Chapter Fourteen -
Enraptures me
A delicate warmth met Harry's trembling fingers when he placed them upon the doe's gossamer form. Entranced by the subtle sensation, he augmented his tenuous caress, fingers now trailing an unhurried path down the creature's lissome neck causing ghostly ripples to appear in her brume-like facade.
As if impelled by the gentle contact, that nascent warmth began to intensify and expand, spreading out from the very tips of his fingers and surging through him like a wayward jolt of electricity, or the rampant flames of a rogue fire.
Harry sucked in a neglected breath and held it as the assertive sensation enveloped him, his teeth grinding together until the rush of warmth and energy ceased its emphatic progression and settled into the very core of his being. Closing his eyes and releasing his clenched breath, he focused on the feel of the doe's profound energy – her magic, her very essence – as it encircled his heart, suffusing it with an almost spiritual emotion... pure, raw, deep...
And achingly familiar.
He had been held captive by this beautiful doe's allure once before – months ago, in the Forest of Dean. Amid a veil of inky blackness, she had appeared before him, a luminescent mirage of hope among the quietus of perpetual winter. Even then, he had felt a strong, intrinsic connection with her. He remembered feeling as though this wraithlike creature existed only for him and despite the dangers, had allowed her to guide him away from the magicked protection surrounding his campsite and through the desolate night to a frozen pond where his salvation in the war against Voldemort lay in wait.
At that time, Harry had believed that the powerful familiarity he felt while in her presence had something to do with his mother. It was a reasonable leap in logic since this was a doe and his father's Patronus was a stag. Surely there was a connection although Harry had to admit to being baffled as to who could have cast what he believed to be the replica of his mother's Patronus.
That little mystery was solved the night of the Final Battle. After viewing Severus' proffered memories in Dumbledore's pensieve, Harry received the answer to the question of who, and he thought he had been given the reasons why as well...
But he hadn't.
No. In a moment of true Slytherin cunning, despite lying at death's door, Severus had managed to manipulate those memories to make it appear as though Lily Evans was the love of his life. It was an act of deliberate misdirection – one that Harry had completely fallen for. That is... until he pitted those memories against the last one Severus had forced into his mind while battling for his life. Being in possession of two contrasting memories, both intimating eternal love, brought Harry more than a little confusion. That confusion, however, soon matured into understanding when he was able to witness first-hand the casting of Severus' original Patronus, the Chatham raven, and learn of the details precipitating a Patronus' change of form.
It all led to one unexpected and shocking conclusion.
This current breathtaking vision of beauty and poise had nothing to do with Harry's mother. It never did. Her existence was inspired by Harry – or rather Harry masquerading as Gray Skye. She was, and always would be, the physical manifestation of her caster's undying devotion for a boy whose brief visit back in time inspired a lifetime of love.
Harry had known all of this for weeks now, knew with absolute certainty that this ultimate symbol of their love would one day reveal itself, but seeing her here, now... touching her... feeling her... nearly took his breath away.
Eyes shut tight and fingers still curled around the back of the doe's slender neck, Harry opened his heart to her encompassing warmth, letting it in further, allowing it access to the innermost depths of his soul. As if awaiting his unspoken permission all along, a massive flood of intense emotion washed over him, causing his breath to hitch and his heart to speed up, his overwhelmed brain trying to cope with the torrential outpouring of sentiment and divine each separate element, finding...
Affection.
Desire.
Passion.
Devotion.
...and love.
Eternal, boundless, unwavering love.
Severus' love.
"Oh God..." The shaky words were barely discernible, even to Harry's own ears.
Opening his eyes at last, he swayed where he stood, trembling with the rush of emotion permeating his heart. Hot tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, clouding his vision. When a single tear slid down his cheek and fell onto the stone floor, Harry bowed his head, watching as another drop joined the first. Then another.
With a Herculean effort, he withdrew his hand from the doe, wiped the persistent tears from his face with the sleeve of his robe and then lifted his watery gaze.
Severus was staring at him, ebony eyes radiating a profusion of apprehension and uncertainty. The look in those dark depths reminded Harry of that moment weeks ago in the Slytherin common room when Severus had spotted the feather pendant around Harry's neck. This time however, the look of tenuous insecurity was accompanied by a desperate yearning for acknowledgement and emotional requital.
All at once, Harry's mind flashed back to the only other time he had seen such utter desperation on that pale, thin face...
Harry's bloodied fingers wrapped around the adult Severus Snape's wrist... holding it in place as a trembling thumb swept across his lower lip... cavernous black eyes... revealing a lifetime of painful regret as they gazed deeply into green ones...
That look was one of pure anguish, and Harry had watched it dwindle and fade away, stared helplessly as it withered into a hollow, vacant expression of nothingness just before the man had succumbed to... just before he had...
Oh God... no, no, no... NO!
Harry tried to stop the onslaught of harrowing memories that were already streaming like vivid flashes across his mind, but he couldn't. They attacked with ferocity; each gruesome, sensory detail replaying itself with sickening clarity.
The acrid smell of blood...
The wet, gurgling sounds of labored breaths...
The feel of long fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt with desperation while their owner begged Harry to look at him.
Harry sucked in a sharp, strangled breath, once again trying to will the maelstrom of horrific visions to cease. But the incursion continued, rushing through his burdened consciousness in a prophetic tidal wave of unyielding chronology and concluding with that desperate look on Severus' face as he struggled against his own demise.
This time, however... the memory did not feature the thirty-eight year old Potions professor, but the eighteen-year old Severus... his Severus... looking at him with desperation… covered in blood and fighting for every breath.
A gut-wrenching cry escaped from Harry's throat, his whole body trembling violently now. Trance-like, in a fog of heart-rending shock and terror, Harry's hands drifted back up to touch his cheeks, hot and wet with his inexorable tears. Quivering fingers slid past his wet cheeks to scrape their way through strands of hair, gathering masses of the wavy locks and squeezing them into tight fists as their owner's gaze once again lifted and locked with Severus'.
Stunned beyond rational thought, Harry realized that he had spent the last few weeks worrying about two seemingly insurmountable, and in his mind, separate dilemmas concerning two unrelated people. This whole time he had been preoccupied with how to ease the inevitable pain and grief the eighteen-year old Severus would have to endure once Gray Skye departed from this time, all the while trying to figure out how to save the adult Severus Snape's life twenty years from now. Somehow, although downright illogical, Harry had managed to keep the two of them separate in his own mind, building a wall of disconnect between the boy he loved and the man fighting for his life in that Shack.
But Severus and Professor Snape were the same person.
Of course they were. Harry knew that. He had always known that. But after seeing the doe... after witnessing with his own eyes the evidence of Severus' unwavering love for him and then feeling it burn and thrive and pulse inside of him, it was as though this truth... this harsh, cruel reality... had ripped a gaping hole into that erected wall of protection, blasting it wide open. And now everything was horribly and undeniably clear.
Severus Snape... the boy... the man... the professor... is and was the love of Harry's life.
Worse, he was destined to die in Harry's arms.
