A Wizard Song
Chapter 11 - Somniesperus
By Telanu
A Wizard Song
Chapter 11 - Somniesperus
By Telanu
Arjuna: Krishna, what makes a person
Commit evil
Against his own will,
As if compelled by force?
Lord Krishna: It is desire and anger, arising
From nature's quality of passion;
Know it here as the enemy,
Voracious and very evil!
-The Bhagavad-Gita
Over the next few days, Harry worked hard to convince himself that he wasn't a murderer after all.
Remember Pettigrew? he would ask himself. Remember SIRIUS? You were so angry at them both…for killing your parents, no less…and you had the chance, you had the motive, and you didn't kill either of them. Same with Malfoy. Exactly the same.
And then a deep, cleansing breath.
You didn't do it. You only wanted to. But you didn't do it. You aren't a killer, Potter…because you chose not to be…
It would work every time. Until he saw Draco again, or someone mentioned Rita Skeeter's article. Then the anger would choke him once more, and all he could feel about his merciful decision on the Quidditch pitch was a sharp, keen sense of regret. Not unlike the one he still got when he thought of how he'd told Sirius and Professor Lupin to let Pettigrew live.
He would wonder if he could be that strong the next time.
Then he'd start the ritual all over again.
To Harry, October had felt like the month that would never end. But eventually, of course, it did, and Hallowe'en arrived.
Sometimes Harry welcomed Hallowe'en. It was the holiday that had brought him, Ron and Hermione together, after all. But it was also the anniversary of his parents' deaths. And now it was the anniversary of his first kiss. With Snape. One great memory, one horrible one, and one that fell sort of in between.
Classes were off, of course, and all of Harry's friends were gearing up to go to Hogsmeade. Harry would much rather have stayed in his room and brooded, but it seemed he'd been doing a bit too much of that lately; Ron and Hermione were starting to give him concerned looks, and it was getting to the point where he couldn't explain all his moodiness with the month-old Daily Prophet article. The fuss was dying down, after all, and the newspaper had run no more articles since the third day after the first one's release, when it had printed more letters from protesting students. It all seemed suspiciously quiet to Harry, but he couldn't help but be grateful for the lull, whatever it meant.
It didn't make him feel much better, though. Nothing else had changed -- at least, not in a good way. For some reason, after the Quidditch match, he'd expected something to be different: for people to somehow see the anger and confusion bubbling away inside him. For Snape to see it -- Snape noticed every other damn thing about Harry, didn't he? But Potions class had remained the same. Harry had briefly thought that perhaps, just perhaps Snape was looking at him a trifle more than he usually did, but after a couple of classes he chalked it up to wishful thinking. That made it easier to get through the class without becoming hopelessly distracted, messing something up, and getting a really humiliating lecture.
Harry knew he had to keep mum. He knew he wasn't supposed to talk about any of this. But still…couldn't people tell that something was wrong with him? Were they blind? Or didn't they care? It would be nice to know that he mattered, somehow, even if he couldn't talk about what was bothering him…then Harry reminded himself that he was being childish, and that of course people cared. Ron and Hermione did. So did Sirius. And besides, Harry couldn't tell them anything, so why bother wishing that he could? To give any of them even the slightest hint would be to ruin everything.
Harry had occasion to reflect on this again when he went downstairs for a late breakfast. He had a sickening feeling of déjà vu as the Great Hall burst into murmurs on his entrance, and faces all turned to stare at him, along with the rustling of hundreds of newspapers. He couldn't keep himself from looking up at the staff table. Again, Snape wasn't there.
Oh God. What now? Had Malfoy produced more photographs or something?
He soon found out. Hermione was giving him an apologetic look as she handed him the front page when he sat down. "She won't be stopped," she said gloomily.
Another Skeeter article, of course. This one didn't mention Harry in the title, but it felt like a punch in the stomach nevertheless:
Suspected DE to Stay a Hogwarts Teacher?
Harry felt the hot curl of outrage in his stomach even before he'd read a word of the first paragraph. "Suspected DE"? The bloody paper had already admitted that there had never been any charges against Sever -- against Snape, having to do with the Death Eaters or otherwise! What was Skeeter trying to pull? Was she just angry that her first bombshell hadn't had the effect she'd wanted?
Without a word to anyone, Harry read the article through, his brow pinching together. In its own way, this article was far more damaging than the last. It featured more student letters, the ones most insulting to the Potions master, and several comments from "outraged parents" who reported on the various injustices shown their children. Skeeter didn't even make the slightest effort to mention any supportive Slytherin parents. The overall picture was of a teacher who had a suspect past and treated his students abominably. Of course, both charges happened to be absolutely true, and that was the worst of it.
Harry set the paper down, trying not to let his hands shake. "Hermione," he said slowly, "she's got to be stopped."
"Yes, but how?" Hermione asked, sounding most upset.
"She's an illegal Animagus!" Harry snapped. "Didn't you say you'd turn her in if she tried any more tricks like this?"
Hermione's eyes flashed at the implied criticism. "D'you think I haven't thought of that?" she said. "After that first article, I went to check the Ministry records…she's got her licence now, she's registered and everything. She must have done it over the summer…and I can't prove anything about fourth year, it'd be my word against hers…" She looked miserable. "I did try, Harry!"
Harry slumped. "Yeah. I know."
Ron was glaring at Harry as he patted Hermione's hand. "No need to blame her," he said defensively. "Who says this is a bad thing, Harry? They're not saying Snape was banging you, are they, they're saying he's a rotten teacher! And it's true! Why shouldn't we let him get sacked for that? Best thing that could happen, you ask me…"
Harry swallowed down his furious retort and leaned in to whisper, "Yeah. He's a horrid teacher. You hear me arguing? But what happened to his house this summer, eh? What's going to happen to him if he has to leave Hogwarts?"
"So what?" Ron asked. Harry and Hermione both stared at him, and he had the grace to look embarrassed, but did not take back the words.
"Look," Harry muttered, "I -- I don't like him. I don't. But that doesn't mean I want him to die. Not because of me, or because of something that started with me." He licked his lips. "It's happened enough already…horrible things happening to people just because they're around me at the wrong time…"
A very awkward silence fell at that, and Harry wished suddenly he could take his words back. Whenever anything reminded them of Cedric, nobody seemed to know what to say.
"Well," Hermione said slowly, "I…I think we know what you mean, Harry. But it's out of your hands now. You've done all you can. Whatever happens now isn't your fault."
"Right," Ron said, "so stop acting as if it is."
"Ron!" Hermione snapped.
"Well, I'm right," Ron protested. "I'm right, you're right, it's not his fault, so why sit around worrying about it? Try and think about something else, Harry." He grinned broadly. "Try and think about that tasty butterbeer with Cho, eh?"
Harry felt his face turn red. A few days ago, Cho had stopped by the Gryffindor table at breakfast to suggest meeting at the Three Broomsticks, like she'd mentioned at the Quidditch match. It was with a certain amount of helplessness that Harry had heard himself say yes, and now, of course, the whole school was talking about it. Yet another reason he should be looking forward to the Hogsmeade trip, and wasn't.
Breakfast ended, and everyone in third year and up stampeded to the dormitories, eager to get ready for the trip. Harry followed less enthusiastically, though he made sure to keep smiling. People would notice if he looked glum on the day of his "big date", as his friends were calling it in spite of his protests that it was no such thing, and he could do without any sarcastic "Lovelorn, Potter?" comments from the Slytherins.
He endured the fussing of his roommates -- Seamus told him exasperatedly to comb his hair, forgodsakes, while Ron straightened his robe and somehow made it look worse and Dean gave him advice on how to behave on a first date. At least Neville was nowhere in sight.
"It's not a date," Harry said loudly, for at least the third time, knowing nobody would listen to him. "It's really -- we're just going to talk -- " And then he almost swallowed his tongue when he remembered the last time someone had told him they'd be "just talking". He and Snape had wound up rolling about on a bed, and the memory was quick and painful. Ignoring the scoffing of his friends, Harry patted down his hair, saved his robes from Ron's ministrations, and hurried downstairs by himself.
As he descended the stairwell he became lost in thought, mind going back to the article in the Daily Prophet. He told himself it was still unlikely Snape would be sacked. There was no written evidence left concerning his Death Eater days, and as for his unpleasantness towards his students, well, Dumbledore had hired a werewolf and a half-giant and still remained firmly entrenched in power; he should have no trouble keeping someone on staff who was merely disagreeable. He hoped that was true, tried to persuade himself that it was.
