Chapter 8
Almathea rushed through the corridors to get to the entrance hall, where she hoped Severus was waiting for her. Sure enough, he was already there, glaring daggers at all the students that happened to pass his way. Friday evening butterbeers at Rosmerta’s had become a bit of a thing between them in the beginning of March 1990. Now, after a few of these outings, they were entering May and exam seasons. This meant a great deal more work for Severus, but it also meant that they’d meet once more every week and Severus would show her how to grade first-year essays, so he’d have a bit more time on his hands. Mostly, it was just Almathea doing spelling and grammar checks for him, in the beginning. After he’d determined she was pretty good at it, he’d give her all the essays for a first pass on language, then he would check the substance of the piece.
It was going very well for both of them; Almathea had never realized how fun it could be to take a red inked quill and murder a first-year essay. She wasn’t particularly cruel, she was sure Severus could be even more so, but there was a significant amount of red ink used every session nonetheless. They’d both made an average dent in Severus’ wine collection as well, so Almathea had started buying wine every two weeks to spare his bottles. He had the good stuff, after all, and if they were going to drink, it may as well be something cheap. They could keep the good stuff for special occasions.
“I need to show you something.” Almathea said smiling. Before he could react, she grabbed Severus’ wrist and pulled him toward an alcove just outside the main entrance to the castle.
“I would appreciate, as I am sure I have mentioned before, to not be dragged from place to place as though my capacity for following you is addled.”
“Sorry, but look.” She conjured the ball in the middle of her palm and set it a distance from them, suspended in the air. “You may want to conjure a shield or something, this is going to be very cool.” She began the usual figure eight motion, her other hand raised in an L figure, as if to stabilise the ball in the air. Severus didn’t conjure the shield straight away, but it only took a few seconds for them to feel the weight of magic coming from the ball. Almathea braced herself for the impact of the bursting energy, just as Severus conjured a shield in front of both of them. The ball burst with a noise similar to a minor explosion; a group of second years that was passing by yelped and ran for the entrance hall.
Almathea turned her excited expression to Severus, who looked just mildly impressed. “Well done.” He said evenly.
“Oh, come on, you could be a bit more excited. I finally finished the second step. Now all I have to do is put the two together and make sure I can faithfully reproduce it whenever I need to.” She was brimming with enthusiasm. “We should celebrate. I’m going to get a shot of firewhiskey once we get to Rosmerta’s.”
“Ah, finally ready to give adult alcohol a try?” Severus smirked.
“We’ll see how it goes. You’d think I’d feel like I’m missing out, but honestly, I enjoy my weekly warm butterbeer.”
“In that case, I may have a suggestion to upgrade your preferences, but still keep you away from the firewhiskey you are so afraid to try.” Severus snorted.
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
“You will simply have to wait and see.”
They were silent until they reached the Three Broomsticks and Rosmerta seated them in their usual spot. Funny how this corner table, hidden below some stairs, had become their spot in such a short time. Severus spoke quietly to Rosmerta and she came back with his usual whiskey and a bottle of mulled mead, as the label said. Almathea’s eyes widened, then she smirked in enthusiasm.
“You’ve known I like sweet drinks all this time and you’ve never thought to suggest mead before? How very Slytherin of you to treat this like a reward for a job well done.” She brought the bottle to her nose first, inhaling the soft honeyed notes of the alcohol inside. “This is going to be lovely; I can just tell.”
“Congratulations on completing the second step toward mastering your magic, Miss Spencer.” Severus said and lifted his glass toward her. Almathea obliged him, inclining her head and feeling her cheeks heat up at the praise.
He wasn’t usually so supportive; his approach was more in goading her with criticism. He’d learned early on that if there was one thing she hated and inflamed her determination, it was criticism. He used his praise sparingly as a consequence, because he felt at this stage she needed the motivation, not the comfort.
“To many more magical achievements ahead.” Almathea added as she touched her bottle to his glass. “Thank you for your support these past few months.” She added as she blushed some more.
“I have done nothing of consequence. All the effort and expertise are yours.” Severus gave Almathea a rare indulgent smile.
Almathea decided not to point out that he’d given her everything by simply being there, as someone whom she could rely on to listen to her and to help her. It felt too close to a declaration of her feelings toward him and they definitely were not ready for that.
