By pining, we are already there; we have already cast our hope, like an anchor, on that coast. I sing of somewhere else, not here; for I sing with my heart, not my flesh.

~ The Last Life by Claire Messud

Surprisingly, Dyre was present for the next breakfast. He stood mutely behind Karkaroff's chair, gazing stonily at the Hall. Almost everyone ignored him, everyone, that is, except those in on the secret and Draco Malfoy.

Dyre's gaze settled on no one. It wasn't even moving at all. Draco stared at him. How could someone stand so still? The bruises from the weeks before had healed. He was straight and strong and unyielding. It didn't look like anything that Karkaroff did had affected him. Except for that grim glare. He didn't exactly look happy.

"If you don't stop staring at him, I'm going to pluck your eyes out," Victor growled beside him.

Draco started and turned to him. The Bulgarian had a murderous expression on his face, and Draco had to admit that with his broken nose and heavy brow, he looked very menacing. The boy looked down at his plate and began eating again as if he hadn't threatened him.

"Why does he look like that?" Draco asked, turning to the boy again before Victor's growl stopped him.

"Your questions are bothersome," Krum growled, eating his eggs.

Draco bristled. "Excuse me for being concerned," he snapped.

Victor's eyes swiveled to him angrily. "For a Slytherin, you are rather thick," the broad seeker said. When Draco still did not understand, he elaborated in a low tone. "I told you not to take an interest in him. Interest in him is dangerous."

"I'm not afraid of some silly curse," Draco sneered.

Victor gave him a hard look like he was stupid. "Do not ask questions about him," Victor ordered. "Questions about him lead back to Karkaroff. You would do well not to cause more trouble for the lad."

Draco's eyes widened in recognition. "Is he being punished?"

Victor speared his sausage. "Harry has brought shame to his master by displaying his disobedience. Karkaroff is a proud man. He allows disobediences but not shame, never shame."

"How would my interest be shameful?" Draco asked discontentedly.

"Harry is supposed to be invisible."

Draco found that to be very dubious. His eyes were so drawn to the boy that he could not imagine not noticing him in a room.

Most of the teachers were glaring at Karkaroff, but the dark headmaster seemed a little smug about the attention. He lifted his finger, calling Dyre to him. The boy's eyes narrowed, but he obeyed, bending to hear what Karkaroff had to say from his seat. As the Headmaster spoke into his ear, his mouth drew a straight line and his shoulders tightened.

He did not speak, nodding. He gave a small – very small – bow and left the hall. Karkaroff smirked and drank from his goblet, impervious to the deadly glares sent his way. Even Severus was sending him a particularly venomous death glare, and he usually couldn't give a shit about other people.

Draco left the table. Victor gave him a heated stare but said nothing, sipping from his cup. Dyre was only a few turns down, and it did not take long for Draco to catch up with him.

"Dyre!" he called.

The boy paused and turned. His angry gaze softened into confusion at seeing Draco. The blonde stopped when he caught up to him.

"Um, hey," he said, suddenly inexplicably nervous.

Dyre stared at him as if he had lost his head.

"Um, I'm Draco," he said, extending his hand.

Dyre stared at it silently. He did not take it, instead bowing. When he rose, a question was in his gaze.

"Can you not speak?" Draco asked worriedly.

Dyre didn't respond, staring at him expectantly. Draco backed away uneasily. "I don't have anything to tell you. I just wanted to meet you."

His eyes asked why.

Draco shrugged. "I'm not really sure. Victor told me to leave you alone, basically," he amended since those exact words had never come out of the boy's mouth.

Dyre looked uneasy. Draco winced uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry. You probably have other things to do. I just… I didn't really think this out," he admitted nervously.

Why the hell was he so nervous anyway?

Dyre face softened a bit. He reached down and lifted Draco's hand. He kissed the back of it, leaving the blonde rather dumbstruck. Dyre smiled at him. It had to be one of the most beautiful things Draco had ever seen. He saw Dyre's gratitude in it.