But there was something else entirely. What bothered Harry was how he'd felt upon reading the article. It was true he was angry at Snape. Snape had been treating him even more nastily than before ever since the first article's release, Harry had been taking it right on the nose with no complaint, and Snape still wasn't letting up. The unfairness of it hurt…and yet, when he'd seen the article that morning, all Harry had felt was a sharp stab of fear for his ex-lover, and a feeling of utter helplessness to do anything for him. As horribly as Snape had been acting, as angry as Harry was, he still couldn't stop…feeling…
…oh.
He paused in the stairwell, staring down blankly at his feet. Oh, he thought sadly. I suppose…I suppose maybe I am a little in love with him after all.
Shit.
Well. That was not a happy thought. A month earlier it might have been, but -- no, no time for might have beens, Harry decided resolutely, swallowing hard and steeling his jaw. He had a life to be going on with, didn't he? And it would certainly be better to go out and have a good time, to distract himself, rather than sitting around moping about lost chances, wouldn't it? A smart, beautiful girl was waiting to meet him for a butterbeer, and his friends were all trying to cheer him up, and then there would be a big party tonight. It would -- it would be fun. He'd not go out on any balconies this time, he'd not risk anything of the sort. This was going to be one of the good Hallowe'ens.
It was a good thing he'd figured it out, really. Because now he knew how he really felt about Snape, he could get to work on squashing it right away, like a doctor identifying a disease and then finding the cure. And then everything would be fine. Everything would be…fine.
"Harry!" Ron's voice came booming down the stairs. "What're you doing just standing there? You're going to be late!"
A moment later his friend had seized his sleeve and was tugging him down the stairs. "No time for last-minute nerves, Harry…you'll have a good time, you'll see…you're both Seekers, after all, s'not as if you won't have anything to talk about…"
Harry swallowed again. "Yeah," he said firmly. "You're right. It'll be great."
Ron grinned. "That's the way. Hermione suggested sharing a table, but I thought you'd rather be by yourself."
"Thanks," Harry said, hoping that his smile was convincing.
Apparently it was good enough. Ron beamed. "Hah. I told her so. Who wants somebody else barging in? Time enough for that later, if you hit it off. C'mon, let's go -- don't want to keep her waiting, do you?"
Cho was already at the Three Broomsticks when Harry arrived. She'd got a booth in the back, for which he was grateful, even though it made the whole situation look uncomfortably romantic. Still, at least they wouldn't be surrounded by curious ears. She saw him dithering in the doorway, and smiled and waved at him. She really did have a very pretty smile.
Harry sat down across from her; two butterbeers were already on the table. "I hope you like them," Cho said.
"Oh, I love butterbeer," Harry said hastily, and took a quick drink, managing to dribble some down his chin. "Oh -- sorry -- " he fumbled for he fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped himself off, feeling his cheeks going crimson. Her dark eyes twinkled at him, as if she found him amusing… "cute" maybe…and he turned redder at the thought. He took another, more careful sip of butterbeer and let it warm his insides gently.
"Thanks for meeting me," Cho said.
"Oh," Harry said again, wishing he could think of a better way to start his sentences. "No trouble…I mean, it was nice of you to ask…erm. How have you been?" Bloody hell, and he'd thought small talk with Snape had been rough…no. Not thinking about that any more.
"Oh, I've been all right, I suppose," she said. "Not too happy with my marks lately, but everything else seems to be going okay. You?"
"Me? Oh, I'm…fine," Harry said lamely. "I wish my marks were better too." Although he was surprised to hear the admission from Cho -- she was a Ravenclaw, after all, and an excellent student. "Which class you having trouble in?"
Cho gave a self-deprecating grin. "Oh, I'm not really having trouble," she admitted. "I mean, I like school. I just failed my last Potions test, is all, and I'm a bit down over it. I've never failed a test before."
Harry's jaw dropped, but he managed to close it quickly. "Potions?" he managed. "That so?"
She nodded, looking frustrated. "Yeah. I mean, I know it's nobody's favourite subject, but I've always done all right. And I thought I did well on the test. But I got it back yesterday afternoon and…well, apparently not." She shrugged. "It's just one test, though."
Even though he tried to stop it, Harry couldn't prevent his mind from racing down channels best left unexplored. Four days ago Cho had asked him out for a butterbeer. The news had spread like wildfire, of course, and now she was telling him she'd just failed a Potions test. Come off it, Potter! Of COURSE it's a coincidence! Like he cares!
He stubbornly ignored the spark of hope her words had ignited. Cure the disease, cure it.
Cho frowned more fiercely as she sipped at her butterbeer. "I wouldn't mind so much except Snape wrote some really nasty remarks on the bottom. He's never done that before, not with me. Oh well, what can you expect…" then she trailed off, looking suddenly apprehensive. "Oh. I'm sorry."
"For what?" Harry asked blankly, still digesting her words.
"I didn't mean to bring up Snape," she said, her smooth cheeks going slightly pink. "I know that's been difficult for you lately, and I swore I wasn't even going to mention it and here I…sorry."
"Huh? Oh," Harry said with a forced laugh, "that's over and done with. Has been for ages. Doesn't bother me at all." Right, and neither would having his leg chewed off.
She smiled brightly, and it dazzled him for a moment. Harry briefly felt guilty for being dazzled, and then asked himself rebelliously, why should he? "That's good," she said. "You've seemed a bit down for a while, we've all noticed it - I'm happy you're not letting all that rot get to you." Her smile turned into a mischievous grin. "I bet the match last week helped out a bit, eh?"
"Er. Yeah." Harry had been trying very hard not to think about that match. "You play Hufflepuff next week, don't you?"
At the mention of Hufflepuff her face fell, and Harry cursed himself. Cedric Diggory had been in Hufflepuff, and he and Cho had played against each other as Seekers several times -- Potter, you moron! Could this conversation get any more awkward? "I suppose it's my turn to apologise," he said softly.
She didn't pretend to misunderstand him, and he was grateful for that. "It wasn't your fault, Harry. I won't lie, I mean, after…it…happened -- there were lots of rumours. I didn't know what to believe. But then, at the Feast -- I know Dumbledore would never have toasted you if you'd…done some of the things the Slytherins were saying. I know it wasn't your fault, is what I'm saying, I suppose," she finished, obviously trying for a bracing tone of voice. "I should have told you earlier, but well, there it is."
Harry bowed his head. "Thanks." She might trust Dumbledore's judgment, but he noticed she hadn't said anything like "I know you could never have done such a thing." But maybe that was all right, he thought bitterly. After all, he wasn't exactly sure of that himself, was he? "I'm still sorry, though," he said, his voice still low. "I used to think about it all the time. I mean, all the time. Playing it again in my head, wondering if I could have been faster, or what I could have done differently. I mean…" he swallowed hard. "Summer after fourth year. I had nightmares, but I also had dreams where I succeeded, and sometimes those were worse, you know, after I woke up and it wasn't true."
He heard a soft noise, and dared to look up, and saw that she was crying quietly. He cursed himself roundly. "Oh, hell, I'm sorry," he muttered, "I'm so sorry, Cho -- here, take my handkerchief -- " She wasn't making noise, but a few people in the pub were turning to look at them. Some of them were Hogwarts students. Shit. "I shouldn't have said…I'm sorry…"
"No," she choked, dabbing her eyes furiously with the butterbeer-stained handkerchief, "no, you don't understand, it's good, it's okay." Then she looked up at him, beautiful dark eyes rimmed with red. "Nobody's ever told me, you see," she said hoarsely. "What happened. Because nobody knows." She looked pleadingly at him. "I loved him," she said quietly, and Harry's stomach winced. "I did. Can you tell me what happened?"
It was the least he could do for her, Harry decided, and with some trepidation began to recount what had happened on the fateful final night of the Triwizard Tournament. When he got to the part about Cedric wanting Harry to take the Cup she smiled sadly and murmured "Sounds just like him"; when he stumbled over the words "Kill the spare", her face turned very white, and after that neither of them said anything for a while.
"'Kill the spare,'" she muttered bitterly after a moment. "He…he really said that?"
"He really did," Harry said, looking not at her, but off into space at his unpleasant memories. "He's…he's horrible, Cho. I can't say how horrible. He doesn't -- I don't think he sees people as people. Nobody's alive to him. More like big chess pieces. Everybody, not just…not just Cedric."
"He's got to be stopped," she whispered, her face tight with contained rage. Harry understood the feeling well. "I -- I wish I could do something -- right now, because," she looked pleadingly at Harry, "I'm so angry right now, and I want to do something with it, and I feel so strong with it, like I could kill You-Know -- " and then she stopped. "Voldemort," she said, firmly but in a whisper. "You've always said his name. Dumbledore does too. Voldemort, dammit." Her dark eyes flashed. "I don't want to be afraid of him!"
