Chapter 61: Reactionary

It took Snape a heartbeat to realize just what he was looking at, to recognize it from memories of a darkened shore months ago.

Another to internally reel, shocked.

And one more to recover.

Which was altogether far too long, as the… skull floating over his injured student had already gained a menacing glow. He remembered that from the lakeside, too.

However, seeing as it wasn't actually aimed anywhere yet, Snape felt he could ignore the charging magic for the moment. It was fairly obvious that the skull had been summoned for defense this time, as evidenced by the horned tail stabbed between its sockets.

So he could muse on the insanity of all this later.

Right now, he had to prioritize.

As he swept out onto the rocky field, an odd motion caught his eye: a flicker, standing out just a bit higher than the rest of the alarmed audience. He glanced that way, attention briefly caught by blue and yellow that nagged at memory.

But it was nothing, just some group of foolish students that had clambered up the scaffolding around the edge of the stadium and had almost fallen right back off. It was hard to tell at that distance, but the bright glint of color that had drawn his eye in the first place was probably from some kind of celebratory sparkler—they'd chosen a poor time to set it off.

At least they hadn't yet gotten themselves killed. As such, Snape could focus on the student that nearly had.

The skull had actually drifted away from his student, though still interposed defensively between them and the dragon. At some point during his approach, the threatening glow that had been building behind its teeth had gone out.

That was more of a relief that he'd ever admit aloud.

"Mr. Warrington," he stated, quickly kneeling to get a better look before risking any spells to move him. "I need you to stay awake, and keep your eyes open."

There was no clear response, though the boy's unfocused gaze may have turned in his general direction as he spoke.

"Stay awake," he muttered again, scowling, and he flicked his wand through a quick diagnostic charm. Numerous broken bones and ribs, internal bleeding, a bad concussion: Warrington was lucky to be alive.

And he wouldn't have been, if not for that skull.

Snape withdrew a potion from an inner pocket of his robe, one he had prepared in advance but hoped he wouldn't actually need.

A quick Diffindo cut through layers of bloodied clothing, and Snape carefully spelled them to lift away. With a slight grimace at the sight, he kept working. Kept talking, too, though he suspected it didn't make much difference: he doubted the boy was able to process very much at the moment.

He only paused briefly when the dragon collapsed in a crash that shook the ground under his feet, finally knocked out by the handlers. The mysterious skull remained, unmoved, still positioned as a shield.

Removing the stopper of his potion bottle, Snape emptied the contents onto a handkerchief and lightly pressed the sodden fabric over the worst of the injuries. It would be more effective taken orally, but given his student's condition there was significant risk that he'd choke or cough it up rather than swallow.

Although the potion could only serve as a stopgap, it should at least ease the pain and help facilitate his breathing.

After a spell to keep the potion-soaked cloth in place, Snape turned to transfigure a patch of rock into a gurney; given the boy's internal injuries, the uneven strain levitation would put on him was too dangerous. Before he could cast, however, McGonagall had done it for him.

"How bad is it?" she asked quietly.

"I've applied a restorative," he replied, "but it's a temporary measure."

Her lips thinned into a worried line, and she gave a brisk nod. Together they carefully moved the student from the ground onto the sturdy stretcher, and from there into the air. They hurried out of the stadium.

Snape sent only one glance back, just in time to see the skull vanish into motes of white light.

It didn't take long to reach the medical tent, by design. McGonagall lifted the curtain over the entrance for him, but didn't join him inside; she'd be more helpful calming down the crowd and keeping her own students in line. The last thing they needed right now was some overly rowdy Gryffindors trampling anybody.

"This way," Madam Pomfrey said, as soon as she caught sight of him and the stretcher. "I've been told, hit by the dragon's tail, was it?"

Snape nodded, focused largely on moving his student off the stretcher and onto one of the temporary cots. Madam Pomfrey was already casting spells both to diagnose and begin healing what she could. There wasn't anything else for him to do at that point—beyond a slim chance she might ask his opinion on potion dosage or similar.

It'd be best to simply stay out of her way for now, so Snape went to stand by the entrance as he waited for a verdict.

Which meant he had time to think, for at least a little while.

Naturally, his thoughts first turned toward that skull. He had recognized it, of course; he'd have to be blind and deaf not to, given how much time he'd spent mentally examining his memory of that night.

Even after months, he was still turning over theories. Nothing had been able to nicely fit all of the pieces together, and the question of how—what magic had summoned the skulls in the first place, and the blast itself—was a gaping void with no answer whatsoever.

At least he had another point of reference now, and he knew that the stranger had to have been one of the members of the audience today. That narrowed things down quite a bit.

Snape could admit that he had been overwhelmed, all those months ago on that moonlit shore. There hadn't been a lot of time to react, and the eruption of light and magic had been disorienting enough that he'd been barely aware what he was reacting to.

No wand, no incantation, no motion: just a flicker of blue and yellow.

…Why did that seem familiar?

Before the tenuous thought could properly take shape, Snape's attention jerked toward the sound of a shrill voice. Based on how it seemed to be getting louder, the woman it belonged to was unfortunately headed their way. He noticed the mediwitch shoot a scowl in that general direction, though she'd be far too busy to deal with any disturbances at the moment.

Well.

Right now, Snape would probably be most useful as a deterrent. Though he had the foreboding feeling that whoever was heading this way would not be easily convinced to leave.

He nodded once to Madam Pomfrey, and set a muffling charm along the front of the medical tent; given the pitch of that voice, she would probably appreciate a little dampening. Then he swept back outside and directly into the warpath of a raving witch.

One that he, unfortunately, recognized.