Dyre's fingers lingered over his wrist before dropping his hand. He left him standing in the hall. It took a moment for Draco to realize he was alone. He wandered mutely back to the Great Hall, vaguely recalling that he had not finished his breakfast. He plopped back down on the seat, oblivious to Victor's and his father's bewildered stares. He clutched his hand to his chest.

"What did he do to you?" Victor asked.

"I'm not sure," Draco said, his voice breathless. He smiled suddenly. "But I think I liked it."

o.O.o

Dyre really shouldn't have done that. He was a Lord's son and a beautiful one at that, but the indecision on his face had just captured him. He wished he could have spoken, but Karkaroff's spell had yet to be removed.

In Iceland, what he had done would be considered very insulting. He had treated him like a woman, but here apparently it wasn't so bad. It was just an impulse. Dyre was hardly a handsome man, not with his scar. Not to mention he was a slave. Draco Malfoy was probably washing his hand of the filth of his lips, but he had really admired the dreamy quality of his face as he walked away.

He sighed. He spent too much time with Yrsa.

o.O.o

Dyre did not get a chance to speak with the Potters or anyone really for nearly a month. He was so busy with the new chores Karkaroff had stacked on him, like scraping the barnacles off the hull and performing as target practice for the classes.

The bruises on his shoulders had not healed nor had the lacerations from his one-sided brawl with Farkoff, who had not been happy with his own milder punishment. It was a good thing Dyre was adept at wandless healing or he'd be an undistinguishable smear by now. The last stinging hex had yet to dissolve and the copper tang in his mouth seemed a permanent taste on his tongue.

He tossed the entrails from the galley bucket into the lake, letting the kraken consume the scraps. Dyre allowed himself a moment, hanging over the edge of the ship. He watched the tentacles surface and pull half-eaten limbs and hardened bread loaves into the deep. He wondered what was down there in the green. The Crystal Lake played host to a variety of demons but they mostly kept to themselves. Old creatures had long ago bored of playing with humans, though they would never hesitate to drown one or two of them for old time's sake.

This lake did not seem quite as solid. Life teemed beneath the surface. Though Dyre could not see it, he could feel it. The beating of a thousand hearts rippled the surface. To host a kraken, it would have to be very deep as well. How many leagues traveled beneath his feet, he wondered.

Dyre straightened. He returned the buckets to the galley before making the trek to Karkaroff's cabin to organize his papers. The man was useless. Dyre could never figure out how he had become headmaster, though he suspected some foul treachery in the death of his predecessor. That was not uncommon. Dyre just wished it hadn't been Karkaroff who profited from it.

Dyre unearthed a pair of reading glasses from Karkaroff's desk. No one had ever seen him in glasses, and he never wore them outside Karkaroff's office. He would prefer to see the muddied shapes of his peers than admit to his weak eyesight. Being half-blind was not so bad by Durmstrang's standards. Over half the teaching staff had some form of malady or disfigurement. However, wearing spectacles ruined the disposition of his ghastly scar. It made him look weak.

Dyre was forced to wear them when doing books, but he was going to be damned if he let these foul brigands find another crux to taunt him with. It was bad enough he was fatherless and a servant.

Well, he might not be fatherless, he thought as James Potter's face flashed before him. He paused from reviewing budget requests.

Harry Potter.

He set the sheet down. With the glasses, he could make everything in the room out clearly. He could read the spines of the books, their gold print and binding. He could see the grain of oak in the shelves, the brass of the doorknob, and the strong burnished red of the curtains and upholstery. He could make out the buttons in the chair before him and the gleam of the leather he had just polished.

He dreamed once that he could own a room like this, that the papers on the desk would be addressed to him and not that fool Igor. He had once dreamed that the books on the shelves would be his, and they would be old and worn from being repetitively leafed through. He dreamed once of sitting in his father's office and how it would one day belong to him. He would have retainers, business errands, and dinner parties to escape from.