Harry remembered his foolish schoolboy crush on Cho from fourth year, his confusion over her from fifth. He'd imagined all sorts of scenarios. And he hadn't known a thing about her. And…I loved him. "Do you still love him?" he blurted, before he could stop himself, and instantly regretted it. Why, oh why had he asked her that?
But she only looked sadly at him. "I don't know," she said. "It's been over a year. And I still dream about him and wake up crying. Don't you think…" she bit her lip. "Don't you think it should have stopped by now? Don't you think I should feel better? Harry?"
"I don't," Harry replied, feeling oddly relieved. "I still dream about it too, and I wasn't…like you were…with him." But his stomach felt uncomfortable again. A year and a half since Cedric's death, and she was still crying - did broken hearts really take so long to heal? It will be different, he told himself harshly. Broken heart? How pathetic can you get? Snape's not dead. He's just a bastard. It will be different.
She looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry, Harry. I thought…this would be fun. We'd talk shop about Quidditch or something and…I do like you, Harry. And I know," her cheeks turned red, "I know you like me, or at least you did once. But I -- but I think this was good. I needed to hear what you told me. Thanks."
"Oh…well," Harry said with a burst of inner warmth for her, "I mean, nothing's wrong with being friends, is there? Or talking Quidditch? Doesn't mean we can't still do that, does it?"
She smiled again, and although it was weak, it was a real smile. "No. It doesn't." She managed to look mischievous, although her eyes were still red-rimmed. "Who knows, maybe I'll manage to worm some of Imogene's secret strategies out of you."
"Hey," Harry said with a grin, hefting the butterbeer, "you think one of these is worth her breaking my legs? You'll have to do better than that."
Cho laughed. Harry found himself grinning again, more with relief than anything. He felt like he'd just jumped some sort of hurdle and come out of it unscraped. They talked for another half-hour before she had to leave, and after she was gone and Harry was making his way out of the tavern, he realised he'd had a good time. He hadn't even thought about Snape once, after the conversation had turned to Wronski feints and barrel rolls. See, Potter? You can do this. You can...
"Harry!"
"Old sponge!"
"Good to see you!" the Weasley twins chorused.
Harry's good mood fled abruptly. The last time he'd seen Fred and George had been in that corridor of Hogwarts, with Snape, a memory he was now trying to erase. "Oh. Hullo," he said dully.
"No need to be overenthusiastic," Fred said. "You'll embarrass us in public."
"Shut up, Fred," George said, surprising Harry. "Harry -- can you come with us for a minute? Up to Zonko's?"
"No," Harry said flatly. As if he'd go anywhere with them, after some of the stunts they'd been pulling.
"Told you," George snapped to Fred, "I told you he'd be angry," and then he turned to Harry with an abashed look on his face. "Look, if you won't come, we'll understand. We want to apologise -- "
" -- for what happened back at Hogwarts," Fred continued. "We really are sorry. We didn't mean to josh you so far. Sometimes we don't know when to stop…"
"No kidding," Harry said with feeling. "You try anything like that again and I'll hex you so hard you'll feel it for a month." He summoned some of the anger that always burned inside his stomach these days and tried to infuse his glare with it. From the way their eyes widened, it seemed to be working. "I can do it. You see if I can't." And he would, too. He was not in the mood to be played with. Not now.
"Oh, we know you can," George said quickly. "But Harry, we wouldn't. We were only joking. You're like family, don't you know that, we couldn't hurt you."
"Maybe not," Harry said, and folded his arms. "What d'you want to talk to me about, then?"
Fred looked around a bit nervously. "Not here."
"I'm not going anywhere alone with you two." Not yet. If they did try to pull some prank, Harry wasn't sure what he'd do, but it wouldn't be pretty and it could probably get him expelled, if not sent to Azkaban. Then he remembered something sitting in his pocket and fished around for it. "Although hang on, I do have something to give you back." He dropped the Shrunken sex manual into Fred's hand. He'd planned to visit Zonko's later, safely in the company of Ron and Hermione, and had figured on returning the book then. No use for it any more, he thought bitterly.
To his surprise, the twins looked at him with speculation clear in their eyes. "So you don't need it any more, then," Fred said thoughtfully, echoing Harry's thoughts to an uncomfortable degree.
"Don't think we don't know why," George added. "Come on, Harry. We'll do or go wherever you like, but I swear on my wand nothing's going to happen. But we have to talk to you."
"We want to make a deal with you," Fred put in.
Harry was only half-listening, stuck on something George had said. "What do you mean…you know why I don't need the book?" he asked suspiciously. "I've finished it, is all. I just didn't want any of my roommates to find it."
George leaned in and whispered one word: "Snape."
Then he leaned back.
Harry only gaped at him, and then pulled himself together. "Huh? What are you -- what do you -- " he stammered, trying to look blank and failing miserably.
"To Zonko's, then!" Fred said cheerfully, and Harry found himself being guided -- gently -- down the street towards Zonko's joke shop. "Relax," Fred added under his breath, "if you're worried about your virtue, our flat's right above the shop, remember, and Mr. Zonko's in today. You're safe as houses. Promise."
Stunned, both by the mention of Snape's name and the intimation that the twins wanted to make a "deal" with him, Harry didn't object this time. He was too curious -- and apprehensive.
Snape. What could they mean? They couldn't know anything…no, of course they couldn't…how could they?
His mind was whirling so fast that he barely noticed when the twins ushered him up the back stairs behind Zonko's into their flat above the shop. He must have trusted them more than he thought, because next thing he knew he was letting them sit him down on the one chair in the bedroom - more of an alcove with a big double bed shoved in it and a curtain to pull across from the rest of the tiny flat.
"Right," Harry said tersely. "What did you want to talk to me about?"
To his vague surprise, he was met with hesitant glances. Fred and George were so rarely hesitant about anything that it set off alarm bells. Finally, George spoke. "Harry," he said tentatively, "funny thing -- now you're here and all, we're -- we're not really sure how to bring this up."
Worse and worse. Fred and George weren't supposed to be uncertain -- at least, not when their lives weren't in imminent danger from irate Potions masters. They were all brash arrogance and jokes…weren't they? "Bring what up?" he asked, sounding a little more croaky than he would have liked.
In answer, Fred reached behind the bed and pulled out a slightly yellowed copy of the Daily Prophet. Harry's stomach gave an instinctive lurch as he recognised it: it was the front page of the first article about him and Snape. The photograph of his younger self blinked confusedly, while Snape's photo, surprisingly enough, refused to meet his eyes. "What d'you want to talk to me about that for?" he asked angrily. He'd be just as happy if he never saw the damned article again -
"We know it's true, that's why," Fred said quietly.
For a moment the bottom dropped out of the room and Harry felt as if he were falling. The twins were sitting side by side on the bed, both of them looking so serious -- no, it was a joke. It had to be. Harry snapped, "I don't think that's very funny, Fred."
"We're not joking," said George.
Harry felt another flutter of panic, though he squashed it as best he could. No, it wasn't possible. Malfoy had seen him and Snape, no question about that, but how could Fred and George know anythi…?
Then his mind flashed back to that confrontation between Snape and the twins in the corridor. Oh, God. How could Harry have been so stupid? He and Snape had waited to speak to each other until the twins had left - or until they thought the twins had left. What if Fred and George hadn't really gone? What if they'd sneaked back and eavesdropped or something? It was just the sort of thing they'd do, you never knew with them - he should have made sure he and Snape were safely alone -- !
"It's not funny," Harry repeated too loudly, unable to think of anything else to say, and he was right. It wasn't. It was the most unfunny thing the twins had ever said.
"Harry," Fred began.
"Don't you Harry me!" Harry stood up quickly. "That's…that's a filthy thing to say. Me and Snape? You must be crazy!"
"You and Snape together is crazy," George agreed, looking thoughtful. "I have to give you that much."
Fred quickly caught at Harry's robe, but gently, as if not wanting to alarm him any more. "Harry, it's not like what you think. We didn't see or hear anything, we can't prove anything. You're safe. But -- we -- know."
"How?" Harry scoffed, then blanched as he realised what he'd said. Potter, you IDIOT!"I mean -- even if it was true -- which it's not -- how would you know --I mean…"
"Yeah, we know what you meant," Fred said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Do try and relax, Harry. Sit down. You want something to drink or…something?"
