his body, and the taut wires that were wound up inside him slackened.
James thoughts were consumed with exams, and how overtly polite Evans had been recently. At first he thought her tone was sharp and icy—and he'd wondered what he'd done to piss her off this time—but realised that she was smiling and there was no acidity attached to her words. So James asked her how her break was, and she replied with an overabundance of cordiality; he might be imagining it, but there was a frosty undertone whenever she addressed him that was unsettling, and he certainly had no idea what to make of it.
Panting heavily, James jogged into the Entrance Hall: he pushed his rowdy hair backwards, and paused for a moment to catch his breath. James's hands came to rest on his hips as he greedily sucked in as much oxygen as he could, and he absently stared out of the massive front doors. The rain was pouring. There was a fresh, cleansing sort of scent in the air, and James's soul was free—as if all his worries had been washed away.
The rain was coming down with such intense fury that it almost looked like a thick, impenetrable fog; James couldn't see much past the front steps and a sliver of the courtyard.
Once he'd caught his breath, James began the trek back to the Gryffindor Tower: James removed his glasses as he meandered absentmindedly, pointing his wand at them whilst muttering a drying spell. James raised them above his head, trying to catch any of the feeble light filtering in from the vast windows that lined the right side of the corridor; once he'd made sure there weren't any smudges, he slipped them back onto his face. Just in time to crash into someone.
James instinctively put his hand on the other person's shoulder to steady them, and part of him regretted it as soon as their eyes met; Snape.
The greasy haired wizard's eyes were flashing, and he almost looked…afraid. Snape's dark, beady eyes narrowed at James, and he wretched himself from James's grip, taking several steps backwards to put some distance between them.
James should have sent a dark glower Snape's way before pushing past him. James should have kept his mouth shut, and gone about his business. He didn't. "What's the matter with you now?"
"None of your concern, Potter," Snape sneered.
James shook his head—there was an itch between his eyebrows—and said, "whatever."
James turned to walk away, and Snape nastily called after him, "you think you're better than me. You all do—you and the rest of your blood traitor friends. Not to mention your filthy mutt. Remember, I can tell everyone about what he really is whenever I want to."
It was at that point, that James Potter should have walked away. He should have swallowed his tongue and left well enough alone. For whatever reason, Snape was trying to get a rise out of him, and in spite of possessing the knowledge of such, James still took the bait.
"You really are a sorry sod, you know that?" James sighed, shoving his hands into his sweatpants' pockets as he pivoted to face Snape once more.
"And you are an arrogant cunt that walks around on two legs and spews a constant stream of vile bollocks, but doesn't get properly fucked the way it wants too, so you take it out on others," Snape snarled, drawing his wand and advancing on James.
Not even a year ago, James would instantly have drawn his own wand, or simply smashed his fist into Snape's long, hooked nose. Now, he quietly regarded the snake before him, not budging an inch. Hermione would be proud, but she'd probably also flick him and scold him for not protecting himself properly.
James could tell that Snape was just waiting for an excuse to hex him, so he didn't give him the satisfaction of reacting. "Wow. Anything else you want to say?"
"You're a bully."
James laughed dryly at that, "A bully, huh..? I'll admit that I was a twat in the past. An absolute wanker, and I behaved in an immature, even cruel manner at times—especially to you."
Snape had clearly not been expecting that, so his wand hand lowered slightly as he reeled from the admission. A second later, his wand was back in place, and he took a menacing step towards James whilst he narrowed his eyes, "what game are you playing, Potter?"
"There is no game, Snape," James sighed. "I'm just tired of all this petty shite. Plus I wasn't finished—you're the last person who should be calling someone else a bully."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me," James said coldly, "you watched. You watched as Mulciber tormented that Muggleborn a couple months, and you laughed. That boy was in the Infirmary for days, and he refused to talk anyone for well over a week after it happened."
(Draco told him about the incident: he'd been heading out to the Viaduct Courtyard with Remus, and on their way the spotted the injustice and swiftly put a stop to it. Mulciber shouted nasty threats over his shoulder and he and the rest of his brood retreated.)
Snape laughed sharply, it was a razor-like sound that sliced into your eardrums before painfully rattling around in your head. The expression on his face however, was murderous. "That's rich, coming from you. You hex people for the fun of it."
(Now that Snape was thinking about it, he couldn't recall an instance of James hexing anyone for the hell of it since the school year began.)
"I already admitted I used to be a bit of a cunt. How about instead of pointing fingers and trying to justify your actions, you admit that you're one too," James suggested, trying to figure out what Snape could possibly be thinking.
It was strange. This was probably the longest they'd both gone without hexing each other whilst conversing—even if Snape was still pointing his wand in James's face. Years of hatred, years of nasty hexes and spells from both sides, years of pungent animosity. All this time, and James was only now realising that Snape had a faint birthmark under his left eye. Strange.
"Fuck off, Potter."
James gave Snape something akin to a pitiful look. For once, he truly didn't want to fight with Snape. For once, he just wanted to go back to the Common Room, and lay his head in Hermione's lap as she stroked his head. James found no joy in tormenting Snape anymore, especially when it was abundantly clear that he was already at war within himself. "You know what? I think I will. You aren't worth it."