He thought maybe it would be a small company, nothing intent upon ruling the world but a meager merchant trade or a harvesting field. He imagined that there would be a hand on his shoulder guiding him through the steps, a stern but proud voice lending advice. The face was always blank, but he sometimes placed a bushy mustache on his intangible father.

James didn't have a mustache, but he had that pride in his eyes. The man knew, knew somehow that Dyre was this Harry Potter.

Harry James Potter.

His father's name. His father had given him his name. Echoes of bastard followed him, and he suddenly wanted to shout.

"But I'm not! He's right there! See him! Look!"

It was silly. Dyre still had his reservations, but the more he thought about it, the more attached he became to the idea that James Potter was his father. He spoke truly when he said nothing would change. He would still be trapped by the collar of this blasted scar, but he had a name now. A true name with his father's blessing right smack in the middle.

"Oh, Yrsa. I wish you were here," he said to the empty room.

She would know what to say to make him feel right. He missed her bright smile and chipper voice. Perhaps too chipper, but she was a common girl with a heart too big for her. She was as trapped by her nature as Dyre. He wanted to believe that this would all turn out well, that the blood would prove true, and he could return to a family that had mourned him for fifteen long years.

Yet, he knew that such things like happy endings did not exist. If Karkaroff ever released him, could he really abandon Durmstrang? He kept the school running far more than Karkaroff. He loved Iceland. He loved the mountains, and he loved the cold. He loved the Tower and its tight almost vertical spirals and its sharp spires. He could not abandon Yrsa or the Maiden. He loved them both too much.

The Maiden used to tell him that he was created to love everyone, but he had somewhere shoved all his love into two people. Dyre liked to think like that. He liked to think that he didn't need anyone else but the two of them, the only two people in the world that could never leave him, confined to the Tower. He liked to think that he didn't need to care for anyone but them.

Green eyes flashed, tears shining in red hair.

Grey towers swirling in mists beneath a halo of light.

Why would he think of that? Why would he think of Draco Malfoy? He touched his fingers to his lips, remembering the warm flesh of his hand and the light race of a pulse beneath his fingers. A gorgeous boy with everything in the world had no need for a scarred servant like Dyre, a cursed slave.

As always, he thought about what it would be like to serve someone better, someone who deserved his loyalty. His father served Lucius. The blonde was regal enough, but Dyre didn't think he could serve Draco. He didn't think he could serve anyone. He was too brazen, too prone to fantasies like power and independence.

He sometimes wished Karkaroff would pass the bond to Victor as the Bulgarian had offered so many times. However, Karkaroff knew that Victor would release him and Dyre would seek revenge. And even if he didn't, why would Karkaroff give up someone like Dyre, someone he had complete control over? True, he was a nuisance and a pest, but his pride allowed for nothing else. Karkaroff still held him in thrall, and that power, the power to make Dyre carry out his commands, his wishes, his every desire, was intoxicating.

Victor would not be able to free him after tasting that power, anyway. Then, Dyre would be forced to hate him. Dyre did not want to. He did not want to put the lord through that, and he did not want to lose the only male that might have been his friend.

It was better that a fool like Karkaroff held him. Dyre would feel no guilt in killing him and without true talent, Dyre's abilities were being wasted, which Dyre could not protest to. Abilities like his should not be used at all. It was a blessing that Karkaroff aspired only to this.

In truth, Dyre could probably have brought him the world.

He picked back up the sheet, pushing up his glasses. If Karkaroff tried that, he would slip. He had neither the talent nor the skill to control him. He would slip, and Dyre would kill him.

Dyre hated this damn stalemate. It was tedious. Painful and overwhelmingly tedious. It was just another reason to hate the man.

o.O.o

As the Halloween feast approached, the students became more and more frenzied. The professors were having a difficult time controlling their classes as the children gossiped excitedly. Even Snape was having trouble successfully intimidating his class, resulting in several cauldrons imploding and many painful trips to the infirmary.