"No," Harry said emphatically, shuddering at the thought of drinking anything given to him by Fred and George. He didn't want to be turned any different colours, thanks very much, and he desperately needed to get to the bottom of this conversation. He plunked himself down in the chair again.
"Okay, Harry, we'll play it your way," George said quietly, "although I wish you could trust us. I hope you will trust us. Fine. Hypothetically," he rolled his eyes, "hypothetically, if this were true, which of course it isn't, Fred and I would have noticed it right off when Snape tried to tear our throats out for touching you that day back in the corridor. Remember?"
"Of course I remember," Harry said icily, "and I seem to also remember that you two were just as worried about me as yourselves. You tried to get me to run for it. Do you remember?"
"At first, we did think he was going to waste all three of us," Fred admitted. "But then you jumped in the middle -- "
" -- and it was like the time Dad pulled the plug on that eclectic toaster he'd been trying to work," George finished. "Everything stopped. Snape stopped. He was going to kill us and suddenly he wasn't, 'cos you were there."
"That's just because I'm a student," Harry said frantically, aware he was starting to panic again but not sure what to do about it. "He knows he'd get in big trouble if he hurt a student, I bet…"
"Get in big trouble for banging a student too, I'd think," Fred muttered, but before Harry could muster another outraged explosion George elbowed him.
"Hush, Fred. Anyway. To get on with our hypothesis. Snape looked like he wanted to murder us, but he never moved a muscle after you got in the way."
"Don't forget," Harry broke in, "you -- you'd just insulted him. You'd made him angry. I hadn't said anything, of course he was madder at you than at m…"
Fred pounced. "But doesn't he hate you, Harry? Everybody says Professor Snape and Harry Potter are such big enemies that Snape'd just jump at the chance to get you, first thing he could. But he didn't. Why not? Makes you a bit curious. If he really does hate you, I mean."
Harry swallowed hard and did his best to keep cool. They didn't see or hear anything. They said so."Don't ask me. I don't understand the way Snape's mind works." That, at least, was the absolute truth.
"I don't imagine anybody does," Fred said. "But even if we hadn't seen all that…"
"Hypothetically," George put in.
"Right, hypothetically, we might have been caught up by the way you and Snape looked at each other while you were holding him off us."
"Oh yeah?" Harry asked, trying to sound deeply sceptical. "And how did we look? Yearning sighs and moony eyes and that sort of thing?"
"No. You looked -- "
"-- Familiar with each other."
Harry blinked.
"You didn't look like it was odd, talking to Snape like that," George said. "And you didn't look like you hated him."
"He bloody well didn't look like he hated you," Fred added.
Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat. "Well, he does," he whispered. "He hates me."
Fred and George slowly shook their heads in unison. It was creepy. "Harry," George said heavily, "it's okay. It really is. We understand."
"Understand what? There's nothing to understand…"
"We know what it's like. We know the signs," Fred said.
"Know what what's like? Know the signs of what? You know, you two are really - "
Then the twins did something that shocked all capacity for speech from him. They turned to face each other, and leaned in for a brief, but tender, kiss. On the lips. Decidedly not a brotherly kiss.
Harry felt his eyes bugging out of his head and abruptly became certain once again that this was all a big joke. But then Fred turned to him and continued, "We know what it's like to love somebody you're not supposed to. We can tell."
Their faces were completely serious.
Harry's eyes took in the double bed in the alcove. Before he'd thought it was there just to save space, or maybe because the twins couldn't afford two beds, but now…and the twins, last year, both admitting to him they were gay…proposing ridiculous threesomes…a thousand instances, big and small…
It…they…but…
Harry felt his mouth working open and closed until he managed to say, with shaky hand gestures, "You two - did you just…?!"
"Promise not to tell anyone, Harry," George said urgently, "Please promise. There, you see? We know about you and Snape, and you know about us. Everybody keeps mum. Everybody's happy. No trouble. See?"
Harry could only think that he was very glad he was sitting down. He felt sick. "You're brothers," he whispered, frankly horrified. "You're -- you're brothers!"
"And you and Snape are teacher and student," Fred said, in a reasonable tone of voice.
"That's completely different!" Harry shouted, not even realising what he'd said. But the twins did. George smiled a little.
"Is it?"
"Of course it is! We're not RELATED! I mean -- " his words caught up with him at last. "I mean…I…"
"Harry," Fred said, still using the reasonable voice, "is there a single person on earth who would approve of you having a relationship with Snape?"
The inane words Maybe Dumbledore sprang inside Harry's head and danced around, but he couldn't say anything. His tongue felt frozen inside his mouth. He could only stare.
"We're not going to tell," George said firmly, "and neither are you. If you don't want to talk about it, fine. But we do need to talk about the deal."
"Deal?" Harry heard himself saying weakly. "What deal?"
Fred and George looked nervously at each other. "Old Zonko's getting…suspicious, Harry," Fred finally said. "And he's not the only one. People who live in Hogsmeade, we've heard them talking -- about how we never see girls, or boys, for that matter. About how we're always together, but something seems odd about us. And then Zonko came up to visit and saw the one bed. He didn't say anything, and we know he likes us, but…but Harry," he finished desperately, "if enough people get to talking -- it'd kill Mum and Dad, don't you see, and the last thing Dad needs is for that bastard Fudge to have another reason to look down on him, and we can't let anybody separate us…"
"So we need you," George interrupted, patting his brother's arm gently in front of Harry's disbelieving stare. "You have to pick one of us."
Harry gaped. "Pick one of you? What the hell?"
"To see in public," George replied matter-of-factly. "You'll date one of us. Easy as pie. People stop talking about me and Fred, people stop talking about you and Snape, problem solved!"
Harry gaped even more.
"You wouldn't have to do anything," Fred put in. "I mean, obviously. It'll all be just for show. We'd not lay a hand on you. Unless, erm, you got lonely or something -- "
George elbowed him again.
"I have to go," Harry managed. This was too unreal. He was not sitting here, having this conversation.
"You sure?" George asked quickly. "Think before you say no, Harry. Wasn't there another article in the paper just this morning?"
"That didn't link me and Snape," Harry spat. "It was all about him. Nobody believes he and I…I mean…"
"You positive about that?" Fred asked. "Ron says you've been awfully down in the dumps lately. Longer than one article might warrant. Says Snape's been an utter rotter to you too, and you don't even fight back. Maybe people are starting to wonder." Harry's skin prickled at the thought.
"Be a lot of publicity in this, Harry," George said persuasively. "Be worth a front-page article, I should think. You know what people are like…why should they care about one sad greasy bastard at Hogwarts when they can read about Harry Potter's love life?"
"I have to go," Harry repeated blankly.
"You can help him, Harry. You can divert attention. It's the only thing you can do now. Don't pretend to us like you don't care -- we know better."
George's words were starting to penetrate Harry's brain, if slowly. Starting to make sense. "What'll you do if I say no?" he asked hoarsely.
They looked at him, offended. "Nothing," Fred said, a bit stiffly. "We said you could trust us. But -- we do have to ask you not to tell about us, or…"
George was fingering his wand. "Or it's a Memory Charm for you," he said. "Sorry. But we'd have to. You understand? You'd let us?"
Harry thought that he might really like to forget this whole conversation, on reflection. But you couldn't always do what you liked. He nodded, then sat in silence and mulled over their offer.
Protect Snape, protect himself. Divert attention. It sounded good, even if George was right about the front page headlines. Harry shuddered at the thought, but there was no help for it; if it was to be done, it might as well be done properly. He shuddered again at the thought of what the twins were doing together, but in a way they were right: people would have considered his involvement with Snape just as revolting. Maybe even worse, since Harry was so famous and Snape so despised. The Daily Prophet articles proved that much.
It's happened. They've made the offer. Make the best of it. It's all you can do, said a very persuasive, semi-Slytherin voice in his head.
"I…I need to talk to Ron," he said. At their horrified expressions, he said quickly, "No, I won't tell. I promise. And…and I accept. I'll do it," he said, summoning all his nerve to make the decision. Had to be made, might as well be now. "But I don't want to just spring it on him that I'm dating one of his brothers." Not to mention how Ginny might feel. Oh God.
They looked immensely relieved. "Gotcha," George said. "But which one of us are you going to date?"
"Oh, I don't know," Harry said tiredly. "Doesn't make a difference. How about you?"
George looked quite pleased with himself, while Fred sulked. "Told you I was the better kisser," George smirked. "Obviously the boy remembers it."
"Obviously the boy is Confunded -- "
Harry stood up again. "I'll write to you tonight," he said, not at all in the mood for jokes now. He felt very tired. "I just…I have to talk to Ron."
George nodded. "I'll walk you out."
