ccxx. the weight of this

Severus was the first to move.

He raised his hand from Albus' shoulder, and the thread of power he'd allowed to flow from himself into the Headmaster snapped, the recoil burning under his skin. His head swam, but his legs moved on their own like a wind-up toy tottering into motion. He gripped Potter by the forearms to lift her off of Black, but he shifted his grip under her arms when she whimpered. Severus pulled the girl up against his chest and moved her to the nearest cushioned chair.

There didn't appear to be a single place upon Potter that hadn't been injured or mistreated. Her clothes had been sullied, the robes in tatters, her uniform stained crimson. Blood flowed from an open wound above her brow, and Severus' own hands had been coated with it when he'd inadvertently gripped her slashed arm. She had a rangy, wild-eyed look Severus knew all too well, having seen it upon himself in the mirror after long sessions under the Dark Lord's wand.

Her eyes rolled from person to person, a tight wheeze rattling in her trembling chest.

Flamel brushed past Severus, and though Potter flinched, he didn't hesitate to kneel and take her left hand in his. "Petit oiseau," he said, voice soft, and Potter's head snapped toward him. "You're safe, hmm? You're at Hogwarts. Breathe."

She stared uncomprehending for several moments before she seemed to recognize the alchemist, and then her gaze jumped around the room with intent, searching, until it landed upon Albus.

"Headmaster," she gasped. "Headmaster, he's back. He's back—I couldn't—I didn't—."

Severus stepped aside so Dumbledore could take his place, his head still spinning. He rubbed his fingers together and dumbly watched the gummy red mess stick and peel from his skin.

The pain in his right arm finally began to recede into his wrist, though the left continued to rage unabated.

"Can you tell me what happened, Harriet?" Albus asked.

"Professor," Black interjected. "She's injured! She needs the hospital wing—."

"Not just yet, Miss Black. Please do not interrupt." The Headmaster gently touched Potter's upper arm, drawing her attention from Flamel up to him. "Harriet. We need to know what happened."

Potter shook her head, on the verge of a panic attack. Yellow flecks of broken grass fell from her hair and stuck to her cheek. Flamel's wife conjured a flannel and pressed it to the wound on her head, stemming the bleeding.

"I—! I—."

"Take your time. Start from the beginning. Lend me your strength for a moment longer."

Potter drew in a shuddering breath, attempting to nod. Severus could see her shivering and, as if from a great distance, heard himself muttering for Mrs. Flamel to cover her with a blanket. She Summoned a wooly, colorful thing from one of the sofas and settled it around the girl.

"I was—. I left the castle—. No, I…I went to feed my snakes." Potter swallowed, blinked. "I went to feed the snakes in my dorm and change my robes because I had glitter on me, so I—I was behind everyone. I left the castle for the pitch, and Krum stopped me."

"Krum?" Mrs. Flamel asked with a slight frown. "Ze the Durmstrang boy? Did we not see him go into ze maze?"

"It wasn't Krum who stopped me. It wasn't him. It was Barty Crouch Junior under Polyjuice."

Rage kindled under Severus' numb heart—a slow, heated prickling that broke through the malaise coating his thoughts. It was a different kind of pain, like a kick in the head from reality, a voice at his ear cackling what a fool he'd been. All year. All year that fucking nonce had been trailing the girl, and he hadn't known—.

And then Crouch took her. Had her alone. Morgana only knew what he could have done—.

Across the room, one of the Headmaster's mirrors splintered, and the portrait next to it yelped.

"And Terry—." Potter suppressed a sob, though that did little to stop the snot and tears from flowing. "Terry was just tryin' to help. He just—. I couldn't do anything—. And Crouch—."

Granger wept on Black's shoulder. The taller witch stared past her toward the desk where her map device lay still smoking upon the scorched wood. Severus wondered if it'd be recoverable.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't—."

Dumbledore gave Potter's arm a squeeze. "It is all right, Harriet. Continue from there."

