Snape sings

A scream clawed at Alina's throat, tore at it. But she did not move. She stood and stared at Barret, where he lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.

And listened—

For the first time in two years, Alina could hear.

Could hear something beyond the screams and sighs and sounds of the dying in her head.

She heard Barret sobbing—"Shit, shit, bloody fucking shit!"—in the distance played a violin—she knew that melody, she'd heard it before—and closer, so much closer, she heard the rushing of a river. Another sound she'd heard before.

Suddenly, a second voice spoke, soft and sibilant, "Ssscream, ssscream, ssscream boy, no one hearzzz you. What izzz your name, boy? Why are you here, boy?"

Alina froze. The violin stopped. Danger deadlier than death filled that voice. Barret, don't say a word, she thought. Just don't say anything at all. But, as if caught in a dream where you know the monster the moment before it emerges from the shadows, she knew that Barret would answer.

"I—I—I'm Barret Cruddace, Gryffindor House. I—I—I'm not quite sure why I'm here—and where—where is here, anyway? I—I—I kicked Alina's bloody book and—and suddenly I'm here—and—and did you hear that violin just now, too, sir?"

"A book? A book sssent you here? Which book wasss it, Cruddacccce? What izzzz itssssss title?"

Dread filled Alina. Don't, Barret. Don't. Keep your mouth shut.

"The Book of the Dead. Snape gave it to her. She's lugging it about with her everywhere she goes, as if it's her new best friend or something." Barret still sounded hurt.

"Ssssnape? Ssseverusss SSSnape? He hasss a Book of the Dead? He gave it to hissss apprenticccce?"

"No, Alina's not his apprentice, she's just a student. His wife—Hermione Granger—was his apprentice. But sir, where am I? And how do I get back? If you know Professor Snape, can you help me get back?"

"Yessss, Cruddaccce, I can help you. Jussst take my hand, and shhhhall help you."

NO!

The silent scream burst, exploded from Alina's mouth. The violin shrilled so close that her teeth ached with the sound, the rushing of the river turned into a roar—

and Alina stumbled into Madam Pomfrey's office, grabbed the healer's arm, dragged her to the washing room of the hospital wing, while she screamed and screamed and screamed without any sound at all, and of the witch's agitated questions and orders, she couldn't hear a word.

Suddenly the headmistress was there. Barret was laid down on a bed in the hospital wing and Professor McGonagall staggered to the big fire place, threw Floo powder into the flames and called someone's name. The headmistress was nearly thrown back onto her arse from the emerald explosion that followed, erupting into billowing black robes and Professor Snape running to Barret's bed.

He laid a pale hand on the boy's forehead and sank on the wooden chair next to the bed. His eyes closed. His mouth opened—

and Alina heard his voice—

singing—

raucous, rollicking, rowdy notes—

that compelled her feet to move—

propelled her forwards—

but his voice stopped her.

"Get Mosrael, Alina. Use the emergency password. NOW!"

Alina raced from the room.

Somewhere, far away, she could still hear two voices—one sibilant and soft, seducing and soothing, the other boyish…and scared.

Somewhere, a violin was still playing.

And somewhere, a river rushed through the darkness towards distant heavens glittering with millions of stars.

oooOooo

On Monday Astoria lingered in the dungeons after work until Draco relented and invited her into his room for a cuppa.

Astoria knew that for all her family traditions, she couldn't out-Slytherin a Malfoy. She was also aware that Draco was right: He was already dead, she couldn't save him anymore. Still, did you stop needing friends just because you died? Astoria rather thought you always needed friends. And with no Slytherin wiles at her disposal, her Hufflepuff stubbornness must do.

So she sat primly, her back pointedly turned to the lobalug in its tank and stirred a cup of Lady Grey.

With the Daily Prophet detailing the plans of an international reform of magical education on the desk between them, they had plenty to talk about. The British candidate for president of the European Magical Union certainly had grand plans if this "Lasagna Process" of his was any indication.

"Well, international standards of magical education might not be so bad," Astoria ventured. "And layers of magical education from nursery school to apprenticeship or university actually sound like a good idea."

"Controlled by an EMU commission?" Draco raised a delicate silvery eyebrow. "Not bloody likely. Think, Astoria. You must think beyond what's printed in black and white in this ruddy rag."

She sighed. Did he absolutely have to be so demanding?

"All right, I'll try." Astoria stared at the portly man with his carefully coiffed grey mane. He beamed at her and waved a bowler hat adorned with the British flag. Behind him lurked a thin, middle-aged wizard with a dark top hat. The pattern of the hat band seemed to show the American flag, and the wizard smirked widely.

"Well," Astoria started. "Not all families send their children to Hogwarts. International standards would help with that. And look at Molly Weasley, she's taking care of more than half a dozen toddlers already. Wouldn't she benefit from syllabi for magical nursery schools? And I remember Daphne nattering about university and how difficult it was with only a few magical courses here and there…So that seems all very positive…" She fell silent, contemplating Fudge and what she knew about him. "…but it would also mean more government control over education. And…education means influence on—"

"Exactly!" Draco cried. "More influence on what people know, what people think, and on how they think to start with! And—"

The Floo activated, interrupting Draco. With billowing robes, a black figure emerged from the fire place…

oooOooo

A/N: The "Lasagna Process" is, of course, an allusion to the so-called "Bologna Process" of European educational policies.