Harry didn't feel much like company, but they might as well get used to the bargain. "And I won't do anything with you," he warned. "I mean it."
"Of course not," George said. "We understand."
"We don't really share," Fred put in, "not really," which was far more than Harry wanted to know. He winced and quickly shook his head, causing Fred to subside with a guilty glance at his twin. George only sighed and followed Harry down the back steps with less enthusiasm than he usually showed. About halfway down he glanced about and, verifying that they were unobserved, tugged Harry in closer to hiss, "Hey -- Snape -- ruddy odd to think of him as your bloke, you know?…is he going to understand? Doesn't seem like he'll like it much, but I mean, Fred and I reckoned if anybody could talk him into something it would be…" his voice trailed off and he raised a ginger eyebrow.
Harry felt another weight land on his shoulders and resolutely shook it off. "He's not my 'bloke,'" never was, was he? "and I daresay he won't care. Or if he does," remembering Cho's failed Potions test against his will, "not much he can do about it, is there?"
George looked at him for an uncomfortably long moment. "I'm sorry, Harry," he said after a while, "I really am. I never liked him, but…"
"Oh, shut up, please," Harry said tiredly, and turned to go down the stairs again. "Not everything goes the way you want it to, does it?"
George didn't say anything else until they were out on the street. Harry saw Ron, Hermione and Ginny all coming up to greet them from Honeydukes, big smiles on their faces as they waved.
Harry managed a weak smile and waved back, feeling his stomach turn into something cold and hard. Ron's grin…he couldn't do this, this thing with Fred and George, not to Ron, it wasn't possible. Feeling ill, he turned to gasp out some kind of explanation to George --
-- who, perhaps scenting danger, bent and gently brushed his lips over Harry's forehead and then pulled back, tracing a finger over his cheek in a very intimate sort of way. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw his trio of friends -- still his friends? -- stop, stunned. People around him began to murmur. Was that a flashbulb going off? He turned to stare up at George in mute, helpless rage, and was met by warm, sympathetic brown eyes. "Don't back out now, Harry," George whispered. "I know it's hard. We're going to help you. Just stick to it." Then he waved cheerfully at Ron, ignoring the gossips all around them, and bounded back up the stairs of Zonko's, leaving Harry to face his friends alone.
The conversation went about as well as could be expected.
All of them were huddled up in the courtyard together, keeping curious intruders away as best they could with turned backs and unwelcoming glares. Ron was white-faced and shocked, Ginny mute and eyes filling with tears she tried to hide, Hermione nodding and not looking as surprised as she should have. But then, Hermione hated looking surprised by anything. Harry stumblingly improvised. He hadn't meant to bother all of them with his moodiness, he said, he really hadn't. But he'd been worrying and struggling with…this for a long time, and the twins' "attentions" that summer hadn't helped, and then that article about Snape had made it all explode. And then George had offered, and it was all just for a bit of fun, really, and where was the harm? Harry couldn't quite look at Ginny when he got to that part. It was the most awful conversation he'd ever had, and coming on the heels of the second-most awful one, he was feeling understandably agitated. He certainly didn't have to fake the look of self-loathing.
"So…you're GAY?" Ron burst out for about the third time.
"I think so, I'm not sure, but I think so," Harry repeated yet again.
"But…but…your butterbeer! With Cho!" Ron seemed to be holding this out as irrefutable proof of Harry's heterosexuality.
Harry only shook his head. "I think she only wants to be friends." Or she would after news of this got around. That was certainly what she'd tell people, although whether or not she'd talk to Harry again was another matter entirely. He rather thought she would, though. He didn't think she was all that interested in him except, perhaps, as a fellow Seeker -- and a source of information on Cedric Diggory's final moments. At least he hoped so. He was so tired of hurting people.
It was about this time, as he was thinking this, that Ginny made a funny muffled noise, mumbled some kind of excuse and left hurriedly. Harry felt as if his whole body winced, and couldn't help looking a bit defensive when Ron glared at him. Well, he'd never asked for her worship, had he?
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be," Hermione said authoritatively, "it's not up to you. It's biological. All the books say it is -- at least, I think they do..." She suddenly looked a little uncomfortable, as if realising the existence of a gap in her education. "I'll read lots about it," she promised, and then glared at Ron. "And in the meantime, it's certainly not as if we're going to desert you or anything."
Ron needed her to elbow him before he recovered enough to say, "Er -- yeah…right…" he was looking terribly anxious, and then his red eyebrows drew down into a fierce expression. "Look, I'm sorry, Harry, but I've got to know. Is it - you know - do you ever think about, you know, me…"
"No," Harry said honestly. Ron didn't seem to know whether to look relieved or insulted. "And I don't think about Dean or Neville or Seamus either, if you must know. You're all quite safe."
Now Ron looked confused. "Then who do you think about?" Harry felt himself go beet red, and Ron shook his head. "Look…forget it…I just…need to think about this, okay? And…" his eyes veered in the direction of his sister's departure, "I need to talk to Ginny." The glare came back. "Really walloped her, you have."
"I can't help it," Harry nearly shouted, and Hermione quickly laid a calming hand on his arm. Lowering his voice, he hissed, "I never encouraged her, Ron, she's like a sister to me, you know that!"
"Well, apparently George isn't exactly like a brother to you, now is he?" Ron snapped, looking not at all appeased.
Depends. You might want to ask Fred and George about their concept of 'brotherhood'. But of course he couldn't say that, and anyway, the thought still made him feel a bit queasy. "Ron, stop. I never wanted to hurt her. I could just kill George, doing that in the street in front of her…" Not to mention everybody else.
Hermione appeared to be thinking along the same lines. "I think I saw somebody taking a picture," she said worriedly.
"I'm sure," Harry said, his shoulders slumping again. "It'll be all over the school by tonight, anyway."
"And the Daily Prophet, most likely," Ron added, a bit of venom in his voice. "Got a nice head for publicity lately, haven't you?"
Harry stared at him, shocked and appalled, barely hearing Hermione's outraged objections. Oh no, not this again, and not now!
"I just wish you weren't using my family to do it," Ron continued over Hermione's protests, cheeks reddening with anger.
"I'm not using anyone," Harry rasped, unable to muster enough anger against Ron because he knew his own words were pure lies. He was doing nothing but using Fred and George, even if it had been their idea. "George asked me, it's nothing serious - "
"So you're leading my brother on now, just like my sister? Or what?"
"Stop it!" shrilled Hermione. "Stop it right now! That's enough, and I won't hear more!" All around them now, people were pointing and staring. "Come on. It's almost time for the Feast. I don't think we should talk about this any more. We'll…we'll talk later, when we've had a chance to clear our heads and calm down…"
Harry nodded numbly. Tight-lipped, Ron followed suit, and Harry could already see the hint of remorse in his friend's eyes. But it would be a while before Ron could apologise.
He'd never enjoyed a Hogwarts Hallowe'en Feast less. Even last year's had been fun compared to this: Hermione sitting in the middle, with Harry on one side and Ron on the other, avoiding each other's eyes and not speaking. Enduring the stares and titters of what seemed like the entire student body - roaring laughter coming from the Slytherin table, and even though Harry couldn't hear the joke he knew he was the butt of it. Ginny was nowhere to be found, and a couple of her friends were also notable by their absence. Dean and Seamus didn't seem to know what to say to Harry, and Neville kept looking at him as if he were some kind of exotic curiosity.
Snape was sitting at the head table, of course, and Harry refused to look his way. Well, mostly. He couldn't quite help wondering if Snape would hear the news, and if he did, if he would care. Given his low opinion of the Weasley twins, he'd probably think Harry deserved whatever he got. Harry's fists curled under the table. Why? Why had he agreed to this asinine bargain? Why was he giving so much to protect someone who didn't seem to care about him at all?
Well, it was done. And it didn't have to last long. He'd "date" George until the last of the Snape-gossip died down, then break it off. And try and forget it had ever happened. Keeping that firmly in mind, he crammed a strawberry tart into his mouth and chewed viciously.
After what felt like Seamus' fifteenth nervous glance, he finally broke, and snapped, "No, I am NOT watching you in the showers and I do NOT have the slightest interest in getting in your underpants. Okay?"
Seamus' jaw dropped with shock. The rest of the table got quiet for just a second, and then exploded, unexpectedly, into laughter. Dean darted a shamefaced grin down into his plate of pie, and Neville clapped a hand over his mouth, cheeks going red. Harry couldn't help himself and looked over at Ron, who was looking back with a small, apologetic smile before turning away again. They'd probably be all right in a few days, unless something else happened, which Harry wouldn't put past the universe for a moment.