When the feast finally came, no one was more relieved than the teachers. Sirius and Remus had once more come down from the office to oversee the choosing of the champions. Dyre was standing behind Victor Krum's seat, making his first appearance in several weeks. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he looked little worse for wear. Karkaroff had taken Dumbledore's warning to heart, but he was working the boy to the bone.

Sirius' and Remus' gaze did not leave him though they were hardly the only ones staring. Half the table was ignoring their meals in order to obsess over the boy. Severus scoffed, but his eyes rested upon his dark head every few minutes as if checking to make sure he was still there.

The noise in the hall was cacophonous, and nothing that Krum was saying to the child could be picked out. Eventually the seeker sat down, and Dyre blended back into the wall. Lucius noticed that Draco had foregone his usual seat by the wall to sit opposite him. It was unusual in that he exposed his back to the entire school. Lucius was beginning to suspect his promiscuous son was developing a crush on the north-man.

The clinking of cutlery and drivel ceased as soon as Dumbledore rose. Of course, being who he was, he thought it was funny to grab a plate from the opposite end of the table and return to his seat. The groans of the students only widened his smirk. After Severus gave him a scathing retort, Albus, with a small pout, rose again, this time proceeding to the frothing goblet in the center of the room.

The goblet's flame was a blue-white. It was a squat fire, licking the edge of the gold rim. Dyre knew for a fact that Victor was going to be the Durmstrang champion. The others had only come for show. Even with his gimpy leg, Victor was the best fighter, winning more rounds of Holmgang than any of the other students. He was a fierce and critical opponent. Dyre was less sure about Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, though he saw an arrogant girl sitting primly in her seat. She sipped from her cup as if nothing important was taking place, but her eyes were sharp and focused intently on the goblet.

Dumbledore stopped before the cup. "The goblet is almost ready to make its decision," he announced. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champion's names are called, I would ask them to please come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber."

Eyes followed his hand to the door behind the staff table.

"There you will be given further instruction," he said.

His eyes sparkled for a second brighter than the fire. Then, the lights in the pumpkins were extinguished, and an anxious silence fell over the Hall. The bright glow of the Goblet of Fire illuminated the faces closest to it, giving several students the appearance of enraptured skulls. Dyre felt the heavy mood affecting him as he began to eye the fire with bated breath.

With a gentle whoosh followed by several awed gasps, the flame stretched high as if pulling from inside itself. The flame turned a cherry red. With a few excited sparks, a single tongue flashed upward licking the air. On its end a single charred noted fluttered down. The tongue returned, and the fire squatted, blue-white once more.

Dumbledore snatched the piece of paper from the air. Eyes watched him nervously wide with anxiety. Dumbledore looked at it then reached into his robes for his glasses. A few clipped curses met him, most from the potions professor though he would later refute it. Dumbledore slipped the glasses on and gave a cough that might have been a chuckle.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," he said with exaggerated slowness, "is Fleur Delacour!"

The girl Dyre had noticed earlier rose gracefully from her seat among a chorus of applause. She walked along the Ravenclaw, stopping only to give a neat, smug courtesy to her headmistress. Madam Maxine looked very pleased and clapped with the rest of her school, proud eyes following her out.

The goblet turned red again, and the applause fell. The flames shot out, propelling the second piece of paper forward. Dumbledore caught it again as the flames simmered.

"The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!"

Cheers erupted from the Hufflepuff table. A statuesque male with bronze hair and a chiseled chin was propelled forward by his housemates' enthused hands. He stumbled forward with a silly grin. He gave a gorgeous, happy smile to Professor Sprout, who beamed, folding her hands into her bosom.

All that was left was Victor, Dyre thought, as the second champion disappeared behind the door. The flames shot up. Dumbledore stretched a long hand and looked at the parchment and said nothing. Everyone watched as his face fell, and he reread and reread the scrap of paper as if he could not believe.

