Chapter 1
"Now, the champions will imbibe their potions!"
Bagman let out a staged chuckle, though his eyes winced in sympathy as the three of them chucked the potions down their unwilling throats. "There you have it! Get comfortable, folks. In twenty minutes exactly, the fifth task will begin!" He took off the headband and added, "You lot all right there?"
"It's disgusting," Owens gritted out.
Delacour nodded, tears in the corners of her eyes.
They both looked at Rigel, who grimaced. "I've actually had worse."
A strange, oscillating sort of nausea overtook her, and she could speak no more.
Madam Pomfrey bustled into the tent with flared nostrils and a glare that could keel over a hippogriff. "I should have been here from the moment they took it. Why did no one summon me?"
Crouch lifted a placating arm. "The tournament organisers are going to monitor—"
"Like hell they will." Pomfrey brandished her wand at Delacour. "Lay down this instant. I need to check your blood pressure. You're going to feel the effects first, I'm afraid. Black, you'd best lay down as well. Try not to move."
Rigel slowly did as she was told, any grateful emotions felt toward the strong-willed Mediwitch almost subsumed by dizziness.
“What's in it?” She asked urgently. She had to make the most of what time she had while alert.
Matheus— when had he gotten so close? —said something about Yohimbe Bark and Ayahuasca that made her bite down on a curse.
A double dose could be fatal.
She set her magic to metabolising the poison one area at a time. Vertigo had begun to set in. Rigel focused her magic toward her digestive system first, clearing the rest of the draught from her stomach and intestines before it could be absorbed further. After that, she turned to the long, slow process of sweeping her other systems, starting with the heart— the palpitations would be much too dangerous, when she physically exerted herself.
Halfway through, her vision swam, body shaking uncontrollably, and Rigel stopped using her magic in favour of setting her mind to the task of breathing. It was as though the air was robbed of oxygen, and she was a fish removed from her territory besides. She gasped and wheezed and choked, but felt no better than before.
She was in a dark alley, choking, pressed up against a wall by a murderer whose knife flitted a finger's breadth away from her throat. She was going the same way as the man in the blue vest—
A fuzzy, overwhelming haze came over her.
A jewel turned to face her, scorching heat invading her mind, numbing her senses. She didn't know anything. Who was she? What had she meant to do? Only the jewel and its words mattered.
It felt as though Rigel had scarcely closed her eyes that she was being shaken awake.
She forced magic into her limbs to stabilise them, and it sluggishly obeyed. Rigel slowly swung her feet over the edge of the cot. Her vision swam, then sunk, and for a brief moment she saw nothing. She toppled over. A man— was that Barty Crouch Jr.? —came closer as if to help, and she made a dismissive gesture that looked more like an aborted call for aid.
She didn't want him anywhere near her, but somehow she was leaning over, and he was dragging most of her weight while she tried to talk her legs into moving.
By the time they made it out of the tent, her slow acting magic had been pumped into her limbs enough to support her, and she stumbled away from him and toward the monstrosity on the field.
Crouch was saying something to her, but it might as well have been gobbledygook for how much she understood it. There was another voice, though, calling her from afar and yet so close.
The thought arose with some difficulty. Dom?
That name meant something to her, didn't it?
“If you can help me,” Rigel said, not sure who she was talking to, trying not to slur the words, “then just do it! Take whatever you need.”
The voice paused, then seeming to give up on complexity, started an annoying chant in her head.
One time out of five, the simple words would reach her.
Climb. Climb!
Rigel's head whipped upwards. The tower looked so tall. She should just sleep.
CLIMB.
Slowly, with leaden arms, she pulled herself up one rung.
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SS SS SS
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Rigel turned a lost gaze to open air for what had to be the fifth time in a minute, and Severus scowled at the mirror. Riddle had gone entirely too far.
How dare he? Had he forgotten what Rigel had been through, last spring? Had he no clue what this poorly disguised attempt at testing his recovery could do to the boy?
He knew. He knew, and still he had dared.
Severus turned his thoughts away from quiet murder to the boy that was now arguing with air.
He kept repeating one word, and Severus tried to catch it in the mirror.
Gape? Ape? The boy froze, a silent tear streaking down his face.
Could it be…?
Severus had no clue what to make of his apprentice calling his name, except that it made staying still a lot harder. His nails, always so well-trimmed and neat, had somehow managed to make small, crescent-shaped indents in his palms.
The boy returned to his slow, tired climbing, with half his earlier energy.
What in Morgana's name had Mr. Sousa put in that draught? And how, if Rigel had had his square share of twenty minutes, was he this terribly affected? He had seen the boy during his admittedly unnerving practices; his skill at purging poison was not to be taken lightly.
The boy heaved himself up on a platform, and lied down.
Severus froze. If there was any part of Rigel that had retained sense, he shouldn't have been able to do that. His Vow should have urged him to give the task his all until he self-destructed. It was part of the reason Severus had been so against the Unbreakable Vow. He had his own share of unpleasant… experiences with such things.