No... NO!
Gasping for breath and sick to his stomach, Harry staggered back from the doe, his eyes still locked with Severus' while his fingers remained twisted around entangled clumps of matted hair.
"Gray...?" Severus breathed, his name whispered as a plea, a fearful entreaty.
A rush of bile rose in Harry's throat, burning like acid. He released his tight grip on his hair to clamp one hand over his mouth in an effort to stall the overwhelming reflex to retch. One foot shuffled backwards in another shaky, tremulous step. Then the other.
"Gray... please..."
The words were even softer now, Severus' voice cracking with strained emotion while a single tear escaped from wounded tenebrous eyes. It clung to ebony lashes for a second before sliding, unhindered down one pale cheek.
An anguished sob escaped Harry's throat as he tore his gaze away from those wounded eyes and raced from the room, his hands shoving the heavy oak doors open with bruising force in his haste to escape the visual reminder of the terror raging in his heart.
o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o -
"Ice Mice… Sugar Quills... Come on!… Acid Pops... Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans... Shit!… Chocolate Eclairs… Um… Jelly Slugs... Sherbet Lemon… Cauldron Cakes… Fuck! Just… just let me through goddamnit!"
Panicked to the point of near hysterics and out of breath from his sprint through the castle, Harry gave up his futile spouting of Wizarding treats and bent over, hands on thighs and chest heaving. With his eyes squeezed shut, he inhaled several deep, shaky breaths to try to push past his spiraling dread... just long enough to deal with this latest maddening frustration.
Just like his first day in this time, Harry found himself outside Dumbledore's office, desperate to get in but without the proper password. Unlike the previous time however, he had zero patience for the arbitrary game of guessing the Headmaster's latest confectionery obsession, and even less patience for the expression of bored indifference plastered on the gargoyle's stony visage while he rattled off his best attempts.
Overwrought, exhausted and longing for some kind of relief from his oppressive panic, Harry straightened up, pulled his wand from the pocket of his robes and with a trembling hand, pointed the thin switch of Hawthorn directly at the ill-mannered statue, hissing his next words through gritted teeth.
"Let... me... in... you cold-hearted, stone-faced bastar–"
"My dear boy, your attempt at intimidation, though impressive, is a wasted effort. I'm afraid Claudatur is not known to capitulate to threats."
Harry whirled around, his tension lessening by a fraction as his eyes fell upon the Headmaster's imposing figure standing just a few feet behind him. Releasing a breath of grateful relief, Harry lowered his wand and bought a hand up to his face, dragging it across his perspiration dampened skin and then raking it through his tousled hair before finding his voice.
"Headmaster... I… I'm sorry. I needed to see you, but... but I didn't know your password and..."
"It's quite alright, Gray. As I recall, I did tell you that my door would always be open to you. Though perhaps I should have made that endeavor a bit easier for you," Dumbledore said, approaching him. Those piercing blue eyes were fixed on Harry as he drew nearer, narrowed in consternation as if assessing his state of duress. When he was standing right beside him, he spoke again, directing his words not at Harry, but at the still idle gargoyle standing sentinel in front of the spiral staircase.
"Claudatur, this is Gray Skye. In the future, he will be known as Harry Potter and will have a different appearance. Nevertheless, if he should ever be in urgent need of entry into this office, you have my permission to let him in. He need only mention my name to you... or the correct password as the case may be. Is that clear?"
At the Headmaster's direct command, the gargoyle's obstinate expression transformed into one of begrudged acquiescence, its steely eyes rolling in defiance but the grimace etched upon his chiseled visage lessening a touch. After a moment, it turned its slate-grey gaze toward Harry, looked him up and down as if memorizing his every detail, then turned back to the aged wizard and gave a forced nod.
Dumbledore's request, as well as the gargoyle's compliance to it, reminded Harry of a not so distant memory involving an eerily similar situation to his current one. Consumed by panic and grief and driven onward by sheer adrenaline, Harry had raced through Hogwarts' damaged corridors until at last he had found himself in this exact same spot, a vial full of memories clutched in his bloodied hand. When the gargoyle made its expected request for the password, Harry had shouted Dumbledore's name without even thinking, so desperate to get inside, and to his utter disbelief, was instantly granted access.
At the time, he hadn't given the odd occurrence much thought, too traumatized at having just seen the dead bodies of Fred and Remus and Tonks. Later, after viewing Severus' memories and learning of his abiding loyalty to the late Headmaster, Harry had come to the obvious conclusion that the man's password was 'Dumbledore' and that Harry had simply been lucky enough to guess it. Now he realized this was not the case at all. The gargoyle – Claudatur – only let him through the guarded entry because Harry had called out Dumbledore's name, not because he had hit on the correct password.
Harry allowed himself a moment to ponder what Severus' password had been, but was pulled out of his drifting thoughts when Dumbledore addressed him.
"Gray... shall we?"
The Headmaster gestured toward the circular stairwell leading to his office, Claudatur having leapt aside to grant them entry.
After a small nod of concession, Harry moved forward on shaky legs, stepping onto the platform ahead of Dumbledore. As the staircase began its ascent to the Headmaster's office, he reached out on either side of him with both hands and grasped the winding staircase's brass railing, hoping the sheer force of his tight grip would assuage his persistent trembling. He took a few deep breaths as well, trying to will his mind and body to assume a state of calm composure. Despite his efforts, his panic only seemed to multiply with each and every slow-moving upward revolution, that compressing ache in his heart intensifying and his nausea returning with a vengeance.
In a last ditch effort to gain control over his debilitating dread, Harry bit down on his lower lip and shut his eyes, inhaling another deep breath in through his nose. But the only thing he managed to do was to puncture his skin with his teeth, the coppery taste of blood pooling in his mouth exacerbating his uneasy stomach. Once again, Harry's still-present hypersensitivity caused waves of sharp pain to radiate out from the site of the self-inflicted wound, racing through every part of him and heightening his already impaired condition. Dizziness followed those surges of pain and he tightened his grip on the rail as his breathing began to shallow and pulse, his head heavy and his vision clouding.
"Gray?"
"Sir... I... I need to sit down..."
Dumbledore's arm went around Harry's waist in an instant, supporting him as they made their way out of the stairwell and into the large, familiar room. Harry's vision was tunneling and he could feel his body trembling violently now, but with the Headmaster's assistance, he managed to seat himself in one of the chairs opposite the man's desk.
"Here, Harry. Drink this."
Harry felt the cool touch of glass against his palm and his fingers instinctively closed around its smooth surface. The aged hand that placed the vial there did not recede, but encircled his limp fingers and guided the proffered potion to his lips.
As soon as the liquid hit his tongue, Harry recognized it as the potion Madam Pomfrey had given him for his pain several times last week while recovering in the Hospital Wing. Almost at once, he felt his pain ease, those sharp pulses surging through him quietening to a dull ache with just a mild stinging sensation where he had broken the skin on his lip.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Harry wheezed. He cleared his throat, attempting to rid himself of his hoarseness when Dumbledore's hand gripped his chin, forcing his gaze up to meet those cerulean eyes.