"Get on with it, Dumbledore!" Karkaroff shouted impatiently.

Dumbledore's head rose and connected across the Slytherin table. For a second, Dyre really thought it was going to land on Victor. He was right there. However, the gaze slipped past him without pause, connected with his own mismatched cursed eyes.

"Dyre Durmstrang."

Everyone was quiet. Heads swiveled towards him, but Dyre could not see them. He could not react. His mouth dropped open, eyes unable to tear from Dumbledore's. This was impossible. Not only was he too young, he wasn't even a student. He didn't even have a wand. There was no way he could compete.

Dimly, he heard Karkaroff's roar, but it seemed very far away. He could only stand there numbly, unable to understand why Dumbledore had called his name instead of Victor Krum. As shouts rang out through the Hall, Dyre could only hear Dumbledore as he spoke through his long beard and wrinkled face, eyes sad and knowing.

"Dyre, up here."

He heard him, but he couldn't move. He could only stand there like a deer caught in the headlights. The Durmstrang students were screaming, and Karkaroff was shouting at Dumbledore or he might have been shouting at him. The only one seemingly able of function was Victor as he grabbed Dyre's elbow and literally shoved him towards the staff table. It broke the spell Dyre was under, and he left the room, the angry shouts, the confusion, and the accusations that were suddenly blaring in his ears.

The door closed behind him, and silence descended. It was a nice room, a foyer with a blazing fire, warm rugs, and a wide window overlooking the entrance to Hogwarts. There was a bowl of peppermints on the coffee table, looking sugary and sweet. Their white stripes were blatantly brilliant to Dyre.

The other two champions looked confused, obviously expecting Krum. Well, Dyre was expected Krum to be in here as well. He couldn't quite seem to separate with the door either. It was a problem easily corrected as his headmaster slammed through the door, catapulting him halfway across the floor to land over the edge of the pastel pink couch. Dyre managed to turn over before Karkaroff's hands were on him, and indignant shouts filled the room.

"What did you do!?" the man shouted, spittle flying onto Dyre's face. "You've ruined me! You've ruined my school! How dare you! How did you do it?!"

Dyre saw the hand moving towards him, but he was too much in shock to duck the blow. Karkaroff's hand cuffed him, and he fell to the floor, chipping his head on the mantle. The shouting had gotten louder, but Dyre could only detect a buzz in his ears. His vision swam, and his head rang. He was vaguely aware that Karkaroff was aiming a kick at his stomach and rolled on instinct, folding in to accept the blow so its damage would be lessoned.

The kick never came however as Karkaroff was manhandled away from him, several strong and well-seasoned hands restraining him as Lily Potter knelt on the floor. Her hands lifted his face, and Dyre felt blood trickle down the side of his head. It dripped onto the floor and stained his collar. He suddenly thought that it was going to take forever to clean yet another set of robes.

With Lily's prodding, he straightened, but he could not hear the words she cooed to him through the ringing. He had a concussion, he diagnosed. The numbness would wear off soon, and he was going to start vomiting. He swayed and was caught by the elbow. Someone was asking him questions, but the words were too gargled to make sense.

A pale hand pressed a potion into his own. He stared at it with his double vision, wondering how it had gotten there, before he uncorked it and sniffed the contents. The scent of a well-made pain potion met him, and he did not hesitate to down the mixture. Immediately, the buzzing faded, and his vision cleared, though the nausea did not. The flustered shouting of his headmaster was the first thing to greet his ears.

"We are through! This is over with! Do you hear me!? We are returning! I will not have a servant competing for my school!"

His rage was slightly impeded by the three men holding him back, one of which Dyre instantly recognized as a werewolf. His mad eyes gleamed like a shot of whiskey, and with his second eye, he could see the hint of moon in his stance. Another he recognized as James, but the other he had only caught glimpses of from the first days he had been here. He recognized him as one of the men present at his first visit to Dumbledore's office.