At that moment, the conversation was interrupted by a violent BANG from the teachers' table. Every head in the Great Hall swivelled just in time to see Professor Snape slam his chair back from the table as the shards of his goblet, which apparently had just exploded, landed on the tablecloth. Professor Sprout, who had evidently been leaning in to speak to him about something, pulled back with a shocked expression on her face, staring at the stains of red wine on the white brocade; Snape levelled a white-faced look at the Gryffindor table that was absolutely brimful of rage -- his teeth were bared -- before he turned on his heel and swept out of the Hall via the back door without a word.
Everyone immediately started looking at the Gryffindors, and the Gryffindors began looking at their own. "What was that? Did you hex his goblet or something?" Seamus asked Ron.
"I didn't," Ron said. "Did you, Harry?"
"N-no," Harry said slowly, watching the red stains spread over the fine white cloth, hypnotised. "No, I didn't."
"Ah," Dumbledore said, clearly enough to be heard over the roar, "how unfortunate…these accidents will happen from time to time. Please calm yourselves; too much excitement is terrible for the digestion."
"Weird," Dean said, and Harry could only nod, his mouth dry. Something had happened, something had gone wrong for Snape, that much was obvious. But what? He hated that he didn't, and couldn't, know. Couldn't help. Get OVER it, you stupid sod! Half-distracted, he watched Dumbledore wave his wand and remove the mess, expression cheerful as always, eyes a bit harder to read. Harry realised he hadn't thought much about Dumbledore in a while, absorbed as he'd been in his own problems. The headmaster appeared to be having as good a time as ever at the Feast, but he still looked very tired, even though the reports of Dark activity in the news had abated in the last couple of weeks.
Just because we see no Activity, that doesn't mean it does not exist.
The memory of one of Snape's summer letters made an unwelcome intrusion into Harry's head. He'd been trying not to think about those letters, still safely disguised and hidden in his trunk. He really ought to get rid of them. One of these days he would, as soon as the idea stopped making it hard for him to breathe. He looked again at Dumbledore.
I wish I could help him. I wish I could do SOMETHING besides feel sorry for myself!
His own helplessness choked him.
Harry was quite ready for the day to end. It seemed as if it, like the entire month, had lasted for years. But getting ready for bed that night, Harry wondered if he'd even be able to sleep, upset as he was.
His roommates undressed equally quietly, and he noticed with a mixture of disgust and amusement that they all took much more care in how much skin they revealed. Seamus Finnigan actually hopped behind the curtains of his bed to disrobe. Ron, on the other hand, made a show of putting on his pyjamas with the same carelessness he always did, which boded well. He'd probably be able to talk to Harry again soon, especially if Hermione worked on him. Harry could just hear it now: Honestly, can't you see we've both been ignoring him lately because of…us? We've got to be more SENSITIVE, Ron! The guilt card worked well when played against Ron Weasley.
Harry huddled under the warm blankets, enjoying the hot-water bottle the house elves had placed at his feet, held out his wand and whispered "Lumos." His little cavern became illuminated and he tried to relax, alone at last, thinking of writing a letter to Sirius. It would be nice for his godfather to know about Harry's new "love interest" before the Daily Prophet, or whoever else, told him. And maybe Sirius, unlike his friends, would understand, would maybe even have some kind words or advice for him. He'd heard from Sirius sometime mid-month; the letter had been short, too short, because he was on the move again to another hiding-place, doing whatever it was he was doing for Dumbledore. But, though the letter was short, as always it had been kind, supportive, reassuring Harry just with its existence.
Suddenly he missed his godfather quite terribly - it was funny how much you could care about someone when you hardly ever saw him - and was scribbling out a letter that was far more honest than he'd intended. His own dread of publicity, his loneliness, his jealousy of Hermione and Ron, the upset he'd caused Ron and Ginny. It rather reminded him of the time in fourth year when he'd confessed his miserable insecurities about the Triwizard Tournament to Sirius through the fireplace. He did not, of course, write one word about Snape, though he longed to. But that was the one thing Sirius must never know. Harry felt a pang of anger at his godfather for his unreasoning hatred, for making things so difficult. And then he remembered that Snape hated his godfather just as much, and besides…it didn't matter anyway, did it?
He felt a little better when the letter was done. He knew Sirius would appreciate getting it, knew how valuable his trust was to his godfather. And it was good to have someone like that, with whom he could be honest and straightforward. Well, mostly. Partly.
He was damned sick of being a Slytherin.
The letter was finished, but Harry didn't feel much more tired than he had at its beginning. It was too late to trot it up to the Owlery for Hedwig; have to wait until morning. Harry rolled up the parchment and, sticking his head through his bedcurtains, reached out to his little-used nightstand so he could drop the letter in the drawer. As he withdrew his hand, his fingers brushed against something soft.
Blinking, he craned his neck and peered down into the drawer's shallow depths. His heart stopped as he realised what he'd touched: a tiny bottle wrapped up in soft green cloth.
The Somniesperus.
His birthday present.
He'd forgotten all about it. He snatched it out of the drawer with a shaking hand before anybody could notice and quickly pulled it back into the lighted glow of his bed, unwrapping the bottle and staring again at the rosy-gold liquid swirling gently in the phial. This was the only reminder he had that Snape had seemed to care about him once. The letters, nice though it was to have them, contained nothing very personal. But this - it had taken a long time to brew, and Snape must have done it himself, obviously looking for something that would be suitable for Harry, that would please him.
A terrible emptiness sank itself into Harry's chest and quite suddenly there was nothing he wanted more than to run down to the dungeons and curl up next to Snape in that big bed, as they used to do after…but he didn't even need the sex, not right now. He just wanted Severus, the Severus he'd thought to claim as his, absurd as that was, and he missed him, and it had been so good, and in that moment all of Harry's stubborn resolutions were swept away: he would have given anything for things to be the way they were only a month ago. Damn it, he loved Severus, he'd at least figured out that much, and while it would…probably…go away with time, it didn't make things any easier now…and he wanted, so much…
Just a little taste of love.
Sometimes we can be shocked upon learning what we truly find pleasant. Severus' warning vis-à-vis the potion, but Harry didn't think he had anything shockable left in him. What he wanted was to dream of Severus. It seemed fairly straightforward.
Harry extinguished the light from his wand, placed it under his pillow, unstoppered the phial and tipped the contents down his throat, careful not to spill a drop, licking his lips when he was done to catch every trace. He didn't know what he'd expected, but the potion's taste surprised him: it tasted of nothing at all. He might as well have been drinking coloured water. For a bad moment Harry wondered if Snape had played some kind of elaborate prank on him, or if the potion had expired after all, but just then he felt his muscles beginning to relax without his will. A deep, cool darkness washed over his mind and clouded his vision, emptying him of the power to act. He'd never been so aware of falling asleep before.
His body hit the mattress with a soft thump and the world vanished.
Strange things happen in dreams. The first is that people usually accept them as reality without a qualm.
Harry Potter walked out onto a darksome plain.
His first feeling was blank surprise, followed by a tinge of nervousness; it was not a pleasant landscape. The earth stretching before him was barren, devoid of any life -- made up of dark sand that shifted constantly under his feet. When he squinted into the distance, he could see that he was surrounded on all sides by a high black wall, which appeared to stand in a circle with him at the centre. The air was stale and hot. The sky was red as blood. He was alone.
In spite of the stifling warmth, Harry shivered. It wasn't because he was afraid of the place -- he actually felt quite comfortable here. And that was what unnerved him. Had he seen this place before? Where? Where was he? His eyes searched his surroundings fruitlessly for signs of any familiarities, big or small. He thought about calling for Ron or Hermione -- were they here too, perhaps? Between the three of them they maybe could figure this out. And while the dark desert didn't frighten him exactly, he didn't like being quite so…alone here.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, shapes began to appear on the far horizon, dark shadows against the red sky. As they slowly drew closer Harry could see that they were cloaked and hooded, and for a heartstopping moment he thought they might be dementors -- but they were walking, not gliding, and he couldn't feel them sucking any happy thoughts out of him. In fact, the closer they came, the better Harry felt. Stronger, somehow. Almost invincible.
What was puzzling, though, really puzzling, was that he couldn't quite tell how many of the figures there were. At first he had thought there were only three, walking shoulder to shoulder; then the vision would haze over and waver, like a desert mirage, and it would seem there were dozens of them, if not hundreds, all flocking together towards him, their footfalls making slight "pfft, pfft" sounds in the stirring sand, their dark cloaks billowing and shifting with their movement.