"That cut on your lip is not very deep. I could mend it for you... if you're agreeable, that is?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes narrowed in concern.
Harry nodded and then closed his eyes as the man drew his wand and brought it to his wound. An incantation to a healing charm was never spoken aloud, but he could feel the tingle of magic caressing his skin nevertheless, followed by a brief twinge as his wound knitted together and another tingle that he recognized as a cleaning charm.
Harry opened his eyes in time to see Dumbledore taking his seat behind his desk, a heavy sigh escaping him as he collapsed into his high-backed chair. One wrinkled hand came up to stroke his long, silvery beard in what appeared to be an absentminded gesture while blue eyes, tapered in deliberation, stared, unfocused, at a random spot on the surface of his desk. After a prolonged moment, he lifted his troubled gaze and spoke, giving his thoughts voice at last.
"Your state of anxiety leads me to believe that you doubt your ability to achieve your aim," he said, his voice soft, tentative, caution edging his hushed tone.
At the Headmaster's spot-on deduction, Harry felt the last of his restraints break. Just hearing someone else mention the possibility of his failure, as well as acknowledging his unassailable fear surrounding that possibility, seemed to release the terror ripping at his insides. Immediately, he brought his hands up to his face, his fingertips pressing hard into his forehead as he nodded his head in anguish. New tears flooded his eyes, burning them. He clamped them shut, the action forcing the persistent drops to slide down his heated cheeks and fall to his lap. His shoulders and chest shook as he folded over himself further, a strangled cry escaping his throat.
Desperate to regain his lost control, Harry pushed his fingers through his hair and forced himself to straighten up. He lifted his head, peering through a haze of tears to meet the Headmaster's worried gaze.
"I... I haven't done... anything..." he breathed, then gritted his teeth, the ache in his heart deepening as he shouted his next words in a primal cry of anguish, "NOTHING! I've done NOTHING! And he'll DIE if I don't do something to change it!"
His hands were now clenching fistfuls of his hair as he bent over again, rocking forward and backward in his chair while a wild, reckless part of him contemplated yanking all of it from his scalp in defiance of this deluded farce of a rescue mission. His unhinged thoughts intensified as he allowed that desperate part of him to consider that perhaps he was better off before... when he was just plain Harry Potter... best friend of Ron and Hermione... estranged boyfriend of Ginny... ex-student of Professor Snape, a man who hated him, yet protected him out of some sense of guilt and redemption. Yes, as horrific as his life had been, it was at least easier than this.
Anything was better than the torture of knowing would happen if he were to fail...
Harry was pulled from his escalating panic by the feel of gentle hands encircling his wrists and coaxing them away from his hair. Allowing the persuasion, Harry looked up to see that the Headmaster had once again approached him and was now kneeling on the carpet in front of him.
"Harry... my dear boy..." he whispered, his tempering tone soothing and gentle, "I told you weeks ago... you are not meant to change the future, but to inspire its fated course."
"I... I know... but..."
"No, I don't think you truly do, Harry. You know, of course, that the future is set – that what is destined to occur will occur. What remains elusive to you, however, is the idea that your past has always been a product of Gray Skye's influence. Harry, long before you had an inkling of this venture through time, your timeline as you know it, your past, has been intricately woven with the threads of Gray's actions... his encounters... his decisions... his very words. Those woven threads have helped to form what you know as your past. And those woven threads will continue to affect you long after you leave this time."
Harry blinked, his brain reeling from the Headmaster's nebulous explanation. He followed it – to an extent – but he still didn't understand how this was supposed to help him save Severus.
Dumbledore must have inferred his state of bafflement. He cleared his throat, stood up from his kneeling position with a grimace and then perched himself on the corner of his desk, one hand coming up to stroke his beard again.
"Perhaps it would make more sense if I explain it in different terms," he commented, his blue eyes narrowing in concentration for a brief moment before snapping up to meet Harry's once more. "Consider that Gray's touch on this world is like a miniscule pebble thrown into the very center of a vast body of water. Though small and seemingly insignificant, that pebble has a profound, sweeping and exponential impact on its environment, engendering wave after wave of energy to undulate away from its point of contact. Each one of those resultant waves carries with it its own sway on the water, as well as on all the creatures who make the water their home. The water-dwelling creatures may not ever have direct knowledge of that pebble, Harry, but they will undoubtedly feel its effects. Some will be affected substantially, others infinitesimally, but all will be touched by that experience."
Harry swallowed past the dryness in his throat and lowered his head as he once again attempted to wrap his brain around the man's words. They did make sense. Harry had already discovered that Gray Skye had been the reason behind, or the motivation for, many situations from his past – some of them more than a little distressing. But how could the Headmaster's allegorical elucidations help him to ensure Severus would survive Nagini's attack? Or rather, how could it shed light on how he could inspire that end?
Again, Dumbledore seemed to have sensed Harry's growing frustration for he pressed on, this time with fervency.
"Harry, don't you see? We all have this kind of effect on the world in which we live and the people with which we surround ourselves. At any given point we may say something... or do something... which will inevitably inspire certain events to occur in the future – a chain reaction, if you will. We shape our own destiny, Harry, all of us. And we do so while remaining in a state of blissful oblivion, unaware of what awaits us along our destined path and completely ignorant of the fact that our own actions, as well as the actions of those all around us, helped to forge that path."
Dumbledore paused here, released a leaden sigh and continued, his informative discourse now taking on a more dire tone. "Unfortunately in your case, your awareness is detrimental. You know what fortunes, or rather misfortunes, lie in wait. So you analyze your influence, scrutinize it, anguish over what is the right thing to say or do in order to inspire the outcome you hope is a destined inevitability. But Harry... this will only succeed in driving you to madness. For you cannot possibly know the exact details of how you will attain your objective. It may be something you say to Severus... or a gift you give him... or an emotional exchange you share... or a combination of all these things... or none of them. You simply will not be able to know for certain until–"
"Until what? Until I go back? But how can I go back without even knowing if he survived?!" Harry exclaimed, frustrated once again. This time, it was not the vagueness of the Headmaster's explanation that caused his panic to flare up, but because that explanation was finally starting to make sense.
"Do you remember the advice I imparted to you on your first day in this time?" the Headmaster asked, silencing Harry's emotional outburst.
Harry looked deeply into the blue eyes fixed upon his own. They sparkled with some unknown sentience, twinkling just as they had during Harry's time whenever the aged wizard spoke of such profound and abiding abstractions such of love or loyalty or friendship.
"Yes," Harry answered, forcing his voice to convey a calm he did not feel. "You told me to... to follow my heart."
"And have you?"
Harry drew in another deep, quavering breath, his eyes stinging again as images of those dark eyes, so filled with love and devotion came swimming into view. His mind was inundated with quick flashes of heated kisses and long, meaningful embraces... furtive glances and shy smiles... passionate, sensual moments of intimacy... and heartfelt words of undying endearment. They all blazed across his mind, filling his heart, his soul, his very being with love and warmth.