Suddenly, Karkaroff's violent bawling was cut off. Though his lips still moved, nothing was coming out. Dyre looked over to see Dumbledore with his wand out, and his eyes trained on Karkaroff with an anger that Dyre was shocked to see on the grandfatherly old man. He could suddenly understand how this man had defeated Banebringer. The wand trained in his hand was held in a tight grip, forefinger following the line of wood to steady it. His eyes, which Dyre had seen only in merriment and occasionally with sadness, were hard as river stones, like a robin's egg turned to gargoyle.

"You will refrain from striking your charge."

His voice was steely, but Dyre could feel the thunder in it. As always, the scent of power awakened his second eye. Dyre covered it quickly as the orb suddenly ricocheted off his skull, spiraling around to catch the sight of that beautiful taste of power. The echoes of the magic performed in this room were suddenly brilliantly bright. The wards gleamed, pulsing with the heart of the school. He could see the runes crafted into the castle, into the fire, into the peppermint bowl. The people around him were suddenly walking candlesticks, though the fire consumed all of them instead of just the wick.

He pushed against his eye, begging it to stop. Everything was too loud, too bright, too extraordinary. The demons of the netherworld were starting to resurface through the walls of the illusion. He could feel them bleeding through his defenses, eyes narrowing as they tried to find the source of this new presence walking among them. Dyre could feel their hunger and their awful desire to maim, to bleed, to destroy.

Then, it was gone again, pushed behind his shield, and he was once more in a room in a school in Scotland. In a room he wasn't supposed to be in, in a school that wasn't his, and in a country that he did not belong to. His knees began to wobble, and the nausea was back again in full force. He moved his hand from his eye to his mouth in a frugal attempt to swallow his bile.

Crouch was explaining that Dyre must compete. The Goblet of Fire was a magical contract, and it could not be broken. As his sponsor, Karkaroff could not back out either. James and his companions had released Karkaroff, but they stood ready to restrain him again, looking like they would enjoy it as well. Several other people were in the room as well.

Madam Maxine was conversing in quick French with Delacour. Professor Snape was close behind him with Professor Potter, looking prepared to catch him if he collapsed. Dyre wasn't going to collapse. He didn't know how he would manage the trip back to the ship, but he was not going to collapse. Lucius Malfoy was in the room as well, a quiet calculating observer instead of a participant. He stood with his hands crossed over his cane, shooting looks of contempt at Igor, who was still arguing with Ludo Bagman and Crouch.

For once, Dyre was in complete agreement with Karkaroff. He didn't want to compete. He didn't put his name in the goblet, so he hadn't signed any legal binding contract with a damn cup. He was younger than the other competitors, wandless, and untrained. The hell he had to compete!

"He is no champion of mine!" Karkaroff was shouting. "I wash my hands of this!" He looked over a Dyre, fury spitting into his face and beady eyes. "You are banished you hear! You will get no help from Durmstrang!"

With that, he stormed out, Bagman following on his heels, plaintive arguments bouncing off the tall man's broad shoulders. So Dyre was homeless now on top of everything else. He didn't care. None of the students besides Victor would have dared to help him anyway. At least, this way he was free from harassment.

Dyre knew that Karkaroff was hoping he was going to be killed in this competition. It was an easy way to get out of their bond. Dyre officially was a ward of the Maiden, and only she could cast him out of Durmstrang. Still, Igor could cast him off his ruddy ship. Well, let's just see how well he does without Dyre's assistance, he thought spitefully. With no one to wash the laundry, prepare the rooms, and do Karkaroff's duties the headmaster was looking at a close rebellion.

Dyre would have smiled if the situation weren't so shitty. He still had to compete in a tournament that had claimed much more experienced fighters than he without assistance and without a wand or sword. This sucked. And now he had nowhere to fucking sleep.

"Dyre?"

He looked up from his angry brooding into the sky-blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Dyre still had a hand over his mouth to quell his stomach so his response was rather muffled. His legs were about to give out as well. He noticed that Madam Maxine and her champion had left along with Crouch and Bagman. Diggory had been shuffled off somewhere too. Dyre was the only outsider left.