James pressed his lips together, and then threw a hand half-heartedly in Snape's direction, before strolling away, his back turned.
"Where do you think you're going?" Snape snarled.
"Back to my lofty tower," James drawled sardonically, taking one of his hands out of his pocket so he could push his glasses further up his nose.
It struck like lightning; it was like thousands of needles were stabbing into him, as if his flesh was being ripped clean off of his back. Acute pain: pain worse than crashing into the Quidditch Pitch at high speeds, pain worse than anything he'd ever experienced before. Just pain.
Then, as rapidly as the pain had come, it was gone, and James's eyes focused on the grooves in the stone floor. When did he get on the floor? There was a tingly feeling in the tips of his toes, and James's eyes fluttered shut. Then, nothing.
"You're not worth it." That struck a nerve.
Severus Snape hated James Potter; detested him with every fibre in his body. James was an arrogant prick, yet, he always got everything.
It was James Potter's fault that Snape had said that to Lily. If not for Potter, he and Lily would still be friends; at least that was how Snape often rationalised it to himself. Snape's rage was consuming him.
Snape knew it wasn't true, he'd seen it for a long time coming, but it was much easier to place the blame with a tangible concept—a person, a person like James Potter. It was much easier than admitting that it was his fault.
Potter aside, the pressure was mounting, he expected things of Severus; tremendous things. He expected Severus to prove how much he wished to join the ranks of his regime. There was a small part of Severus that perpetually questioned just how much he actually wanted to join the Dark Lord.
Severus was just weighing the pros and cons in his mind, when he rounded a corner and crashed into a slightly taller, hard body.
The calm way Potter carried himself only caused Severus's hatred to bubble up inside of him angrily; he was a volcano on the brink of eruption.
He could see it in Potter's eyes, he viewed Severus as being lesser. Potter thought that he was nothing.
No. No, I am a great wizard, Severus harshly scolded the seeds of doubt sprouting madly in his inner garden of tumultuous thoughts.
"You're not worth it."
Snape barely remembered what happened next, something vehement and ugly grappled with his self-control, winning and taking hold of his body. There was a vicious sort of delight that pumped through his veins as he vociferously said, "Sectumsempra!"
The delight curdled to acute horror in seconds. Before he knew it, his vision had cleared only to see James's back curve inwards slightly at the force of the spell. Severus blinked again—his wand hand falling limply to his side—and Potter was crumpling to the ground.
Pitter, patter goes the rain on the windows beside them, and the weak light seemed to gather around Potter's now still body, and that's when Snape saw it. Blood. Crimson seeped through the countless cuts in James's faded Puddlemere United jersey.
Snape approached Potter's still form with terror slick in his bloodstream, and somehow, none of it felt real. (Unknowingly he tucked his wand into his robes as he closed the remaining distance between them.)
There wasn't supposed to be so much blood. Snape instinctively stepped back when he realised a pool of crimson was gathering around Potter's body, and it was only then that Snape saw the wand sticking out of James's pocket.
He was going to be sick. He'd attacked a defenseless wizard. Funnily enough, in that moment, he also realised that he didn't want James Potter to die. He didn't hate him as much as he'd previously believed.
I need…I need to fix this. What do I do? Snape's hand shakily reached towards James, whose eyes were half open, and his upper back was shifting slightly as he tried to breathe. Snape's hands trembled as he attempted to apply pressure to the wounds, but Potter made an odd gasping sound, and he hastily withdrew his hands. Now, his hands were covered in James Potter's hot blood. The life force was draining out of Potter, and suddenly it was all too much.
Snape jumped up, and almost tripped over himself as he reversed away from the grim scene.
I need to leave. I need to get out of here. I need to find help, Snape thought, but then he shook his head, and rid himself of that notion. Dumbledore will know what to do, he can fix it. Snape argued internally.
Snape had forgotten entirely that he had come up with a counter-curse. An untested counter-curse, but a counter-curse nonetheless.
Pomfrey will fix him. Yes, right, good. Yes, Snape stumbled, whirling around mid-step before he broke out into a run; determined to put as much distance between him and Potter as possible. As if somehow it would undo the atrocious act he'd committed. He just ran.
The world was a blur. Snape didn't know where he was. The metallic, tangy smell of blood stuffed his nostrils, and the sticky substance was beginning to congeal on his robes.
Everything sharpened when he collided with a smaller body, and he dully blinked down at the girl.
Hermione Potter. She was smoothing down her white dress. The material was light, and the dress seemed to float about her. "Snape? Watch where you're going would you —"
The witch froze when she spotted a smear of crimson across the white fabric on her chest. She froze. She sniffed the air. He inhaled. All at once, her hands were fisting in his robes, and her hazel eyes were filled with fear and biting anger.
"Whose blood is that?" Hermione demanded.
He didn't have the words. He was probably in shock.
She relinquished her hold on him long enough to withdraw her wand, which she stabbed into the underside of his chin as she yanked him down to her level by the scruff of his shirt.