"Yes..." Harry whispered shakily, "yes... I followed my heart."
"Then perhaps your aim has already been achieved."
Harry found his brief lull of remembrance splintered by the Headmaster's hasty declaration, anger returning to him in a flash.
"Perhaps? Perhaps!?" he retorted, his voice rising in volume yet again. "What the hell do you mean... perhaps my aim has already been achieved!? How was it achieved? Christ! What kind of half-assed assurance is that?! How am I supposed to leave here in five days with only a 'perhaps' as confirmation of his survival!"
Harry hadn't even realized he had leaped to his feet until his chair hit the floor with a resounding crash. He did not attempt to pick it up, not even sure he possessed the strength to bend down and right it. His whole body shook with fury, though despite his hostile remarks to the Headmaster, his anger was not in reaction to the man's hollow attempt at comfort, but more due to fact that he still had no idea how to save the boy he loved so deeply.
Once again, Harry lost his feeble grip on his panic as a strangled cry issued from his clenching throat. He fell to his knees, trembling hands covering his face as new tears poured from his eyes.
"I... I have to save him. I have to..." Harry anguished, his words quavering, cracking.
"You love him."
The whispered words were barely perceptible, their hushed tone giving their meaning an even greater significance.
Harry lowered his hands and lifted his gaze, his tearful grey eyes locking with those piercing blue ones that now radiated almost as much sorrow as his own.
"Y-y-yes," Harry stuttered, "I love him."
Dumbledore straightened up and knelt on the carpeted floor beside Harry once more, knees cracking protest. Ignoring the sounds of his own body's dissension, he placed an aged hand atop Harry's and spoke again.
"What happened today, Harry? What drove you to this state?"
"We just finished our NEWT Defense practical, sir. And... and... Severus' examiner requested that he cast his Patronus," Harry answered, his voice still trembling.
"Ah, yes. He does have a rather impressive one. And I believe he is the only other soul in all of Hogwarts apart from myself who can cast a magical creature Patronus. Quite astounding really."
"It's not!" Harry choked out. "It's not a magical creature... not anymore..."
Understanding seemed to infiltrate its way into those deep, penetrating pools of blue. They widened, their owner's lips parting as a small gasp was drawn in. After a moment, Dumbledore schooled his features, shock draining from his visage, replaced by an expression of tempered composure.
"What form does it take now?"
"A doe."
"And yours?"
Harry swallowed.
"A stag," he whispered.
Silence filled the room. The only sounds were the quiet murmur of light snores and the steady drone of deep, slumberous breathing from the portraits lining the office walls, undisturbed by Harry's raised voice.
Dumbledore's hand, still mantling his own, squeezed, those long frail-looking fingers sturdy as they relayed their measure of comfort.
The gesture, though not unwelcome, did nothing to ease Harry's oppressive heartache. His body shook with despair, shoulders quivering as the reality of his plight pressed down on him hard. Truth swept through him like physical pain, eclipsing what remained of the hope that had once blazed within him.
"And I left him there in the Great Hall..." he sobbed, his words a tremulous rush of ragged breaths. "I touched her... the doe... and his love for me flowed into me. It became part of me and I felt him... I felt his love. It was so strong, so endless... and then I just left... like a damned coward I LEFT HIM!"
His anguished outburst reverberated throughout the circular room, demolishing the quietude and fostering a ubiquitous tension to linger in the air. Then a dulcet chirr flooded the room. The lyrical trill permeated every nook and space of the room, its glorious hopeful song filling Harry's wounded heart, strengthening it.
Harry looked up just as Fawkes approached him, extending its graceful vermilion wings as if to perch on his arm. Obliging the magnificent creature, Harry reached out with both arms, one hand coming up to stroke its crimson and gold plumage as it landed. He continued to caress the phoenix, allowing himself to be lulled by its entrancing song, when out of nowhere, his mind ground to a dizzying halt.
"Fawkes..." he whispered, his head snapping up once his stunned mind began to latch on to the glorious idea formulating within it. He jumped to his feet in a flash causing the crimson bird who had inspired his postulation to release its grip on his arm and fly back to its perch with a startled squawk. Harry watched it land before spinning around to eye the Headmaster again, seeking the man's validation.
"Fawkes! That's it, sir! My God… why didn't I think of this sooner?! Phoenix tears! They have healing properties! I just need to make sure Severus always carries a vial of phoenix tears with him and..."
Harry's zealous words were cut off, dying in his throat when he saw the look of profound sorrow etched on Dumbledore's face, his eyes gazing downward and his lips pressed together as the man shook his head in the negative.
"Wh–what? Why are you shaking your head? It can work... it will work! I know it will work because I've been healed by phoenix tears before. Professor, it was even the same kind of fatal wound... a deep gash from a huge, poisonous snake! All it took was a couple of Fawkes' tears and I was healed in a matter of seconds. It will work for Severus, too!"
"No, Harry. I don't think so."
"Why not?!" Harry shouted, suddenly furious at the disheartened look on that aged face.
"Phoenix tears, as a stored substance, do have healing properties, yes," Dumbledore explained as he followed Harry's lead and lifted himself off the floor, a pinched expression on his weary face as he stood up at a slow pace, "but those healing properties are not nearly as strong as when they are in their purest form – that is to say – as when they are emitted directly from the eyes of a phoenix. Their true healing magic comes from the bird, Harry, not from the tears themselves. Some of this intrinsic magic does linger within the tears, which is why phoenix tears are such a vital ingredient in many healing potions, but that small quantity of preserved magic is simply not enough to save someone from a fatal wound."
"Then… then Fawkes can do it himself!" Harry countered, not wiling to let go of the first real hope he had stumbled upon. "Severus just... just has to figure out how to summon Fawkes and–"
"I'm sorry, Harry, but I don't think that is possible either. You told me weeks ago that I do not survive this war. Am I correct in assuming that my death occurred long before the incident with Severus, months before or perhaps years?"
"Oh... um, y-yes, but why would that make a diff–"
"It makes a difference because too much time will have passed," Dumbledore interjected. "A phoenix mourns his master by cutting himself off from his master's former life, by vanishing from it... never to return. If Severus' attack had taken place directly following my own demise, then perhaps Fawkes would feel compelled to go to him, but not after such an extended stretch of time. It would be an extraordinarily uncommon act on the part of a phoenix."
"Uncommon..." Harry repeated, grasping onto the open-ended word like a lifeline as he continued to defend his desperate theory. "It may be uncommon, but that... that doesn't mean it's impossible! Professor, you told me on my first day here that a phoenix's greatest magical talent is its capability to understand a person whose intentions come from love and loyalty – an understanding that drives it to answer that person's call for help. You also told me that my ability to evoke that kind of reaction in Fawkes is unusually strong. That has to be true because he comes to me now, not just to heal a physical injury, but also when I am in need of comfort. Don't you see? He does understand me and my heart. So... wouldn't it stand to reason that even though you've already passed on, Fawkes might return to heal Severus – not so much because of Severus' loyalty to you, but because of his loyalty to me?"