The mirror zoomed in on Rigel's expression, and Severus had to force himself to meet his agony-filled gaze.
That sort of haunt…
The boy could be reliving nothing other than his time underground.
“I think… I'm dying.”
The words rose, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind, all the more painful for the fact that he had that memory suppressed. Too raw, too sharp. He would never see Rigel like that again.
He stood without his conscious input.
If Rigel didn't move within the next minute, Severus would rush him to medical attention, tournament rules be damned. He took a second to curse that it was Fawkes the pheonix's burning day.
Albus’ hand squeezed his in silent warning. He was catching attention.
Severus shot him a look that frankly said he didn't care.
But Rigel moved. Slowly, trembling, he pushed himself up, and Severus couldn't place the dead look in his eyes. His body was moving as though on autopilot, listening to a command with no choice.
Stiffly, he moved up a rung, then two.
And the torture kept on.
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HP HP HP
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There was no way to go but up. Her gloves gripped each bar as quickly as possible, her body knowing instinctively that if she caught hold of something, they would keep her anchored.
The silvery rungs floated like thestrals in her vision, not quite there yet taunting at every twist. Rigel reached for the next rung, and missed. Her legs did not support her by latching on to purchasable ground; instead, they hung loose and limp, seeming to give up on climbing altogether. Her left arm strained as it took on the weight of her whole body.
The wind buffeted her, and Rigel's arm hurt.
The gloves didn't let her slip, but by Merlin it hurt.
No no no— no more hurt. Never again.
She let go.
There was some screaming in the distance, but Rigel whipped her head around awkwardly even as she flew with the wind—
She hissed softly as her neck voiced its objection to the movement, apparently content to remain resting against Snape's overcoat, but she was able to lull her head backwards enough to see Snape flick his eyes down at her face, assessing.
Then the platform below her caught her, and what little air Rigel had left her lungs. She couldn't breathe, and dark spots clouded her vision. She was going to die, die—
Death…Rigel's mind was telling her something about death. She knew she was going to die, though—didn't need her mind to tell her that. As soon as Riddle's construct possessed her, she was as good…as…oh. Yes, she thought, of course. Death is the only answer.
Rigel let out a laugh. She didn't even have to do anything this time. She just had to close her eyes. She could finally
r e s t .
WAKE UP!
Her eyelids plucked themselves open painfully, and she let out a soft moan. Why wouldn't the voice let her rest? She was so, so tired. She'd die anyway…
You are an idiot , Rigel Black. The voice said, somehow fond, exasperated and angry, But I've managed to undo some of the damage, so you should at least be able to hear me. GET UP.
You need to climb. No medical help is coming before then, and even I can't save you if your heart gives out.
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SS SS SS
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He didn't know how the boy had done it. When he fell onto that platform from a good twenty feet, Severus had thought him done for. The mirrors had cruelly zoomed in once more, showcasing the child's suffering to all and sundry like this was a sick sort of game, and Severus had watched with stuttering breath as the boy had gone limp.
The stadium had taken a collective gasp, interspersed with more than a few screams, but Severus could only think of the boy and his adamant wish to be as far away from the tournament as possible. Should Severus have whisked him away, before he could've capitulated to this awful farce? It was little more than a fantasy, he knew, but the horror enveloping him encouraged no rationality.
And yet the boy moved once more. Just like before, he kept on. Pace agonisingly slow and erratic, he stopped about three more times on the way to the top, but did not halt for long. His concern for his protégé gave way to something like awe. Was this the boy's true might? Severus had known, on some level, that the boy was not one to ever give up, but this matter took it to another level.
It was as though if even the smallest burst of energy remained in the boy, more miniscule than any Vow could ever identify, he would see nothing but his goal.
Somehow, the boy reached the top, and it was only then that Severus deigned to look at the other mirrors for the briefest of moments. The other champions were only a few rungs behind.
Rigel was staring helplessly at the barrier, the most pitiable kind of sadness in his eyes.
And then, just as suddenly, he shook himself out of it and palmed a knife. And with Severus’ sharp intake of breath, he cut himself.
Blood, slow and trickling, dripped onto the barrier, and it dissolved. Rigel gripped the white flag, but it was evident his strength, however miniscule it had been in the first place, was abandoning him. Magic buffeted in all directions, and the boy stumbled towards the edge—
Severus’ heart lurched.
— and over, out into the wind.
Magic seemed to embrace him on his way down, slowing his descent, and Severus was there in time to catch him and lower him to the ground.
“Rigel,” he said, shaking the boy gently, “open your eyes, boy.”
Said eyes remained firmly shut. Severus reinforced his Occlumency and firmly shut out any panic. Nothing was going to happen to the boy.
Poppy came rushing, medicinal potions and wand in hand.
She immediately spelled three of the former into the boy's stomach, then raised her wand.