"Potter..." Snape managed to get out, still in a daze.
"Potter?"
"Blood…"
"Sorry? Have you been touched in the head? Tell me whose blood it—" Hermione's eyes rounded as she realised what he was telling her.
"No. No, no, no, no," Hermione chanted in a horrified tone. Letting go of Snape, she tightly grasped her wand and bolted down the corridor in the direction from whence he had just come.
"I'm sorry," Snape whispered to no one in particular. He wandered aimlessly until he arrived back in the Slytherin Common Room—it was a miracle he hadn't bumped into anyone else on his way back to the Dungeons.
The Carrow twins saw him first. Their loud exclamations drew the attention of several others, but then he was being ushered away by firm yet kind hands. Grey eyes and raven hair. Regulus.
"Are you hurt?" Regulus asked, helping Snape shrug off his outer robes, and clothes save for his undergarments.
That was when Snape lost it, tears flowing out of his eyes, and in a rare display of physical contact, he clung to Regulus. "I'm sorry."
He knew that it didn't matter. This wasn't soap suds freely flowing from his mouth, or being humiliated in front of the whole school. This was murder. He'd killed James Potter.
Snape was coated in blood, and Hermione didn't know why it had taken her so long to smell it.
She followed her nose, her legs pumping as quickly as they could.
"Expecto Patronum!" Hermione choked out, her heart pounding in her ears. Her first attempt was an utter failure, and only wisps of silvery smoke trailed out behind her from the tip of her wand.
Hermione sniffed harshly, and swallowed the abundance of feelings warring inside her. She cleared her mind the best she could, latched onto her happiest memory, and tried to put James's dire condition out of her mind. "Expecto Patronum!"
Hermione didn't have a chance to register the fact that the shape of her Patronus is a lot larger than it used to be, as she caught sight of James at the exact moment that the corporeal creature formed. "Draco…Fourth Floor—" she momentarily lost her focus when she saw that James was convulsing on the floor. Blood was everywhere.
She gathered her bearings and glanced around them, "by the painting of the weird lady with a fruit hat. James. Snape. James is bleeding out. Hurry," Hermione's voice broke.
The massive Patronus bounded away to deliver its message, and Hermione slid onto her knees by her brother. His head was turned to the side, his eyes were half-lidded, and his breathing shallow.
Hermione had no idea what to do; her hand was shaking so badly that she dropped her wand straight into the blood gathering around her brother.
He used sectumsempra. I don't know the counter-curse, Hermione sobbed mentally, her bottom lip was quivering. Her entire body was trembling.
She forgot about wands, and the right spells. She placed her hands directly onto her brother's flesh, whimpering as she came in contact with the shredded flesh and she drew on the very fabric of the magic around her, and let it course through her straight into James. Their bonds were flaring to life, and she threw all the fuel into the fire that she could.
"I cannot lose you, you idiot. I—I still remember Harry...which means you survive this, you need to survive this. It isn't time yet. You still have time. We still have time," Hermione wept. James's eyes were still open, and his eyes were on her, but there was no shine in the hazel like there normally was.
James's wounds kept closing and reopening, but the blood flow appeared to have stopped.
"You still need to win over Lils, get married, and have a house full of kids running about."
"Hermione!" Draco yelled from the end of the corridor, but Hermione couldn't rip her gaze away from James.
"I can't handle you dying, Jamie. No. No. JAMIE." Hermione cried when the boy's eyes closed.
"Hermione!" Draco screamed—his shout had a shrill quality to it—and this time Hermione's gaze rose to find her boyfriend. She blinked away the tears that were smudging her vision.
Draco was running towards them at breakneck speed, hair whipping back behind him; Sirius and Remus were bolting down the corridor right after him. All three of them looked deathly pale.
"Shite," Draco swore as he slid onto the ground on James's other side.
"Do you remember the counter-curse?" Hermione asked through her tears. She could still feel James through their bonds, and the pack bond grew stronger now that all of their members were gathered together.
Draco took in James's wounds, and a shudder ran through his body as he recognised just what spell had inflicted this upon his brother.
Draco's eyes clamped shut, and he vehemently smacked the side of his head. For a moment fear gripped her heart, he doesn't remember the counter-curse, Hermione thought with trepidation.
"Fuck!" Draco shouted, hands fisting against the sides of his face. Then, his eyes snapped open, and widened significantly. Without wasting another moment, he began to move his wand, the words falling from his lips barely audible.
Hermione removed her hands, and hugged her blood soaked arms to her chest. She would have to burn this dress, magic cleansed a lot of things from fabrics, but blood lingered.
Hermione held her breath, and she cried out in relief when James's wounds stopped bleeding completely and his skin stitched itself back together.
They were still for a moment.
Shakily, Remus whispered, "we need to get him to the Infirmary."
Hermione nodded slowly, "yes...the infirmary."
The terrifying truth was if Draco wasn't there, James would have died. Madame Pomfrey wouldn't have been able to do anything.
Hermione's brain was clogged with far too many details as it occurred to her—not for the first time—that perhaps they had been sent back to the past for a reason.