"I don't know where—where he took me. It was dark, foggy. There was a—a graveyard, some fields. There was an old manor. He said—." Potter shook her head. "He took me inside. There was a room with a cauldron and another bloke I don't—I never learned who he was. He tied me to a chair. He tried—."

She bowed her head, shoulders curling inward.

"The Dark Lord went into the cauldron. I think he was…was possessing a body, and it was rotting—." Potter swallowed. "Then Crouch did a ritual. He took a bone from a coffin. He cut off his finger. He stole my blood—."

She made a weak gesture with her right arm, her hand still tight upon her wand. Dumbledore peeled back her ruined sleeve to reveal the injury, and Flamel cursed in French. Potter's description of the ritual sparked a recollection somewhere in Severus' memories—something from a rather nasty book he'd inherited from his mother—but the errant thought barely registered as he stared at the wet glisten of exposed muscle and reached into his robes, finding a potion. He shoved the bottle into Flamel's hand, and he uncorked it without asking, dribbling the mixture onto Potter's injury.

"He's back, Professor," the girl rasped. "He came out of the cauldron, and he's—he's a monster. There's nothing human left. I couldn't stop him."

"All is well, dear girl." Dumbledore lifted his eyes from her arm as Flamel used the potion to seal the wound. "Can you tell me how you escaped?"

Potter nodded, wetting her lips. "He summoned his Death Eaters, and he told them I'm—that it's not Neville who defeated him, that it was me. He said he'd planned it, planned to have Crouch take me. I—." A dry, sorry laugh left her. "I told him you'd spit on his grave."

Pride flickered in Dumbledore's face. Severus almost laughed himself—or cried. The reckless little idiot.

"He said he'd finish with me l-later. He was talking with the Death Eaters, not looking at me, and I—. I figured out how to use my Animagus form. It got me out of the ropes. I got away. Malfoy was there. He—Malfoy helped. I don't know why. He tried to help when he could."

Dumbledore's hand moved from her arm to touch her cheek, careful of the bruises and cuts. "You did well, Harriet. You're safe now."

Anything the girl might have said after that devolved into tears, the kind of great, heaving wails that came from a broken heart—or the shattered delusions of an innocent soul, because Potter wasn't safe. None of them were safe and never would be again.

"She needs to go to the hospital wing!" Black argued, but Dumbledore shook his head as he straightened. "Professor!"

"Current inhabitants of the infirmary would make that a poor choice, Miss Black," Albus replied, the thinnest vein of impatience wearing on his tone. "I will bring Madam Pomfrey here."

Boot, Severus realized. He didn't want Potter to see Boot again, and they'd put him in the hospital wing. Oh fuck.

The Potions Master's memory in the following hours became hazy as he remained on hand to assist Poppy while Potter cried, a Flamel on either side of her, Black and Granger existing in the peripheries of his attention. He sent elves for potions and salves from his stores, and Potter fought the mediwitch at every turn, not wanting to be put to sleep. Somewhere in that clouded time, Albus summoned Gaunt—and there were Aurors there, listening to a doctored tale of two innocent students being swept into the Dark Lord's machinations.

"It's all very convenient for you, isn't it?" Gaunt drawled as he studied his nails, unruffled by the news. "You have one student dead and another injured, and you want to blame it on the bogeyman."

The Headmaster persevered, but Severus already saw the writing on the wall. He could feel it in his bones; panic did not suit Gaunt's narrative. He wanted them all calm, complacent. Soft-headed and easy.

"Voldemort has made his move and has returned to England. It is indisputable, and we must act quickly while we have the advantage. He did not intend for survivors to return and bring news of his return to us. The public must be made aware for the good of the Wizarding world. Your administration needs to—."

"My administration needs to do nothing," Gaunt hissed, leaning toward Dumbledore, cruel eyes narrowed. The pair of Aurors at his back tensed and exchanged uneasy glances. "Especially not at your bidding. You do not control the Ministry, Headmaster. I do."

Gaunt swept from the office after delivering his final verdict. He did stop on his way out to stare at Potter—and the look she gave him in return could only be described as pure revulsion.

