Update: Thanks guest for pointing out the error. Have corrected Meryl to Meryn.
Chapter 2: A Whole New World
When Severus came to, two emotions warred in his head: panic at the thought of what Sirius Black and Remus Lupin must have done, and murderous rage against Granger, Potter and Weasley for putting themselves in a deadly situation in the first place. Could they never listen? And Dumbledore had encouraged it. Now they were probably lying in a ditch somewhere, while Black was going to plan his next murderous rampage, and Severus had failed everyone yet again, waking up in...He didn't recognise the room...
It certainly wasn't the Hospital Wing, and he certainly wasn't in the dungeons.
Severus found himself in an ornate bedroom with stone walls with a tall, narrow window, overlooking the ocean. A brazier on the far wall was the major source of illumination in the room, while a lit lamp on the desk threw light on its empty surface. He was in a soft featherbed, and surrounded by rich furnishings - richer indeed than anything he had ever seen at Malfoy Manor.
"How are you feeling, My Lord," came a soft voice from somewhere behind him.
My Lord
Severus froze. Those were two words he hated more than any other. It couldn't be, could it? It was much too soon. Black could not have revived the Dark Lord so quickly, could he?
It had been too long since Severus had to present himself before the Dark Lord. He drew up all his skills at occlumency to keep his mind blank, breathing deeply to calm his nerves. He wished he could have consulted Dumbledore before it came to this. He did not know how he could survive an encounter with his other Master. Making his mind as blank as he could, Severus prayed silently that he would not be caught out as he turned towards the source of the voice - only to see: a plump ginger-headed man with a chain made up of several metals, as if a catalogue of metallurgy.
The Dark Lord was still dead - or almost so. Severus felt his panic abate, though a large degree of (well masked) confusion remained.
"Where am I," he asked the stout red-head, "and who are you?"
"We are in Maegor's Holdfast, my Lord. In your new chambers. You had a fall and hurt your head. You have been unconscious for about an hour. I am called Frenken, and I am Maester to House Stokeworth. How do you feel my Lord?" The strange man said, his tone clinical.
The address was unexpected. The person making the address a stranger. The place a strange one. There was only one way to get at the bottom of this.
"Legilimens"
Severus thought hard, and stared into the eyes of Frenken. Images of himself unconscious, wearing strange rich clothes and being brought into the room flashed. Then another of himself (unconscious again) in a grand structure which he would have mistaken for a church, had there hadn't been a dearth of crosses. There were a few other people in the church-like hall as well, and one of them was an astonished looking Potter wearing blue and grey, who had exclaimed, "That's Snape!" A brief image of a bald man flashed and -
Maester Frenken looked away, the contact broken, and the images lost. Severus' head throbbed.
Those idiots had disarmed him, and conducting even the most superficial legilimency had hurt. He had felt he could black out. The kernel of relief at seeing Potter alive was once again replaced with a feeling of murderous rage. Potter would pay. Even Dumbledore could not overlook this. But how was he going to find Potter and his cronies without a wand? And how would he (and Potter and his cronies) get back from wherever they were.
What even was this world. Was he someone different, for why else had that Maester fellow addressed him as My Lord? Perhaps on account of whatever or whomever Severus was supposed to be, he could just have Potter brought to him...but then Potter (damn him!) looked to be someone of equal rank (and with his luck, probably higher), and may not be one whom he could summon. If the mountain wouldn't go to Mohammed, well...he'd find a way to get Potter...
With Severus still lost in thought, Maester Frenken had started looking on with increasing concern. "My Lord, is something the matter?"
Severus, finally noticing Maester Frenken's concerned expression asked, "Where did I fall?"
"The Sept of the Red Keep, My Lord. Do you have some difficulty in remembering?"
Severus had never heard of a place called the Red Keep, and deduced that the Sept was the church like hall that he had glimpsed in Frenken's head. The Red Keep was obviously the Castle in which the Sept was built.
Taking his (feigned?) amnesia an opportunity, Severus spoke after a moment of deliberation, "As a matter of fact I do, and I would be grateful if you could fill me in. I seem to remember a young man with short messy black hair, right before I...well, you know...Do you know him?"