It probably wasn't fair to make them do all the walking, Harry decided, and he began to walk too, wanting to meet them halfway, eaten up with curiosity. He felt no tingling of danger, no warning. There was only, the closer he got to them, a feeling of…promise. Of satisfaction sure to come. It lured him inexorably forward.
As they drew closer to each other, he saw that the hooded figures were women. The shifting of their numbers stopped and soon there were only the three again, walking together towards him, perfectly in step with each other. Although, it was funny -- the closer they got, the harder it became to distinguish their features. Harry simply couldn't say for the life of him what their faces really looked like, or if they reminded him of anybody he knew; nevertheless, he was aware of finding them very beautiful.
They drew to a stop a few feet in front of him. Harry stopped as well and looked around him again. How strange -- his legs felt tired, as if he'd walked a long way over the sands, but he appeared to remain in the dead centre of the walled-in circle.
One of the three women made a soft, clicking sound and Harry quickly drew his attention back to her, not wanting to seem rude. "Hello," he said.
The three women slowly bowed their heads. The one in the middle smiled, the shape and curve of her mouth a thing Harry could not quite describe, and said a word with such sibiliant syllables Harry thought she was speaking in Parseltongue. He tried imagining her as a snake so he could speak back, and couldn't do it. "I'm sorry?" he said instead, as politely as he could.
The woman's lips gave a little smile again and her eyes -- what colour were they? Brown? Yellow? - gleamed softly with what could have been amusement. This time Harry watched her lips carefully as she spoke, wanting to see if he could figure out what she looked like…maybe it was the hood of her cloak which was confusing him…and as she spoke again, he realised she wasn't moving her lips at all. He could hear what she said, but she wasn't speaking. And she said the weird word again.
Harry repeated it out loud, feeling at something of a loss. "Tiz-eye-phone-ee?" She nodded slowly.
Tisiphone, she said again.
Then the other two spoke without talking. Magaera, the second said, while Alecto, whispered the third.
"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I just don't -- do you speak English?"
Then three sets of eyes, which now looked tawny yellow, were fixed on him. Harry Potter, they all said, their not-vocal voices low and hissing.
"Yes, that's right," Harry said, not at all startled that they knew his name - then wondering why he wasn't startled, why none of this seemed strange to him. Their cloaks fluttered; they shifted, reminding him uncannily of vultures settling themselves on a perch. The one who had spoken first cocked her head slowly to one side, never moving her gaze from Harry.
Do you know who we are? she asked.
Do you know what we want? asked the second, who had spoken the word that began with M.
"N-no," Harry stammered, not wanting to appear ignorant but seeing no help for it. "Sorry, no."
They all smiled identical smiles. Thank you, Harry Potter, the second one whispered, for letting us in.
"Letting you in where?" Harry asked, though he couldn't help but be pleased that, somehow, he'd done a good turn for three ladies as nice as these.
We have needed a doorway. We have needed a home. Thank you, the third woman said. Then the image of the three women flickered - and it seemed again to Harry that, instead of three, there were hundreds of cloaked figures, standing all around him, eyes fixed unblinkingly on him, silent as a tomb. It didn't alarm him in the slightest.
"Well, you're quite welcome," he said out loud. "I didn't catch your names."
The hundred women shifted abruptly back into three. Tisiphone. Magaera. Alecto, they said as one, and Harry flushed. "Oh. Those are your names? I'm sorry…"
You have nothing to be sorry for, whispered the one called Alecto. You have done nothing wrong.
You have given us a doorway. Tisiphone.
You have given us a home. Magaera.
We do not concern ourselves if you have done nothing wrong.
Harry tried to get a good look at them again. "Are you sisters?" he inquired politely.
Yes, they all replied.
"Oh," Harry said, "oh. Well, that's…nice." Then he blinked, not wanting to seem a dull host, since it appeared he'd somehow invited them here, but he couldn't think what to say next.
We are the Arai, Tisiphone said, whom men have called the Curses - and other things besides.
Harry was frankly shocked that anyone could say such a thing about these ladies. "What? Why?"
Because we are not as kind to some men as to others, hissed Magaera. To you, we will be kind, Harry Potter…
To you, we will grant your deepest desire, said Alecto. Her features blurred, and for a moment she appeared to have no face at all. The drink you took…the magic drink…has brought us here.Then her face came back, and she smiled. Her teeth looked sharp.
The Somniesperus? Harry's eyes widened as waking memory rushed in. That's right -- he was dreaming! He'd taken the little phial Severus had given him. Did it summon these women to grant him a wish? "Are you -- are you like genies or something?" he asked eagerly. "You'll give me whatever I want?" No wonder they seemed so kind and amiable!
But Tisiphone had hung her head low and was swinging it from left to right; it took Harry a minute to figure out that she was shaking it 'no'. Magaera spoke. We said, she began -- but hadn't Alecto said it? How strange -- we said that we would give you your deepest desire.
"Yes, I heard," Harry said, his dream-heart leaping with excitement. "Can you do anything? Like, if I said -- if I said, I wanted Severus back, or…or something like that…"
They were all swinging their heads now. It would have been eerie, if they hadn't been such pleasant people. Do you really believe that is what you want? Alecto asked.
"Well -- sure -- I mean," Harry fumbled, "I wouldn't want it if he didn't want it, but I'd like to…to talk to him at least -- "
Talking, hissed Tisiphone, and disdain was evident in her voice. We offer you a greater thing than talking.
We offer you the greatest thing of all, said Magaera.
"What's that?" Harry asked, thoroughly confused.
Revenge, they chorused, and again Harry was surrounded by hundreds of cloaked figures, flickering in and out of sight, slowly circling round him. But he barely noticed. When they had spoken the word 'revenge' it seemed his blood had lit on fire and his vision swam. "Oh," he whispered, and all thoughts of Severus fled his mind utterly. They were replaced with thoughts of smug, smirking Draco Malfoy, of blood and broken Snitches.
The cloaked figures around him all began to hum softly, as if in approval.
Yes, they all said, their low voices blending in and out of each other, identical, indistinguishable. Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what lasts?
The voices began to separate into separate entities, saying different things even though they all still spoke at once.
Blood is a permanent thing.
Vengeance the reward, yours, ours.
Law. The law is the law is the law.
Certain things must not happen.
is the law is the law
Seeking it, you have opened the way to us.
Erinnyes, Eumenides, Arai, Dirae. The law. There were soft clacking sounds all around, and Harry could see that the women were curling and uncurling their long, thin fingers, showing razor-sharp talons flashing from the ends of their claw-like hands. Some of the talons were bloody.
"I can get revenge?" he whispered, feeling adrenaline course through him as it never had before, even during Quidditch. "I can get back at Malfoy?"
The cloaked women seemed to pause, looking at each other, before training their eyes back on him. Then the sand beneath him shifted and Harry stumbled, almost falling; when he regained his balance, he was faced with only three women again. If you hated a tree, would you destroy its root, or the branch only? Magaera asked.
"Well -- the root, of course," Harry replied, surprised. "Are you saying I should get revenge on Lucius Malfoy too?" That seemed to be what the metaphor was leading up to. But their heads swayed again, this time seeming impatient.
cannot wait, cannot wait a soft voice whispered from somewhere behind him.
must wait. For now said another in reply, and Harry looked around, still seeing nobody but himself and the three women.
he is not ready, not ready said a third voice, and Harry thought he heard a loud sigh. He frowned. "I am ready!" he said loudly, frowning at them. "You're offering me a chance to get back at the Malfoys?"
Would you take it? Tisiphone asked shrewdly. And Harry turned red, remembering his chance to kill Malfoy on the Quidditch pitch, and how he'd foolishly passed it by. Rage boiled in him.
Who gives the Malfoys power? whispered Magaera.
What is the source of their strength? added Alecto, sounding encouraging.
"Money," Harry said without thinking, "influence -- everybody's scared of them just because…" his voice trailed off. "Because they're rich dark wizards, and…and…" The root. The root. What did give the Malfoys the reputation that made them so feared? "…Voldemort," he finished, eyes going wide. "That's what I want most?"
The root of the Malfoys' power. The real reason Draco could go around and smirk like he did with no consequences -- with no justice! The women were nodding now, and Harry was ferociously pleased that he'd got it right at last. Still, he was surprised. "I thought I wanted…to kill Draco. I mean, I do want that. Don't you know what he did to me?"