Whatever spell she was about to cast, she was interrupted.
“No,” the boy's voice was faint, and his eyes hadn't opened. “No. Charm. Diag- no. Charm. No... mindscape, Ma-dam.”
Poppy flinched with her whole frame.
“I— I need to cast a diagnostic charm,” she sounded like she was about to cry, and Severus's face whipped up in alarm. Poppy was one of the strongest witches he knew.
“Then do it. ” He didn't understand.
“I can't. He needs to allow me to.” A silent tear trickled down her face.
“ Rigel ,” Severus turned his attention back to the boy, a sick feeling crawling up his throat, “What is the meaning of this, boy? You require assistance.”
The boy did not respond, and the convulsions grew worse.
‘Oh Merlin— Rigel!” Draco's shout reached him, airy as though he were running, and something about the despair in it made this real. A true, gripping fear nestled near Severus’ blackened heart.
No.
Nothing was going to happen to the boy.
Poppy had taken to clearing the poison from the boy's body, but without the sort of knowledge diagnostics provided, the effect was mitigating at best.
The boy's convulsions didn't stop.
Severus remembered some of his earlier studies, and though he doubted their effectiveness now, he conjured a soft pillow and rested the boy's head. He loosened the boy's tie and robes. He rolled the boy onto his side to help him breathe.
“I planned to show you an old recipe book of mine, you know,” Severus said, not even sure of what he was saying, “So don't— you said you'd haunt me if you died without learning how to freebrew. Your lessons aren't over. Rigel. ” He traced circles on the boy's palm. “Wake up. Please .”
Other healers had joined Poppy, and what one alone could not do seemed to give way with the aid of others. The boy's convulsions lapsed into trembling.
“The Draught's not flushed out,” Poppy said to him, when he looked at her, “But we've expunged the worst from his vitals, I think. It's hard to confirm without determining spells, and we need the boy's permission for that. I've done what I could based on feeling alone.”
“A healing coma might do him good,” another healer said to Pomfrey, a thoughtful frown on his face. “We can transport him afterwards.”
Poppy bit her lip, and Severus knew the reason for her hesitation. Healing comas were no pleasant thing; they burned your body with a magic induced fever that was designed to make your magic react violently. The fever ebbed away afterwards, or at least it was supposed to, and your magic attacked what was wrong with the body with renewed fervour instead.
It was unreliable, and used only when healers were sure the alternative was worse.
If Rigel's vitals were still saturated with the drought… Severus' mind shuddered to a halt. There was no going there.
Nothing was going to happen to the—
Without knowing it, he was nodding slowly, and once the healers had cast the requisite charms, he lifted the boy in his arms. In a moment's decision, he made for the infirmary rather than the tent. It was better warded, had more facilities, and while they were there, at least, Severus expected there to be less intervention.
A thought bloomed in the corner of his mind as he walked, Poppy by his side.
“Rigel practised purging poison from his body in front of me,” His hands shook, the boy weak and comatose in his arms.
Poppy's rage melted into concern, “Are you alright, Severus? Do you need a Calming Drought, perhaps?”
Severus shook his head impatiently, “I mean to say that the boy wanted me to be there as surety in case one of his practices went wrong.”
Poppy's eyes lit with understanding, and the idea grew on Severus. He wasn't sure he could be talked out of doing it, now.
“He must have thought it okay for you to heal him, then. And naturally, you'd need a diagnostic charm to…” She nodded fiercely, “That ought to be enough, Severus. You can try once we reach the hospital wing.”
It didn't take them long, with Severus' long strides and the employment of two shortcut passageways.
The boy was burning up as Severus laid him on the bed.
"You'll need to heal his mindscape first," Poppy said, eyes lifting from the child to fixate on him, "Fifteen minutes into the coma and it won't be safe for you to be in his mindscape. I'll wake you."
Severus took a calming breath, and she spoke one last bit of advice, “Remember, you'll want to clear it away from the heart of his core in his mindscape, first. Seal it safe from the drought. That's the most important.”
Severus nodded, and palmed his wand.
“Legilimens.”
Rigel's shields gave way like paper, and surprise almost caused Severus to pull away. He had felt the boy's Occlumency shields before the task, strong as ever. That this was their current state… concern coursed through him like a shot of adrenaline.
Past the mists, Severus’ avatar sucked in a breath. The boy's mindscape was ravaged .
Bright, looming spores spread everywhere like flames, devouring the boy's every apparition with frightening intensity.
He would have almost missed it had the bubble not sparked in a kind of crazed frenzy.
There, in the midst of an assault from the ever-growing pours, shined a circular shield much like a Fortis. Within it were two figures.
One lay collapsed on the ground, bearing the visage of his student. The other…
The other resembled a colossal cheetah, claws like knives and teeth enough to rip through anything in his path, though it seemed the sheer number of spores had managed to have him overwhelmed.
He turned, just a fraction of an inch, and Severus caught his eyes.
They were ruby red.