Doleful, blue eyes once again cast their gaze downward, averting Harry's hopeful ones as their owner took several measured breaths, his lips compressed together and his long fingers intertwined. It was clear he was considering Harry's hypothesis.
After a long, protracted pause, the elderly wizard's eyes returned to Harry's and he spoke, his tone chary, cautious.
"I will admit... your theory has merit. Fawkes has shown a prodigious amount of regard and affection for you. However, this theory of yours could only come to fruition if there were a change in allegiance and for that to occur, Fawkes would have to choose you as his new master, and thus shift all his loyalty to you in my stead. The problem with this idea is that as far as I know, and my knowledge on the species is quite extensive, a situation such as this has never happened before. Phoenixes, Harry... are well known for only ever taking one master."
"Well, maybe Fawkes is different. Maybe there's more to the species than what is currently known... or maybe some of their behaviors are just... just misunderstood," Harry proposed. He knew he was grasping at straws now but he just wasn't ready to give up hope – not when Severus' life was on the line.
The Headmaster released a heavy sigh as he turned away from Harry, walking the short distance around to the back of his desk. He reached out and pulled open the topmost drawer, extracting a vial containing a deep blue potion from its depths before straightening back up and handing it to Harry.
"It's a mild calming draught," he stated at seeing Harry's perplexed look. "I suggest that you take it and then find Severus. You would also do well to push this idea of Fawkes healing Severus from your mind and instead, spend what time you have left with the boy you love."
"But Headmaster–"
"I understand your urgency, Harry, and your desperation. I truly do. But even if your theory regarding Fawkes is correct, you simply have no control in the matter. Phoenixes are not like owls. One does not step foot into a Wizarding pet shop and pick out a phoenix to be one's familiar. They are highly complex and emotive creatures with their own instinctive rules that govern their actions and their choices. Much like a wand, the phoenix chooses the wizard and not the other way around, I'm afraid."
Harry's gaze drifted over to the scarlet bird who was now cleaning the feathers of one wing by nipping at them with its golden beak, seemingly oblivious to the conversation going on around it. In sharp contrast to how solicitous he was a few minutes ago, the phoenix never once looked up at Harry in acknowledgement, as if giving credence to his master's words.
Turning away from Fawkes, Harry glanced down at the cobalt blue potion in his hand and then placed it in the front pocket of his robes, resigned to take it only if absolutely necessary. He didn't want his emotions deadened or diminished in any way. Though very much unwelcome before, he now wanted to feel this panic, this grave intensity, this biting ache of dreaded uncertainty. His panic may cause him additional distress, but it had its benefits. It had brought him here... to this office... to Fawkes... and despite the Headmaster's words to the contrary, Harry remained convinced that there was more to this idea of salvation being given as a tribute to love and loyalty – much more.
After all, a wise man had once told Harry that help would always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.
Harry just had to figure out the right question to ask.
"Thank you, Headmaster," he said, nodding in appreciation for the potion, as well as the advice.
Turning around, Harry snatched up his chair from its overturned position on the floor and stood it upright. Then, with only a fleeting glance into those piercing blue eyes whose depths, oddly enough, now radiated a touch of contentment, Harry traversed the room and exited the office.
Just as he stepped foot onto the moving platform, a faint, soulful warble met his ears, soothing those painful pangs in his heart and filling his soul with an enduring fortitude. Although the phoenix song grew fainter with each downward revolution, Harry's steadfast resolve remained and as he stepped off the magicked stairwell, past a bored-looking Claudatur and out into the seventh-floor corridor, he was more determined than ever to find the key to that promised help...
...all thoughts of insignificant pebbles and their exponential waves of influence wiped clean from his mind.
o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o -
"Young man, have you even heard a word I've said? Young man!"
"Wh-what?" Harry stammered. Startled, he shot up from his slumped over position, blinking several times to clear the sleep from his eyes. His hands came up to his face, fingers groping for the frames of his glasses in order to adjust them, before his fuzzy brain became lucid enough to decipher where he was... or rather who and in what time he was now in.
"I have just finished announcing that the library will be closing in five minutes, but obviously you find it of greater import to snooze over your books rather than to listen to my notification, Mr..."
"Skye... Gray Skye, Ma'am," he answered, fumbling with the open book in his lap that was now threatening to fall from its place of rest. He secured his grip on the heavy tome and then straightened up further, eyes snapping up to see a very irate and much younger looking Madam Pince staring down at him.
Harry wasn't sure, but he thought she might be only a few years out of school herself. She was just as thin as in his time, with skin that looked as though it had never seen the sun and bone-straight hair pulled back in a severe bun, but her eyes radiated a youthful gleam and her face was unlined save the deep furrow between her eyebrows. Her younger appearance had no bearing on her irascible demeanor however, as she continued to glare at him through slitted eyes.
"Well, Mr. Skye," she continued, "since it is nearly curfew and considering you seem to be succumbing to fits of uncontrolled narcolepsy in my library, I would suggest that you gather your books and head straight for your dormitory. And do wipe the drool off that book before you go, Mr. Skye, or you will be forking over the galleons to pay for it."
After gifting him with one last glowering expression, chin lifted and lips pursed, she whipped around and stalked off toward the front of the library.
Harry looked down at the open book resting on his thighs, his eyes scanning its timeworn, yellowing pages. Much to his chagrin, there was indeed a small puddle of saliva on the top of the left page, an embarrassing consequence of his unplanned bout of sleep. With the heel of his left hand, he wiped the unwelcome fluid away, smearing it into the parched, brittle paper. He halted his efforts when his eyes fell upon the scripted title of the chapter he had just started reading before nodding off: Of Love and Loyalty: A Study Of Phoenix Motivation.
Sighing, Harry placed the heavy book on top of the table, marking his place with his wand while he bent down to rummage through his schoolbag. After sifting through his stockpile of quill nibs, ink bottles and rolls of parchment, he finally located the one item that would facilitate that which he needed most right now – a limitless extension to his research time.
Harry pulled the book back onto his lap and after a quick glance around to make certain no one was watching, threw his invisibility cloak over himself – chair, book and all. Now undetectable to all prying eyes, especially those of short-tempered librarians, he settled back into his previous position, his body hunkered over the massive tome as his weary eyes struggled to read the convoluted verbiage below that scripted title by the subdued light from his wand, squinting and blinking several times to shake off his exhaustion.
He got all the way to the middle of the next page before realizing he hadn't taken in a single word, his saturated mind far too depleted to retain any more information – especially information as verbose and abstract as this was. He supposed his wavering concentration was to be expected since he'd been at this for hours.
Following his stressful meeting with the Headmaster, Harry had gone straight down to his dorm to retrieve his schoolbag since he had not taken it with him for his NEWT Defense exam. Grateful to find the seventh-year Slytherin dormitory empty – he was not yet ready to face Severus – he grabbed his bag from the top of his trunk and then made quick work of cramming his invisibility cloak inside of it, as well as anything he might need for a long night of research.