"Mrs. Warrington, Mr. Warrington," he greeted, keeping his distaste for the pair firmly away from his tone.

The two of them weren't actually marked Death Eaters, though they had been devoted members and eagerly donated to the cause. He knew they had participated in raids as well, whenever they could. Those weren't the only reasons for his distaste, however.

He was familiar with abuse, in its numerous forms—gaslighting and manipulation, careless neglect and crushing control. It was easy to see those scars on many of his young snakes. After all, pureblood families tend to take a dim view of those who cannot meet their expectations, even when they set those expectations so high as to be nigh unattainable.

Severus Snape was the head of Slytherin house, and he looked after his students. He did not appreciate seeing them return damaged after every summer.

"Severus," the man returned, looking altogether disinterested.

Though Snape scowled at the overly-familiar form of address, he didn't bother to correct him: it wasn't worth it.

Mrs. Warrington sharply demanded, "I need to speak with my son. If he had wanted to compete so badly, the least he could do was not make a fool of himself!"

"He was badly injured." Snape stepped in front of her, blocking the entrance to the medical tent. "I was able to apply a restorative potion quickly, however—"

"Don't expect us to pay for your wasted ingredients," the wizard cut in, with a dismissive gesture. "It was your own choice to use them, after all."

Snape actually paused, taking the barest moment to process that and burying his reaction under a chill sneer. "I assure you, Mr. Warrington, that I am not interested in asking you for favors."

The older man just huffed, somehow managing to make the exhalation sound condescending.

"I need to speak with my son immediately," the witch kept insisting. "As his mother, I need to set the boy straight."

"Again, Cassius Warrington was badly injured. For the sake of his recovery, visitors cannot—"

"This is absurd!" she snapped. "Just let me in!"

He held any sharper words firmly behind his teeth when he said, "I assure you, Mrs. Warrington, that Madam Pomfrey is—"

"I can't believe you're keeping me from the boy!" The witch was turning a curious shade of angry pink, and looked about ready to hex somebody if she didn't get her way.

Snape doubted that the witch would much appreciate having a calming draught shoved down her throat, though he was sorely tempted. The conversation only devolved from there. After a particularly harsh remark from the husband, it took serious effort to not just curse the pair and be done with them.

But then an unexpected voice chimed in, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain and nervous.

"uhm… excuse me?"

Snape blinked down at the short first year student, flyaway white hair as messy as ever even if the rest of him was behaving in an incongruously meek manner. The boy even flinched when the witch rounded on him in annoyance.

Careful to keep his expression blank, Snape simply listened. Honestly, if he hadn't known the boy from his own class, he probably wouldn't have thought anything of it. But it was disquieting—markedly unsettling—to watch Skelton pretend to be a child.

…Pretend?

That had been the first word that came to mind, which was certainly a bit concerning. There were ways a wizard could pretend to be somebody else, of course, though none that matched what he knew of Skelton and his habits.

Even so, Snape decided he ought to check through his ingredients cupboard. Just in case any had gone missing.

The boy picked his way through a few faux-nervous sentences, and finally presented quite possibly the only thing that would have gotten the pair to leave. While claiming that the headmaster had wanted to speak with them had no doubt been a complete fabrication, there was a decent chance it was also coincidentally true.

As soon as they were gone, Snape regarded the first year with a narrow glare. "Mr. Skelton," he stated. "How… convenient."

The boy simply smiled and gave a small shrug, meeting his eyes steadily even though there was an uneasy edge to his posture. They both knew he had been faking that entire interaction.

(What else had Skelton been faking?)

He did not do this often—the thoughts of teenagers were not something he cared to witness more than he had to—but given his concerns, it'd be best to check. For the first time since he had met the boy, Snape lightly reached out with Legilimency.

There was nothing.

His expression was kept still by sheer force of will, even as he tried to process what he was feeling through his magic: emptiness. It was as if there just wasn't a mind there to read.

Snape pushed slightly, trying to find an edge to what had to simply be an impressive Occlumency shield. Still nothing, although—

That was when Madam Pomfrey stepped out from the medical tent, breaking Snape's concentration and pulling him from from his twisting thoughts.

He couldn't find words for a long moment, mentally staggered, and simply listened to the mediwitch as she spoke with Skelton. Not much of their conversation actually registered, though it was a relief to hear that his student would indeed make a full recovery.

It was still a concern, of course, but at least it wasn't nearly as pressing as it had been. Unlike the mystery that was Sans Skelton, which had just shot up in his priorities.

He recalled that low voice speaking five simple words, both on a dark lake shore and in his dim potions classroom. A short figure in blue, the white of bone and an overwhelming blast.

A flicker of blue and yellow, then and today.

Snape had no proof, he knew that. He had nothing beyond a few odd coincidences and a deep rooted instinct that said something wasn't quite right.

With a final glance over the first year student—he felt like he was checking him for something, though even he wasn't sure what—Snape turned and ducked back into the darkness of the medical tent.

He'd need to decide what to do about him at some point.

But not right now, Snape decided. While he didn't have a lot to go on, what he did know was promising: at the very least, the summoned skull had saved his student's life.

So he could afford to wait a bit longer, just this once.

Author's Note:

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Undertale.

Some pieces fall into place, and there are still no good answers.
(Or at least none that aren't really confusing.)

Happy Fifth Birthday, UtV! (Give or take two days, oops!)

I'm still not fully pleased with this chapter, so there may be a few tweaks in the next few days. But I figured, given the special occasion, I should just go ahead and post to celebrate!
That said, the timing completely skipped my mind until Wolfliker mentioned as much in a review. Thanks for the reminder!

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