"Perhaps you mean Hareld Frey, my Lord. He stayed back for a while after you fell, and seemed to recognise you."
"Can I see him?"
"I would not recommend it, today, My Lord, on account of your injury. Tomorrow, I believe, should you feel strengthened enough..."
Severus needed to see Potter now. "I am much recovered..."
"My Lord, the problems with your memory are not easily disregarded. While injuries like these do often result in temporary loss of memory, I believe that you will recover faster should you rest."
"As you say, Maester, a temporary loss of memory is not unusual in injuries like mine. Other than being slightly disoriented, I feel fine. Am I to be restricted from meeting anyone?"
"Certainly not, My Lord. It isn't for me to make a decision of the sort. Your Lordship isn't my prisoner. It is merely my considered opinion that it would be better for your recovery to meet him tomorrow. I shall direct one of the servants to inform him immediately of your desire to meet, if it is your wish."
Yes!
"It is my wish," came the curt answer.
"Symon", Maester Frenken addressed a servant boy who had been assisting him, "please tell Hareld Frey that Prince Severus requests a meeting at his earliest convenience. You may have to escort him to these chambers" Bowing, Symon scurried out of the room to carry out his task.
Maester Frenken turned back to Severus, "My Lord, you have missed the feast. I would recommend that some broth be brought to help keep up your strength. Should I give the direction?"
Before Severus could reply or ask the Maester anything further, they were interrupted by a knock, and a beautiful girl with reddened eyes entered the room escorted by an attendant. At first glance, she looked shockingly like Lily: tall, graceful, red haired, and Severus' heart stopped for a second at the thought of being in a place where Lily was alive. Then he noticed the differences. She was young, perhaps 18. Her eyes were all wrong. They weren't the striking green which always reminded him of the Aurora Borealis: vivid and beautiful. These were blue...and red...and she had been crying.
The girl's face shook him...and he did not know why but he felt like he was back amongst the Death Eaters. What he did not know was whether he was the equivalent of a mudblood to be tormented, a Death Eater, a member of the resistance, or just another person not involved in whatever sordid circumstances existed here. He couldn't pinpoint what prompted this feeling (it is the girl insisted some primitive part of his brain), but instinctively Severus just knew that he was now inhabiting a world that was as hellish as his own, and he wanted to get out. Now.
The Maester bowed as she entered, "Lady Sansa."
"Maester," she acknowledged, then curtseying to Severus added, "my Prince."
Joffrey was raging. It had not been a good day. Joffrey had not been in favour of letting Sansa getting married to Martell, but his grandfather had insisted that it was essential. The wedding was to strengthen Joffrey's own position. How getting Sansa married to that pathetic weakling would strengthen his own position, Joffrey could not fathom. He knew he was now betrothed to Margaery, who was certainly better than stupid Sansa Stark with her treasonous blood and wild sister. But Joffrey still wanted Sansa Stark. She was his, they had promised, even if he had set her aside. After all, he was King. Sansa was always so proper, and looked so very beautiful when she cried.
Well if Joffrey couldn't wed her, he certainly could bed her, and he had told her he would. She had cried, as was expected, and Joffrey had relished Sansa's tears and terror. When Meryn Trant had knocked out Martell, Joffrey had relished the chance to take the groom's place for the night. He had, after all, taken the place of her father earlier, why couldn't he take the part of the husband? If the King did not have claim over Sansa Stark, who did? He would have Sansa Stark's maidenhead, and maybe even put a bastard in her belly. He could humiliate both traitors with one act.
Obviously there would be no public bedding, but who would stop Joffrey if he were to enter Sansa's chambers and take her? Her unconscious husband? And even if he were conscious...Meryn Trant would see him back in that state.
Sansa had cried most becomingly when he had shared his plan with her. She had actually sobbed, and he had never been so pleased as he was then. He had placed his hand right up at the junction of her thighs, and caressed it to make his point, and Sansa had actually started shaking, and he had been so excited.