He'd made it back to library in ten minutes flat, which he was almost certain had to be some kind of record. Panting and pinching at the stitch in his side from his sprint, Harry strode to the Care of Magical Creatures section, yanking every single book about phoenixes from the shelves and then setting up camp at an empty table in the far back corner of the library.
That was over seven hours ago.
Since then, he had looked through dozens of books, skimming page after page of long-winded, confusing interpretations and ambiguous theories. Each one seemed to deepen his bewilderment and escalate his frustration as the details about this particular species of magical bird more often than not, seemed to differ from book to book. It was apparent, if the conflicting accounts were anything to go by, that the motivation behind the phoenix's enigmatic behavior had bemused Wizarding scholars for centuries.
The one thing that all the books agreed on however, was that phoenixes only ever aligned themselves with one master during their life span, if they even took a master at all. If a phoenix did choose a master, it was for life – literally.
One master and one familiar embarking upon an unwavering and perennial allegiance that could only be pulled asunder by the tragic finality of death...
At least that's how it was described in The Enduring Viability Of The Phoenix or was it Phoenix Tears: Elusory Magic? Harry wasn't sure as they were all beginning to blend together inside his exhausted brain. All he knew for certain was that every time he read a passage alluding to this well-established phoenix fact, he was tempted to chuck the offending tome across the room, his frustration rising with each well-reasoned, documented and foot-noted entry he read.
When he left Dumbledore's office earlier in the afternoon, Harry had been so sure, so damned certain of the possibility of Fawkes transferring his loyalty from the Headmaster to himself after the former's death, yet everything he found in these books contradicted that idea. Adding to his frustration was the disheartening fact that Fawkes had never once appeared to him during the year following that tragic event. Still, his gut was telling him that there was more than just 'loyalty to the Headmaster' at play every time Fawkes came to him in the past. He couldn't seem to shake the notion that this timeless connection he had forged with the phoenix signified the foreshadowing of a stronger bond... like that of a familiar and master.
Even Dumbledore had alluded to the uncommon nature of Harry's influence over Fawkes. He had commented on how rare it was that Harry was able to evoke that type of loyalty from his phoenix, even going so far as to say that Fawkes was scarcely, if ever, influenced by anyone other than the Headmaster himself.
Surely any skeptic, including the know-it-all writers of those books, would disagree with his suspicions, dismissing Fawkes' excessive devotion as just a natural consequence of Harry's unwavering allegiance to the Headmaster. Harry knew that Hermione, for one, would agree with that assessment. He could almost hear his friend's pragmatic voice in his head insisting that he was reading too much into things, that Fawkes was simply swayed by Harry's abiding loyalty to the man who had been like a grandfather to him for years. But Harry knew in his heart that this explanation didn't exactly hold water. In truth, he could think of more than a few times during his own timeline, as well as one or two during this one, when his devotion to the Headmaster was shaky at best. Yet Fawkes still came to him – before, during and after these occurrences – almost as if acting upon a different basis of loyalty, a different truth.
These inconsistencies... these rare incidents of disproportionate magical evocation... they had to be significant! They had to mean something!
And this is why he was still here in this library poring over book upon book of tedious verbiage, desperate to find the one passage that would elucidate a deeper understanding. Hour after hour, he pushed past his oppressive exhaustion, deep anxiety and gnawing hunger, frantic to locate some scrap of knowledge that could validate his theory. Because if he was correct, and Fawkes was destined to become his familiar in the future, then the key to Severus' survival was truly within his grasp.
Harry closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying for what seemed like the hundredth time tonight to force his thoughts away from Severus. Despite the fact that the research he sought was meant to ensure his love's survival in the future, Harry very much wanted to avoid thinking of him at present. He had to maintain his focus; Severus' life depended on it.
Try though he might, he could not stop the image of those ebony eyes, so filled with anguish and uncertainty, from flashing across his mind. He was certain that the wounded look in those tearful depths would forever haunt him – vulnerable black flecked with the phantom white flickers from the doe's luminescence, the reflective glisters dancing like spirited flames within the desolate pitch of stricken midnight. The image was burned into his mind, as was the sound of Severus' voice as he pleaded with Harry for his understanding, for his acceptance, for his requital after casting the manifestation of their timeless, soulful love.
Several times over the last seven hours, Harry had come close to abandoning his obsessive search, his desire to go to Severus and beg for forgiveness becoming harder and harder to disregard. He wanted nothing more than to just leave all these damned useless tomes and run to him, wrap his arms around those slender shoulders and chase away the boy's every fear and uncertainty with the warmth of his touch and the sincerity of his words. For every fiber of Harry's being was urging him to tell Severus what he had been yearning to say for weeks now – that he loved him, more completely and unconditionally than he had ever thought possible... that his love for Severus was eternal, enduring, and that nothing… nothing… not the irrevocable passing of time nor the looming threat of death… nothing… could ever weaken this intense feeling blazing within the depths of his heart… his spirit… his very soul.
He wanted more than anything to go to Severus and say all these things, but he couldn't. Not yet. He just couldn't face him knowing he had yet to find a way to save him from imminent death.
The last enemy that shall be conquered is death.
Those disturbing words drifted like broken fragments of old memories across Harry's consciousness, but he refused to reflect on them. Shaking his head to sharpen his frayed focus, he inhaled another deep, fortifying breath, then began paging further ahead in his book with renewed determination, eyes alert for anything of merit. He ceased his feverish rifling when he noticed a chapter entitled A Phoenix's Choice: Master Of The Cyclical Soul, the word master grabbing his attention at once.
"Cyclical soul? What is that supposed to mean?" he questioned aloud, his eyes narrowing as they descended the page. They halted their progression when another passage of interest jumped out at him. Trying to temper the burst of energy and excitement that was now surging through him, his heartbeat quickening and his grip on the book tightening, Harry read the pertinent words with haste.
'As if motivated by its own pendular existence, the phoenix, when searching for a master, will only consider a witch or wizard whose soul evinces or replicates the cyclic phenomenon known as Anima Revocatas. Latin for soul reversal, Anima Revocatas is a term that describes the process a soul undergoes during an acute behavioral and emotive peregrination that is fundamentally based on a transformation of that soul's indoctrinated creed from one extreme to its polar opposite. This transformation must then come to its natural annular fruition, or rather, the soul must revert back to its original creed, thus closing the circle. This final and most decisive step, the closing of the circle, must be engendered by a profound, limitless and inexorable love and furthermore, must coincide with an act of immeasurable, altruistic sacrifice. Only under these specific circumstances will a phoenix be swayed to take on a master. Since Anima Revocatas is an exceedingly rare occurrence, it is understandable why Wizarding scholars throughout history have maintained the collective belief that a phoenix will only serve one master during its regenerative lifetime. However, logic dictates that if a phoenix happens upon two such souls, the second one having been discovered following the demise of the first, it is conceivable that said phoenix could align itself with this second soul and form a new master/familiar bond. Unfortunately, an occurrence such as this has yet to be substantiated and therefore, must remain as conjecture.'