Is not Voldemort responsible? Magaera asked. For EVERYTHING? And as she spoke, a panoply of images flashed before Harry's eyes…
The flash of green light as his mother was murdered - his earliest memory. Being forced to live with the horrible Dursleys because of that - being starved and shoved into cupboards and never shown a moment's worth of tenderness, of anything good at all. Sirius, his godfather, unjustly imprisoned for Voldemort's crimes, kept away from Harry for years. Cedric Diggory, killed for -- what? The sake of amusement? Because he was there? Severus, writhing and screaming in agony under the curse of Voldemort's wand, his house later burnt to the ground. Severus, taken away from him because of the machinations of the Malfoys - who were the servants of…
"Voldemort," Harry spat, and the women nodded again. Of course they were right. Why hadn't he realised it before? He'd been so blinded by petty, everyday concerns that he'd missed the big picture. Eliminate Voldemort. It would solve everything. How simple.
…Wait. Not simple.
"And how am I supposed to do that?" he asked them, his voice incredulous, demanding. "Albus Dumbledore is the greatest wizard alive and he can't stop him -- he sits down at breakfast every day looking" --a little closer to death-- "tired."
A strange noise rent the air then. To anyone else it might have sounded horrible; it was a chorus of shrieks and howls. Harry, however, recognised it as laughter, and found it as pleasant as he did everything else about his new acquaintances. With the laughter came the familiar whirl of bodies and shapes and he was again surrounded by hundreds of cloaks, hundreds of women, of Curses, if that was to be believed.
Albus Dumbledore is not the most powerful wizard alive, Alecto's voice sounded through the throng. That honour, Harry Potter, if it is an honour, goes to you.
Now it was Harry's turn to laugh, disbelievingly. "You've got to be joking. I'm not that good at school, or anything but Quidditch. Dumbledore's brilliant, and he's about a million years older than me!"
He is clever, agreed one bodiless voice.
Cunning, said another.
He has built a wall. He has built a good strong wall.
It is not strong enough. Not strong enough to contain us.
Nothing is.
And we will break it down and we will hunt and we will feed and there will be justice.
Justice too long denied. From the father to the son we pour a river of blood, our justice.
Nothing is strong enough to contain us.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut as his head began to hurt from the torrent of words. "Wait…stop," he tried, "I don't understand. Wall? What wall? And what are you going to hunt?"
The strange chorus of women again resolved into the three figures of Tisiphone, Magaera and Alecto. Look around you, Harry Potter, they said, in unison and impatiently. Harry looked. The surroundings hadn't changed.
The wall. The wall.
Harry nodded slowly as he squinted at the high black stone wall that surrounded them, from a distance, on all sides. Now that he thought about it, it rather reminded him of pictures he'd seen of the Great Wall of China years ago, postcards Mrs. Figg had on her walls. He'd looked at them frequently to distract himself from all the cat photos. "What about it?" he asked aloud.
The three ladies quivered and made soft snarling sounds. Holds us back, holds us in, Alecto hissed impatiently.
"Holds you in?" Harry asked in surprise. "But…I thought you said I let you in? Does that mean you can't…leave?" Had he somehow trapped these nice women in this red place? How terrible!
The low, shaking movements of their heads again. Holds us all in, Harry Potter, whispered Tisiphone. We are all trapped here. You most of all.
"I'm trapped?" Harry asked, horrified. "H-how?"
Look around you, boy. This is your dream. This…is your mind.
Harry blinked, staring out at the parched and barren landscape. There were no plants, no people apart from him and the ladies, no animals - nothing but red sky, black sand, black walls. "Th-this is my mind?" How could it be? How could his mind be such a terrible, empty place?
This is your sadness and pain and anger, Magaera put in. This is the source of your strength; this is where we make our new home.
But it is limited, Alecto said. Constrained. By the walls. Your power, hemmed in by Dumbledore's walls!
Harry stared at them. "Dumbledore's walls?" he asked. "What do you mean? Professor Dumbledore put these walls -- " …in his mind? That made no sense.
Have you never noticed?Tisiphone whispered. Have you never tingled under your skin…known that you were more than…THIS…she gestured a grey, claw-like hand to indicate Harry's body, …but been held back? Unable to act?
"No! At least, I…I don't think so…I never noticed anything like…" But hadn't he? Hadn't he often felt that he should somehow be better at magic than he was, especially since he'd somehow defeated Voldemort when he was only a baby? Still -- that was a normal enough feeling, wasn't it? Surely loads of people wanted to be more than they really were?
Nothing is normal about you, Harry Potter, breathed Magaera. You are Power. You are our chosen Host.
The chorus of hundreds reappeared. Through you we will wreak our vengeance, take what is due to us, punish for the crime of blood.
Once we break down the walls.
Yes, break down.
Then there is no end to us.
There will be an end to his wickedness.
Down, down, break.
Dumbledore has put up walls to constrain you, to limit you.
But he did not foresee us.
No one could.
And we will break down the walls!
And there will be no limit to us! The last words rose to a howl of joy and Harry felt his whole body goosebump with the thrill of it. If they were right, if there really were walls around his mind, keeping him from being a better wizard…well, really, how considerate of them to help him! And in return all they asked was to stay here, inside his head, with him…that wasn't much to ask at all…
They seemed very kind. And he was very lonely.
"Thank you all so much," he said happily.
The hundred women disappeared, leaving the original three once more. Thank YOU, Harry Potter, said Tisiphone.
Behind him, Harry heard a loud snapping sound. He turned, to see a large crack forming in one of the walls. Red light was shining brilliantly through it.
It has begun, whispered Magaera, and made a series of soft, clicking noises again that sounded happy.
It must be finished, Alecto said, and she rounded on Harry, shoulders hunched and fingers curled into talons. You welcome us, then? You accept our gift?
Revenge, Tisiphone reminded him, as if Harry could have forgotten. Revenge on Voldemort. All your sorrows avenged, Harry Potter.
"Of course I accept it!" Harry said, fists curling as he thought of the Dark Lord, of all the damage Voldemort had wrought. "It's what I want! More than anything!"
The three women froze, and then their blurred features creased into identical smiles. As Harry had thought before, their teeth were very sharp-looking indeed.
Wake now, Harry Potter, urged Magaera. Wake.
Harry's anger faded abruptly in the face of his dismay. "Wait! You're…leaving?"
No. No. We will stay here.
We will speak to you again.
We will wait here, very quietly.
But you must wake now.
Now!
Harry felt the sand underneath his feet beginning to shift, and then to suck -- he could feel it slowly opening under his heels, a great cavernous mouth, dragging him down, sand creeping slowly and grittily up his legs, his chest, under his arms -- he stared at the ladies, terrified, and opened his mouth to scream, to beg them to help him --
-- but then the sand closed over his mouth and his head --
Harry woke up, gasping, mind going in dizzy circles. He was also, for reasons he could not explain, covered in his own come, pyjama bottoms sticky with it. His body was still tingling with the aftershocks that came after a really good orgasm.
But…that hadn't been an erotic dream, had it? The three ladies, while very nice, hadn't been all that attractive. Had they? Their features had been so indistinct! And had there been three of them? Or had there been dozens? Hundreds? He couldn't remember. It was all very fuzzy.
And getting fuzzier. As Harry sat and puzzled, he found that for every moment that passed he remembered his dream less and less. Ladies? What ladies? He had vague, fleeting impressions of what had happened - and as soon as he remembered, the impressions vanished. What had he dreamed while under the influence of the Somniesperus? He'd known a moment ago, but he had somehow…forgotten…
Harry shook his head, irritated and sad. Some birthday present - couldn't even remember his own dreams! Well, he thought in disgust as he looked down at his sticky stomach and thighs, he could guess what it had been about. He'd wanted to dream of Severus…he supposed he had. He'd never had sex with anybody else, after all, and his dream had obviously been an…exciting one.
Harry flumped back down onto his pillow and stared up into the darkness above his bed. Well, that had been disappointing. What good had that potion been, if he couldn't even remember what he'd dreamed, especially when he'd supposedly dreamt about what he'd "most desired"? Ridiculous. It might not even have worked properly…maybe the potion had expired, after all. It was inconceivable that Sever…that Snape should have brewed something incorrectly in the first place.
Or maybe it wasn't, Harry thought rebelliously, aware that his keen disappointment was making him angry. Snape could make mistakes. Big ones, if the Dark Mark on his arm was any bloody indication. So he might as well stop nattering at himself and get a decent night's sleep. He determinedly erased the mess on his stomach with the Abstersius charm and rolled over in the bed, squeezing his eyes shut.
His last thought, as he dropped off to sleep, was strange: Snape had said that the Somniesperus was supposed to take half an hour to take effect, yet his dose had worked instantly.
How odd…
Harry slept very peacefully that night.