And then, suddenly, he couldn't move. Not a single muscle. It was the most frightening thing that Joffrey had ever felt. He could hear, and see and feel as well as he ever could, but it was as if he were frozen. His mother was screaming hysterically, and there was panic at the High Table, and Sansa Stark had turned completely white. It had seemed like an eternity...and then...it was as if it never happened.
He had retired for the evening then, his mother in tow, and the Grand Maester, Pycelle, had been summoned to his chambers. Pycelle had thought it was a fit, brought on by the weight of his office, and had prescribed some milk of the poppy and dreamwine. While Joffrey had consumed both and had felt better, he just knew that Pycelle was wrong. His mother, the Queen Cersei had been mollified by the old fool's words. She had, alongside his grandfather, Lord Tywin suggested that he keep himself away from the affairs of State and let petty day to day matters be handled by the hand. Pycelle had prescribed a dose of milk of the poppy to be given whenever he found himself agitated, and Lord Tywin had seemed pleased by the idea. Joffrey however, had never felt his office burdensome. He would have to teach the old fool a lesson.
But what else could have caused it? Joffrey shuddered just thinking about the feeling.
Joffrey had heard rumours that his Uncle Stannis had murdered his brother, Lord Renly using sorcery. Most at court had dismissed it as hollow talk and pointed instead to a disenchanted "Rainbow Guard". Joffrey had not been bothered with any of this. His uncle Renly had always been weak and useless, and his death had not surprised him. Any man who had a rainbow guard was obviously going to get murdered! The how at the time had hardly mattered, but now...perhaps there was something in those rumours. He obviously had not taken his defeat at the hands of Joffrey very well.
Wasn't it strange how Unlce Stannis' enemies and obstacles to the throne were mysteriously dying? First his father, then Uncle Renly. Mayhaps even Lord Stark was a victim. Yes, it was Joffrey who gave the command, but hadn't Lord Stark been bewitched by Stannis, offering him the throne after King Robert's death? Stannis had always been jealous of his father.
Joffrey's sixteenth nameday had passed, but with an impending attack from Lord Stannis, no celebrations had taken place, nor had arrangements for his investiture as the ruling monarch been completed. After the Battle was won, it had been decided that Joffrey's regency would commence alongside his own wedding celebrations, merely a week away. There would be no regent to interfere with his orders then. His mother was but a woman with a woman's heart. His grandfather was old. His uncles, incompetent both: one a hostage of Robb Stark, and the other lying senseless in a bed. They were all incapable...
Joffrey was going to get at the bottom of this, and any sorcerer would be begging him to take off their heads before he was through with them.
Padfoot leapt before the werewolf to draw it away from the children, and found himself in human form in a small wooded park with elm and alder trees. He was richly dressed, but his boots were mud spattered, as if he had just arrived after a long journey. As he gauged his surroundings, Sirius was shocked to see Remus standing in front of him, the bright white light of the full moon illuminating his face, human. In the distance, scurrying down long, serpentine steps, Sirius saw the unmistakable form of Peter Pettigrew, fat and blonde as ever. Recovering from his shock, Sirius gave chase, his long legs and tall form allowing him to close the distance between them as he ran. He was surprised at the speed at which the distance between himself and Wormtail reduced. It was as if Azkaban never happened.
He heard Remus following behind, but did not look back lest he lose the rat again. If only he had his wand, Pettigrew would stand no chance! The only silver lining was that Sirius was sure that Pettigrew too was unarmed.
There was a large crowd coming out of one of the buildings ahead, and Pettigrew made right for it, perhaps trying to disappear in the crowd. Sirius persisted. He shoved people out of his way as he continued his chase, when a group of drunks blocked his way. He first dodged then tried to push past, but sensing Sirius' urgency, the drunks felt it would be a good idea to make sport.
Frustrated with the fact that Pettigrew was getting away yet again, Sirius boxed one of the drunks, whose nose burst. Blood sprayed all over the drunk's face, and he collapsed in pain and vomited. Seeing their companion fall, the other drunks surrounded Sirius, drawing their weapons unsteadily. Swearing, Sirius readied for a fight, one eye still on Peter. He was gratified to see that Remus still had Peter in his sights and was still giving chase, when he was hit by a clumsily wielded sword. The weapon was sharp. His sleeve had been cut rather neatly, barely missing his skin.