Harry read and re-read the paragraph several times, the verbose language difficult to absorb and comprehend. Even after his sixth time reading it, he remained in a state of frustrated bewilderment.
"Acute behavioral and emotive peregrination? A transformation of the soul's indoctrinated creed?!" he parroted. "What the bloody hell does that even mean?"
He looked down at the last two lines of the paragraph once more, reading it slowly and with careful consideration. It was what he was searching for, he finally realized, a verification that his theory was at least considered plausible by someone in the know. Though, regardless of this godsend, he could not help but be distressed by the lines preceding the supporting postulate. He would freely admit that a lot of what was written there was a bit over his head, but try though he did to make this Anima Revocatas apply to himself, he just couldn't. He was no stranger to altruistic sacrifice and his feelings for Severus certainly counted as profound, limitless and inexorable, but the idea of an acute behavioral and emotive peregrination and the concept of his soul's creed undergoing some massive adjustment just didn't sound like him.
After gathering every book he could locate on soul magic and sacrifice, Harry returned to his seat with another towering stack – not bothering with the cloak this time as Madam Pince had gone off to her own quarters. He relit his wand with another Lumos and then grabbed the topmost book, determined to gain a more thorough understanding of the daunting sounding process of soul reversal. Despite the sinking feeling in his hollow stomach and the intensifying ache in his heart, he was not yet willing to give up hope.
His impassioned resolve did not last long, however, as halfway through the first chapter of Sorcery Of The Soul, exhaustion won out once again and sleep claimed him, numbing his stricken mind and propelling him into a restive, fitful slumber.
o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o -
Harry was swimming again...
Cool waves streaming past him as he pushed himself through the water's crystal clear depths.
A flash of deepest red caught Harry's eye... the image distorted, oscillating eerily beneath the water's rippling facade. It beckoned to him and he dove with arms outstretched... fingers extended in anticipation… reaching and stretching… groping in desperation... until at last, they closed around their coveted prize.
Desperate to breathe, his lungs searing, Harry darted up like a shot... his toes digging into the soft silt mantling the water's bed as he pushed off toward the heavens… arms reaching above him… face turned skyward. He sucked in a gulp of much needed air as he breached the water's surface... his right hand grasping the jagged edge of the dock for purchase while his left raised his crimson trophy in triumph.
Albus Dumbledore sat cross-legged on the dock wearing robes of plain, midnight black. He reached out a wrinkled hand and extracted the elusive object from Harry's sodden grip... holding it up so that its form could now be discerned.
"A feather?" Harry asked in surprise.
"Yes, Harry. Though it is not yours. It never was… and never shall be…"
"No! I need it! I need it to be mine!" Harry cried, sudden panic gripping him.
"My dear boy, when have you ever experienced a monumental reversal in your fundamental beliefs? When has your view of this world ever undergone a drastic shift... a shift fueled by feelings of bitter resentment and devastating loss… a shift that corrects itself only through love and sacrifice, coming full-circle? When, Harry, has it ever been less than second nature for you to follow the righteous path? No... no, I'm afraid the feather stays with me… for now."
"But… but it called to me! I feel connected to it... that must count for something!"
"I wonder…" Dumbledore mused, his cerulean gaze drifting off to stare, unfocused, at the fringe of trees at the water's bank, "I wonder if perhaps he felt that connection as well. I daresay there was never time to ask him."
"Him?"
"Gellert," Dumbledore whispered, his eyes radiating pain, guilt, deep regret.
"Grindlewald? I… I don't understand..."
"Gellert… my inexorable love… my immeasurable sacrifice…"
"Sir, please…" Harry pleaded, disregarding the man's trance-like muttering as his eyes fell upon the red feather in that aged hand, "please… let me have it… please… I can save Severus if it's mine… I have to save him…"
The Headmaster's focus remained transfixed on the towering trees, vacant blue eyes peering blankly into the forest's depths, his expression pinched, sorrowful, full of anguish.
Blinded by his own panic, Harry reached up with his still dripping hand and snatched the object he so desperately needed, wet fingers closing around the crimson quill…. but it suddenly felt wrong in his hand… hard, cold, unyielding. He opened his hand and glanced down at his palm. There was no feather, only the glint of reflective metal… and a bright gold ring…
"No beginning and no end, yet intuitive of the journey there… and back again…" Dumbledore mumbled, still staring off into the distance.
Harry curled his fingers around the cold metal… claiming it as his own… but it changed again.
Brilliant metal liquified in his hand… the gold hue morphing back into a deep, vermilion red. It spread out on his palm and threaded his fingers… blood… dripping… spreading out across his skin… befouling it…
"No…"
Panicked, Harry plunged his bloodied hand into the water, his other joining it, fingernails scratching at his skin to remove the vile substance. He lifted them… holding both up to his face with fingers splayed... only to find more blood… covering both hands and all his fingers… caked under his nails… running down his arms…
"No… No… NO!"
o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o - o -
"NO!"
Harry jumped up with a start, wide-eyed and staggering backward, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. His whole body was trembling and his breaths were coming out in quick, shallow pulses, his skin drenched with sweat. He looked down at his shaking arms, noticing that the skin was scratched open and bleeding. There were several long, red indentations running the length of each arm where his fingernails must have scraped and scoured in his sleep, desperate to remove the phantom blood.
So much blood...
Closing his eyes and lowering his head, he lifted a trembling hand and placed it on his chest, feeling the frantic heartbeat beneath his ribcage and the rapid rise and fall from his erratic breathing. He tried to calm the pace of both, attempting to pull his thoughts away from the disturbing dream, as well as the terror inspired by it, but it was to no avail. Fragmented images from the dream returned to him in vivid detail, blazing across his mind with relentless intensity... the feather of red, the Headmaster in black and the ring of gold.
And the blood... God! There was so much blood!
Harry opened his eyes once more, his gaze falling first to his wand lying beside the massive stack of books on the table, then moving downward to the book lying open near his upturned chair, partially covered by the bunched up silvery material of his fallen cloak. His quivering fingers reached for his wand, gripping it with force. Taking comfort in its familiar warmth, he pointed it at his cloak and whispered a summoning charm, certain he hadn't the strength to bend down to retrieve it without magic. While stuffing the cloak back into his bag, Harry forced himself to disregard the symbolic images and meaningful words from his dream, despite his growing suspicion of their prophetic nature, because quite frankly, he was done.
Done with the fear and confusion and the crippling panic.
Done with the desperate search for elusive answers, rifling through page after page of conflicting theories and complex postulations.
He was exhausted – mentally, physically and emotionally – probably more so than ever before. A half lucid part of his mind realized that he had simply reached the end of his tether, his body grown numb and shutting down on itself. He knew he needed rest from the unrelenting whirlwind of his tormenting thoughts. He needed calm and peace.
But most of all... he needed Severus.
Without sparing a thought to how late it was or who might be patrolling the halls at this time, Harry threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder and ran – out of the library and through the empty, darkened corridors and desolate flights of stairs that led to the front of the castle. He slowed his frantic pace only when he neared the Entrance Hall, just enough to enable him to pull the Elder wand from the depths of his bag and cast a well-aimed Alohomora at the castle's locked doors.
