Hey, guys!
This has been an idea of mine for quite some time and I finally feel like sharing it. This is my first fanfic, please be kind. I wanted to do a time travel story but it didn't feel right using already established characters, especially since I wanted this to be a Snape-Centric story. So, I made Clara Galen especially for him. Nothing in the story so far is set in stone, though! This is definitely a long haul fic--a slow burn, self insert style of fanfiction. Everything will eventually be edited and polished but if you're interested, you're welcome to follow along on Clara's journey.
This is supposed to be a dark story. Triggers include: anxiety, depression, and scarring.
The fyndfire engulfed her, swallowing her whole and suffocating her with smoke as the flames scorched her clothing and charred her flesh. The searing pain from the torture, already unbearable before, was now unfathomable. She only longed for the release of death before; now she burned for it. But it seemed the reaper would've have her.
She screeched in anguish and clumsily clawed at her burning chest; Surely death would come for her if she cast out her smoldering heart? Her fingers were charred black and useless, looking more like embers than they did digits. Through the roar of the flames and her own high-pitched screams she could hear the faint howls of her attackers.
The flames raged on uncontrollably around her and just before she faded from consciousness she couldn't help but take the faintest bit of pleasure in knowing that the very flames that killed her would also be her vengeance.
October 31st 1975
She was reborn in flames, a raging ball of embers streaking across the sky. She crashed into the ground like a meteor, knocking out trees and burning through the bramble in a blur of flames. The fire fizzled out as abruptly as it had arrived, leaving her charred body and a burning horizon in its wake.
She thought she must be dead—but then why would she still feel the torturous throbbing of her withered limbs? She heaved in the cold air deeply, her lungs protested painfully with each gasp. Where was she? There was cold moisture beneath her, it seemed to steam up around her from the heat of her burnt flesh.
It felt like an eternity, waiting to die on the forest floor. The snow flurries danced softly around her, billowing in the still breeze but the chill in the air wasn't enough to cool the fire of her skin. When at last she had given up all hope, she heard the unmistakable sounds of someone approaching.
"Look there—it came down through here." A muffled voice called out. She could hardly hear it through the roar of her ears. "I saw it through the telescope, I know it."
"Surely it's nothing of any consequence, Aurora." A voice replied, growing louder. Their footsteps crunched the icy mulch and rustled the bramble. "Now really, I don't know why you dragged us out here; it's colder than a—"
She was cut off with a gasp as the girl's mangled frame came into their view.
"Blimey—it might be a student, Calliope!" The first voice said panic and disgust evident in his tone. "Great Merlin, they've been burned to death."
The rustling moved closer and she unconsciously flinched away. She was too injured to properly move, making it a miserable attempt. But it was enough to catch the attention of the pair of strangers who stumbled upon her.
"Damnation, they're alive!" The first voice shouted. "Hey! Can you hear us?" She didn't wait for a reply, "We'll get you help; don't move if you can't."
"Who did this to you?" The second asked, straight to the point.
It was pointless though, as she was unable to respond with more than a pathetic groan. Her head lulled to the side and she was lost to the world.
—
The hospital wing wasn't as light a comforting as she had remembered it being. She awoke to it dimly lit from the candles and the air felt as chilly and damp as it did outside. Her injuries were mended and tightly bandaged but she still felt the searing heat of the fire on her skin. The scratchiness of the wool blanket on the sparsely exposed skin that remained wasn't helping.
Madame Pomphrey had given her so many potions she had lost count, and while they staved away most of the pain, they addled her head too much for her liking. She came in and out of consciousness in long stretches as Madame Pomphrey hovered to and fro. At least, she thought it was Madame Pomphrey. She wore the same aproned uniform and had the same warm face—but she looked different in the dim light. Maybe her eyes had been damaged, or perhaps the potions were simply clouding her vision.
Her throat was swollen and raw and her lips cracked and sore, she feared she might not ever speak again. But when her nurse came to adjust her bandages again she tried in earnest to make her voice heard.
"Thank you, Madam Pomphrey." She rasped, her words were hardly audible.
She didn't see the older woman startle at her words, nor the frantic look of worry that graced her face. There was a light pressure on her wrist; Madam Pomphrey was touching her bandaged appendage in comfort.
"Do you know me, child?" Came the elders reply.
What a silly question. Of course she knew her. She's only been the nurse here for as long as she was a student. Probably even longer.