"Dyre, you should know that you have the backing of my school, and you are of course welcome to stay in the castle."

Oh. Well… that was good. He wouldn't have to camp out in the forest. Although, he was quite adept at that.

Dyre would have said something but he was afraid that if he opened his mouth he was going to spew up his morning broth on them. Dumbledore's eyes crinkled before his eyes ran over to the side of Dyre's head. They hardened, and aged hands handled his chin fragilely, turning so that the ruptured mound of flesh would be visible in the light. Dumbledore's hand came away coated in blood.

Dyre hissed, and he couldn't hold it in anyway. He made it to the fireplace before he chunked up the grayish-white lumps of his porridge. He hung over the mantle as it all came spewing up, coating his throat in sour acid. Someone was holding him up, brushing the matted hair from his neck. He heaved again but nothing came up but spittle. It dripped from his mouth, dangling down on the rancid mess. Dyre didn't have the strength to wipe it away.

His head was pounding. A drop of blood slid down his jaw line and fell in the colorless sick. The red stood out, mixing with the watery bile. Dyre couldn't take it and dry heaved. The heat of the nearby fire was making him hot and uncomfortable. He pushed away from the mantle and knelt on the floor over an armchair, breathing heavily through the horrid pain in his head. He shied away from the hands, experience with helping hands not really turning out to be so helpful.

Something cool touched his head, and he relaxed on instinct. A vial was pushed to his lips, and he drank, thinking nothing could be worse than this pain. The throbbing began to ease, and he was able to think. He was still pale and trembling, his throat sore and his tongue rancid. Weakly, he reached over and popped in a few peppermints. Their cool, sweet taste was relaxing, and he surrendered to the hands rubbing circles on his back.

"Better?" Lily asked.

Dyre nodded, moving the candy around his mouth. He was too exhausted to reply verbally. His head was numb, giving off the slight tingle of an anesthetic. The potions professor was rubbing salve into the wound. His long gentle fingers were coated in what Dyre recognized as burlap sap and wormwood infusions.

"Sorry," he croaked in his ruined throat.

"Hush," Snape said strictly though his fingers remained tender and soothing. "Don't let your fool of a headmaster strike you next time."

Dyre didn't say anything, wanting more than anything to be left alone.

"Why won't my legs work?" he asked around the peppermint.

"Because the potion I gave you was maximum strength, and you're limbs are not going to work for quite some time."

"How am I going to get to my room?"

Snape gave him an Are-you-stupid-look. "You will be floated or carried, of course."

"I'm fine here," Dyre said, not liking that at all.

"Not your decision," he said before Lily could object with motherly concern.

Dyre eyes hardened. "You don't have to help me."

"I believe the polite thing to do at this moment is get off your high horse and thank us instead of arguing and causing more problems."

"Severus!" Lily shouted.

Snape ignored her, focusing his attention on Dyre and his slowly healing wound.

"Thank you, Master Snape," Dyre said, surprising him with his soft compliance. He tried to move and failed. "I need to thank Master Dumbledore as well."

"Unless he concocts another harebrained scheme that sends him off the continent, he will be here in the morning. I am sure your impatience can be put on hold until then."

Dyre smiled, finding his wry sense of humor pleasing. He looked around his back towards Lily, who was glaring aggressively at Severus.

"Thank you as well, Madam Potter."

Lily cut off her glaring to turn to him. She gave a subtle blush, but the look in her eyes was sad.

"You're my son. You don't need to thank me."

The sleeping potion Severus had mixed in with the draught finally kicked in and before Dyre could say anything, his head hit the cushion with a soft plop. The others, who were hiding in the shadows so as not to crowd the boy, moved forward to gaze at him.

So many shadows. So many trials and so much pain. How was he going to survive? No matter though, they were going to be beside him. They were never going to leave him again.