After that, he quickened his frantic run, his breathing ragged and labored as he sped across the wide open grounds and into the forest. His feet stumbled and staggered as he dashed through the almost impenetrable darkness amid the looming trees, dodging their jutting branches and tripping over their gnarled roots protruding from the ground.
As soon as he neared the aged oak marking the passage to the cottage's secreted grounds, the cobblestone path emerged before him, as if divining his approach. Though startled by the odd occurrence, Harry did not slow down. He rushed along the stone path toward to the cottage at full speed, sparing only a second to ponder why his admittance did not seem to require his usual intense reflection on Severus.
Then again... at this point... he could think of nothing but Severus.
Only when he reached the cottage's high-arched doorway did he halt his manic sprint, feeling lightheaded and wobbly, his lungs burning and his muscles cramping. He bent over, hands coming down to massage the tightness in his legs and the stitch in both sides while he tried to catch his breath.
Despite his now idle position, his mind continued to race, the disturbing images from his dream and those complex derivations about phoenixes refusing to fade from his thoughts, a perpetual reminder of his ever-present panic. But none of it – none of it – was as debilitating as the fear of walking through that door and confronting Severus after he had done.
I left him! Oh God, how could I have left him?!
A choked sob escaped Harry's throat as he reflected back on those moments in the Great Hall. There was no sugarcoating it – he had abandoned the boy he loved, had run off and left Severus to wallow in his own heartbreak and desolation, and only moments after he had conjured the magicked embodiment of their love for the first time.
Harry's heart clenched painfully in his chest just recalling the vulnerable look in those ebony eyes as he had turned to leave, tearful pools of black filled with uncertainty and glistening with tears.
Severus will never be able to forgive me. I've lost him... I know I've lost him!
Pushing past his guilt and anxiety, Harry placed his hand on the brass doorknob and turned it, pushing the door open slowly. At once, his eyes were drawn to a faint illumination in the far corner of the room near the bed where a single candle flickered against the encompassing dark.
Harry took a few tentative steps forward, letting his school bag slide from his shoulder. It hit the hardwood with a reverberating thump, but he paid it no mind, trudging onward with shaky legs. As he neared the solitary light, he could just make out the outline of a figure seated on the bed, body hunched over and arms tightly wrapped around knees that were drawn up. A dark head of tangled hair was resting on those pulled up knees and as Harry came close enough to discern more detail, that head lifted, red-rimmed, ebony eyes ascending and locking with his own.
Not a word was spoken by either of them as Harry placed his trembling hands on the bunched up comforter at the foot of the bed and began to crawl toward Severus. His heart thundered as the panic that had plagued him all day seemed to settle in his throat, burning like acid.
When he reached Severus, eyes still locked with those pain-filled dark ones, an anguished whimper fell from Harry's lips from the effort of holding in his emotions. He wanted so badly to hold Severus, to fall into his arms and beg his forgiveness, but he didn't dare touch him, terrified the other boy would flinch and turn away, reject his touch.
Harry broke their strained gaze, averting his eyes to stare down at his own hands. They were grasping at the fabric of the sheets, squeezing hard in a desperate attempt to lessen their shaking. Yet his tightened fists did nothing to stop the tremors wracking the rest of his body – tremors that were now intensifying as his pent-up fear and sorrow were threatening to break free from their barrier. Harry bit down on his lip, fighting to retain his dwindling control, while insistent tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
There was so much he wanted to say... so much he needed to say... yet his voice didn't seem to work, his mind incapable of finding the right words.
"Come here."
The whispered command caught Harry off-guard and his head snapped back up, the abrupt action prompting the teardrops sliding down his cheeks to break loose and fall onto the bed.
Severus' hand came up to cup his wet cheek, his thumb wiping a few of the warm drops away while the fingers of his other hand circled around Harry's neck, pulling him closer.
"Come here," he repeated, his voice just as soft and gentle.
Harry felt the last of his restraints splinter and he released an anguished cry, his body shaking with more intensity as he fell into the open arms of the boy he loved.
Severus pulled him close, those long arms going around his back and holding him tightly as they both fell backward onto the bed. One hand traveled up to cradle the back of Harry's head, gentle fingers carding through strands of wavy hair and then caressing the nape of his neck.
Harry's own fingers clenched at the fabric of Severus' shirt as he wept with abandon against that long neck, burning tears drenching the soft skin. With each despairing cry, he felt his pain and panic lessen, each tender caress of Severus' fingers on his heated skin easing his fear of rejection.
Amid his muffled sobs and heaving gasps for breath, Harry tried to speak. He needed to explain... to tell Severus why he left... to make him understand... but every time he tried to give his desperate thoughts voice, the only thing that escaped his quivering lips was a series of stammered utterances and feeble mewls.
"S-Sev... I... I..."
"Shhh... it's OK. Shhh," Severus murmured, his lips pressing against Harry's ear as he pulled him closer.
The hand that had been curled around Harry's neck withdrew and a second later, a whispered summoning charm broke through the expectant silence. Harry's shaking shoulders were then blanketed by a soothing warmth as Severus covered the both of them with the plush comforter that had been heaped in a pile at the bottom of the bed.
After what seemed an eternity, Harry's distress finally lessened enough to allow him to draw away.
"Severus..." he whispered, laying his head on the pillow, placing his cheek flush against the fabric so they were now facing one another. As those ebony eyes gazed deeply into his own, Harry noticed that the pain and hurt residing within them moments ago had vanished, replaced by something so much deeper, stronger, more enduring.
"Severus..." he repeated, losing himself in those cavernous depths. He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat, a thousand things he needed to say flooding his thoughts... overwhelming him... all of them pleading for release... desperate to be known...
"Severus..." he whispered once again, his hand coming up to rest upon one pale, tear-streaked cheek, fingers threading through ebony locks. Edging closer, he brushed his lips against those soft, thin ones as he spoke the words that could no longer be restrained, words that he'd longed to say for so long.
The only words that mattered in the end.
"Severus... I love you."
Chapter End - TBC
A/N: Well, what do ya know? I actually posted before my deadline! Don't get too used to that though as I am expecting the remaining four chapters to be crazy difficult and very time consuming to write (lots of gut-wrenching angst, heart-stopping suspense and lovely snarry romance).
YenGirl - As always, I am in your debt. Your help with this rather mind-numbing chapter was invaluable! Thank you so much. :)
My deadline for Chapter 15 is a no-brainer of sorts. I am leaving for a family vacation June 15th, so it only makes sense to make June 14th my ETA. If I am unable to meet that deadline, the chapter will have to wait at least another week and a half as I will not be writing on my vacation. Honestly, who wants to bring their laptop to the beach? Like always, I will let you all know if I will miss my deadline by updating my Bio. But don't worry – I fully plan on doing everything in my power to post before I leave for vacation as I positively LOATHE having unfinished business looming over my head while trying to relax by the pool.
Stay tuned. Lots of good stuff coming up! :)
Please Review.