Sirius sized up his opponents - five in total, one down already. The four others completely sloshed. Could he disarm them one by one? The first one would be the most challenging to disarm, but it wasn't something Sirius couldn't do.
Adrenaline rushed through him, and as two of the drunks lunged towards him, he dodged with ease. Drunk One's sword went harmlessly through air, while Drunk Two's sword pierced Drunk One's arm by accident. Drunk One howled in pain and let go of his sword, which Sirius quickly grabbed and turned to attack the remaining two drunks.
Drunk Three, inspite of his inebriation, was a skilled swordsman, and Sirius was having difficulty in keeping him engaged while still keeping away from Drunk Four's attacks. Suddenly, Drunk Four, who had crept up behind Sirius fell, and Drunk Three found himself fighting two opponents. Remus had come to relieve Sirius.
The fight did not last long after that. Seeing that winning was impossible, Drunk Three surrendered his sword, looking terrified at the sight of Remus.
"Where is Wormtail?" gasped Sirius, winded by the fight.
"Got away. He entered that building there," Remus said pointing towards an impressive fortress, "ran past the drawbridge and inside. I saw you were in trouble and turned back."
"I would have been fine, Mooney. You let him get away!"
Sirius did not look merely agitated, he looked half-mad. Remus, knowing that Sirius needed to be calmed down before he did something irrational and dangerous, took Sirius by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. Sirius needed a dose of rationality, and needed it now.
"Sirius. Listen. We are not at Hogwarts. We are not wherever and whenever we should be. We need to see if Harry and his friends are okay and we need to find a way back home. What are the chances that Voldemort and his Death Eaters would be here? Depending on what we find out about this place, maybe we can let Wormtail rot here."
Sirius still looked mutinous.
"What would you have me do! See you be cut down by slobbering drunks for the off chance that I could actually catch Peter? Hell Sirius, for all you know he has been arrested or executed for trying to enter into that keep. There are armoured guards there, and who knows if Peter has access? And if he does, we can find out who he is. We will find him. You have my word." Then more softly he added, "Sirius, after all this time, and after all that has happened, I could never forgive myself if I let you die."
Sirius looked away and sighed. "Let's find out where we are, and what is that fortified keep and whether we can be allowed in or not." He paused, and looking resolute, added menacingly, "I will get that rat, Mooney, that I swear. I will see him pay for his crimes even if I have to chase him through seven hells. I will get that rat."
"And you shall have me by your side, Sirius, have no fear of that. But we should get our bearings first. Wormtail has given us a slip more than once. He successfully framed you of murders he committed. We cannot run into this without some thought, or Peter will get away again." Remus steered Sirius back towards the crowd that they had just fought to get through. They needed information, and gossipy drunks seemed to be a good way of getting some.
The crowd was walking up the steps that they had just rushed down, and there seemed to be quite a hum of excitement. Sirius and Remus could hear snatches of conversation, but none of it made sense, except for the fact that they were nowhere near home. There was something about a wedding involving a lady a prince and a king. Before they knew it, they were standing before a long slate-roofed building, into which most of the crowd had disappeared. Sirius and Remus tried to follow them in, only to be stopped by the guard at the gate, who seemed surprised to see them. The guard said nervously, "Lord Sirius, there is place only for the Tyrell party in the Maidenvault. Ser Remus is, I believe, lodged at the Kitchen Keep. Lady Olenna's given strict instructions not to allow any one who is not a part of our party without her leave."
The guard obviously knew him. He was a lord. He was likely a Tyrell. It was time to put that theory to the test. "And am I allowed in?" asked Sirius sardonically, brow arched.
"You may enter, My Lord, but Ser Remus cannot be allowed without Lady Olenna's permission."
Sirius looked at Remus. "Well, lead the way to your lair, Sir Mooney! I know where to bunk if you don't let me stay."