"What's your name, Miss?" Madame Pomphrey pressed, cautiously when she didn't get a response.
"Galen…" She replied hoarsely. Her voice sounded small and sickeningly wet, the potions having only healed so much. She could taste the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. "Clara…Galen."
"Well, Miss Clara Galen, you're in a really bad way right now, as I'm sure you're aware. " Madame Pomphrey cooed. "But you're on the mend. And you're safe here at Hogwarts."
Clara shuddered and let out a silent wail that sent shooting pangs of pain down her spine. She heard Madame Pomphrey fussing about, talking to her, trying to tell her something; But Clara's mind was racing too much with panic and confusion to listen. Safe at Hogwarts? She thought she was safe at Hogwarts not 24 hours ago. Or was it longer? She had no idea how long she had been outside before she was found or how long she had been in the hospital wing.
The bed was shaking beneath her and Madame Pomphrey anxiously tried to calm her, shouting out to someone Clara couldn't see for assistance. There was more shuffling, drowned out by her strangled gasps for air. The shaking grew more frenzied and suddenly Clara seized up, her chest arching off the mattress and her neck twisted unnaturally. Her hands splayed out blindly, striking something solid clumsily before they were roughly pinned back against the mattress.
Panicked, she instinctively fought against the grip on her wrists. Her burned flesh stung bitterly against the movement but she wouldn't relent. But, dear merlin, it hurt. Tears filled her eyes and she let out another pitiful wail. Her wails were useless, her struggles were in vain—just like last time.
Her head was tilted up and something was being poured into her mouth. Despite her spluttering and spitting, the potion—some sort of sedative she didn't recognize—worked its way down and she was quickly overcome with a wave of exhaustion and numbness. Her shaking receded and her eyes drooped closed before she let out a long sigh and faded out of consciousness.
—
Clara could hear the voices indiscriminately as she came back around. They were hushed and distant but it was clear Madam Pomphrey was among them. Opening her eyes was challenging and fruitless, as the stiff white curtain around her cot had been pulled shut. She focused as hard as she could on the voices on the other side.
"—not sure I can help the way St. Mungos can." Madame Pomphrey was saying, almost pleading with someone. "Maybe I can heal the burns—make them better at least. But I can't fix what's beyond the flesh."
"Bringing her to St Mungo's only offers her back to the same people who have put her in this position, Poppy." A soft, deep voice replied. "She is in the safest place one can be. And under the care of a more than capable mediwitch."
Clara recognized the voice but she couldn't quite place it. She arched her neck as though she could peek around the screen to see him.
"I think you're overestimating my abilities, Headmaster." Madame Pomphrey replied in earnest. "I couldn't handle her alone when she had that fit—and she very well could have harmed me. And a student, Albus."
Clara suddenly felt cold—like she'd been tossed into an ice bath and left to freeze. Part of her felt soothed by it; having felt like she was burning for an eternity, feeling cold was a welcomed change. But mostly, she felt anxiety. She knew nothing about hurting a student, intentional or otherwise, but she knew what she heard.
Albus? Headmaster Dumbledore?
"An unfortunate accident, but it was exactly that. And one that will not happen again, to be sure." The Headmaster replied. "I've taken it upon myself to charm the ward—she will not be noticed by the students while she is under your care. And Horace will supply you with any potions you might need for her—sedatives and Dreamless Sleep, perhaps?"
There was no denying that that was his voice, though every part of her brain screamed at her otherwise. Headmaster Dumbledore alive? The familiar feeling of panic was edging back, tinted with a mild form of hysteria. Her erratic breathing became impossible to hide and the voices outside silenced as soon as she was heard. It was but a moment before the stiff curtain was pulled back and there he was, standing next to Madame Pomphrey—a dead man, alive and well.
Her eyes were wide with horror as the pair looked down at her in concern. He looked just the same as he did last she saw him, at the end of her fifth year. She could swear she had even seen him wear those very robes before.
"Ah, Miss Galen." Dumbledore said, peering over his half moon glasses at her.
"H—Headmaster?" She choked out.
A look of surprise grazed his face before he smiled warmly and spoke again: "So, child, it would seem you know myself and Madame Pomphrey…but, I'm afraid we do not know you."
Her mind span in circles and it seemed like the room span with it. How could they not know her? Only seconds after the thought sprang to her mind cam another: How is he still alive? They were still looking at Clara with a mix of concern and disbelief when she spoke again, a creeping suspicion weighing heavily on her.