The door closed with a clatter, heavy footsteps echoing in the tight passage beyond. Albus exhaled and brought his hand to his temple, rubbing at the headache that usually resulted from dealing with the Minister.

"Did you truly think he'd heed your advice?" Severus asked as he spelled the last of Potter's blood from his hands and robes. He and the Headmaster crossed the room for a measure of privacy, not that it mattered. Nothing short of yelling would get the attention of the others, too wrapped up in their own heads and thoughts.

Sighing, Albus said, "I had hoped he would recognize the folly in allowing Voldemort to move unchecked, even if only for his own selfish benefits. The Wizarding world needs to know. If they are left unawares, Tom will creep in like a poison, just as he did before. We are still reeling from the last war; we will not survive another if people are not prepared."

Severus scoffed. Last war. Implying the war had ended—as if they'd won. There had been no victory, no defeat, simply a drawn-out limbo like a man stuck in a coma, decaying, inching toward death. Last war? Every day of Severus' existence was spent in the middle of a war.

The fire in his Mark renewed. Severus must have made a soft noise of discomfort because Albus grimaced, glancing at his forearm.

Hours had passed. Full dark had descended, the thick of night like velvet drapes beyond the golden windows. Severus guessed the Dark Lord was feeling magnanimous if he was giving his wayward servants another chance to arrive.

Either that, or he meant to summon them like chattel to the slaughter.

"Are you prepared?" Albus asked.

Was he? Severus didn't know despite having anticipated this day for thirteen years. His attention wandered over the Headmaster's office, taking in the details, burning them into his recollection. The possibility of this being his last time in this room—in the Headmaster's presence, in Hogwarts itself—was likely. The Dark Lord did not forgive. The Dark Lord did not forget. Severus' survival hung upon the single premise of his master needing his service more than he wanted Severus' death.

"I am ready," he replied despite the anxious thrum of his pulse, the small, frightened voice that hid in the deepest parts of himself. The mask rested in his pocket, heavy against his thigh like a millstone. No, Severus was not ready to walk back into the Dark Lord's waiting arms, but what choice did he have?

There was no one else.

Severus shut his eyes and turned from Dumbledore. He strode across the room, footsteps muffled by the damaged carpet, and opened the door.

He had only just stepped into the empty corridor when a commotion echoed behind him, and someone shouted, "Harriet!" Severus spun, ready to run back up the steps—.

A body collided with his, shoving him back. On instinct, Severus' hands rose to grab the girl by her shoulders, and he felt skinny fingers encircle his wrists—.

"You can't!" Potter cried, her grip tightening as if she meant to keep him there purely by her own strength. "You can't!"

Flamel came down the stairs after her, and he and Severus exchanged confused looks.

"What are you on about, girl?" Severus demanded, not letting her go.

"He means to kill you! He said so!"

His heart lurched, but her words didn't surprise him. The Dark Lord's murderous sentiment did nothing to move Severus—but the sight before him, the girl's eyes streaming fresh tears under battered glasses, scraped, scarred fingers pressing into the wool of his sleeves, did.

"Please—."

"Let him go, Harriet," Flamel coaxed. "It is all right—."

"No, it's not! Please, Snape! Don't go!"

Severus slowly brought his hands to Potter's face, cupping it, the weight of her hanging from his wrists. Her protests stilled, and they stared at one another, her face pleading, his solemn, steady.

"Somnus," he whispered, a wisp of magic passing through his fingertips into her skin. Potter's eyes fluttered shut, and her body sagged into Flamel's waiting hands. Her fingers slipped from his sleeves.

A quick spell spoken by the alchemist lightened the girl, and he lifted her into his arms.

"Bonne chance, boy."

Severus didn't reply. The burden of duty settled upon him—and yet it weighed nothing compared to the phantom hold of shaking hands keeping him in place. The sensation pulled Severus beneath the cold, unmoving waters of his Occlumency, and there he remained. The man who peered back at Flamel was not a Potions professor, but rather a Death Eater.

Severus left the pair in the corridor and marched on to whatever fate awaited him in the gloomy haven of the night.

A/N:

3 more chapters for part 4.