"P-please sir…" She rasped. "What year is this?"
Madame Pomphrey gasped softly at the question and clutched her neck, as though she had asked something scandalous. Clara supposed she would have a strange reaction to such a strange question, too, if the roles were reversed. She could hardly believe she felt inclined to ask.
"It is November 7th, 1975." He replied matter of factly, "You were discovered a week ago today—out on the edge of the forest."
Clara's vision went white and the heat from her burns flared up uncomfortably. She squirmed unconsciously and bit back tears.
Madame Pomphrey moved quickly to assist, likely assuming Clara's reaction was due to her injuries. But they were only a minor inconvenience in light of the current circumstances. She ignored the nurse's motions and maintained a stricken expression towards Dumbledore.
"I take it, that is not what you were expecting to hear, my dear." Dumbledore said calmly.
She let out a choked snort and shook her head vigorously. Madame Pomphrey was offering more potions up to her; she took them without question. She didn't know how she came to be here but she knew there was no reason not to trust Madame Pomphrey.
"H-how is this possible?" She breathed, thinking back as far as she could. "Carrow was—he was c-cursing me and then there was f—fire everywhere and I….I—"
The hysteria was on full display and she saw Madame Pomphrey exchange a frightened expression with Dumbledore.
"Surely, I must be dead—or dreaming." She rambled on, drowsy and hurt and confused.
"I'm afraid you are very much awake my dear—and fortunately very much alive, I should say." Dumbledore replied, soothingly. "May I ask—what year were you expecting it to be?"
"1997." She murmured. "I—I'm not even born yet, sir."
The tears came unbidden, streaking down her raw face and leaving a stinging trail behind.
"I see." Dumbledore said. He seemed to be considering something before he spoke again, "Perhaps…in light of these new revelations, we should limit our conversations about things that have…yet to come, you understand, my dear?"
She nodded solemnly but, truthfully, she was far from actually understanding.
"Are you a student here at Hogwarts?"
"Y-yes, sir. I just started my sixth year."
"So you've sat your O.W.L.'s?"
Clara winced. "Ah, actually no. Examinations were cancelled last year because—" Clara cut herself off; She couldn't tell him why because she couldn't tell him that it was because he died. "Because of unprecedented circumstances."
The silence that overcame the room was deafening. Dumbledore and Madame Pomphrey shared a long look with one another as they considered Clara's vague answer. The circumstances must have been unfathomable to them—they were currently in the very midst of war and canceling examinations was never once considered. After all, Hogwarts is the safest place in the world, is it not?
"I see." Dumbledore said, eventually. "Well, Miss Galen, we shall work out the details just as soon as you're released from Madame Pomphrey's care. It is best you rest—and not worry deeply about the peculiar and precarious position you've found yourself in. I assure you; You are in good care and we will do all we can to return you to your time."
When he was gone, Madame Pomphrey tentatively changed Clara's bandages, taking care to not move too quickly. She worked in efficient silence as she pulled the wool blanket down and shifted Clara forward enough to change the bandages around her waist. Merlin, the burns. She knew they were bad when they were still burning but to see them then made her nauseous. Blotchy and red, inflamed and bleeding—there wasn't a chance in hell she wouldn't have scars from this.
"Aw, don't cry, love." Madame Pomphrey hummed quietly when she saw Clara's reaction to her injuries. "Might not look like it did before but we'll get you close, just you see."
She hadn't even realized she was crying until Madame Pomphrey said something, but she was. And it wasn't just the scars—it was the entire series of events she had fallen into. 1975. Dumbledore alive. And permanent disfigurement. What wasn't there to cry over?
"Take this, dearie." Madame Pomphrey was offering a small bottle of an unidentifiable potion. "It'll help you to sleep."
Clara needed no more encouragement than that. She downed it in one swallow and returned the empty bottle. She leaned as far back into her pillow as she could and sighed deeply as Madame Pomphrey pulled out a shallow jar of brown paste and began applying it to Clara's face.
"What's going to happen to me?" She asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.
"Headmaster Dumbledore is the most reliable wizard around, dearie." Madame Pomphrey said comfortingly, still applying the paste. "Trust that you are in good hands and that he'll do everything in his power to return you to where you belong."
Her eyelids were drooping and her breathing was slower; She fought hard but the potions' effects and the nurse's soft ministrations lulled her to a mercifully dreamless sleep.