***
It was Friday afternoon in the second week of June. NEWTs were ending today, and Severus was busy taking care of hyperventilating Slytherins, so Almathea was entertaining herself in the library with a few books on Transfiguration, cross referencing something she’d discussed with Minerva about organic transfigurations. A house elf popped next to her with a bow and handed her a note. It was a request for a meeting with the headmaster.
It had been some time since Dumbledore had requested a visit or a report from her. Almathea wasn’t lying to herself that he’d forgotten about her, but she had lived in a bit of a bubble. She’d grown complacent, learning chess from Minerva, tending greenhouses with Pomona, reading books and talking to Irma in the library, practicing spells with Filius or having academic discussions with Severus. She’d begun to believe she actually belonged here and she was becoming complacent because of it.
She took a moment to compose herself for what could only be an interrogation. Severus had understood quite early on, thankfully, that she was not going to give anything away, so he’d stopped with the gentle and even not so gentle prodding. But she’d had a few meetings with Dumbledore, the most recent one in April, that had descended into chaos after a few heated questions that she couldn’t answer.
Everything would start off pleasantly enough, with an update on what she was doing, what she was learning, and then questions and confirmations about the past, which sometimes Almathea knew how to answer, and other times didn’t. And then inevitably Dumbledore would try and ask questions about the future. How would Voldemort come back? What was the secret that had stopped him from dying the first time? Should he convene the Order of Phoenix and begin preparing them? Who should he ask to attend? It didn’t matter to him that she had mentioned, several times by now, that there was no point for her to tell him these things, not foremost that she was not allowed to, he always pushed and pressured. He was adamant that they should all be prepared for the eventuality, and he felt it was complacency to just wait for things to unfold.
She could understand, in a sense. It was difficult for her as well to not tell him the things she knew he should know. But right now, at this very moment, the most important piece of the puzzle in the destruction of Voldemort was a nine, soon to be ten-year-old child. Almathea could not in good conscience tell Dumbledore anything, if it meant putting Harry in harm’s way.
She reached the statue of the gargoyle and spoke the password, fizzy pops, to ascend the staircase to Dumbledore’s office. He was waiting for her behind his desk, as usual, so she made her way to the chair on the other side, as all their meetings so far.
“Good evening, headmaster. How has NEWT week treated you?” she smiled at him. “Severus tells me he’s grown more white hairs tending to anxious teenagers that in all the weeks until now.” She smirked as she sat down.
But Dumbledore didn’t answer her, instead panic rose inside her chest. She felt the magic surround her arms, legs and torso just as she relaxed into the chair. She’d read enough about Incarcerous to understand that this was either it, or a variation of it. She decided to not fight the restraints.
“Miss Spencer, I believe the time has come for some honest answers between the two of us.” Dumbledore said, his normally gentle blue gaze like ice chips as he stared at her.
Almathea never got a chance to answer before she felt the soft tendrils of magic again, this time on the outskirts of her mind. She’d expected a Legilimency attack for some time and she’d tried to read books about Occlumency. She still hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask Severus for help in mastering it, but she’d hoped she had more time before Dumbledore cracked and decided to attack. She focused, as best she could, on the defence that she had practiced: songs inside her mind. Earworms, playing over and over, shutting off every other emotion or memory behind them. She focused with all her mental capacity against the onslaught of magic that assaulted her flimsy borders.
It didn’t last long. It couldn’t. She had no expertise to last a lengthy attack, especially from someone as skilled as Dumbledore was. Her final thought, before she lost control of her mind, was that she should have known Occlumency was the priority, and not getting chummy with Severus.
The first memories that assaulted her were quite innocuous, especially considering what Dumbledore was searching for. She was five, getting a doll as big as her for Christmas, excited by the green dresses they were both wearing and the doll’s curly brown locks. She was seven at her sister’s christening, watching her mother nurse her. She was eight, waiting in the snow in the school courtyard because her father had forgotten to pick her up on time. She was eleven, standing between her mother and father, to stop him from hitting her mother any more. She was thirteen, wearing a red skirt, dancing with a boy she liked, him telling her he liked her and wanted to be her boyfriend. She was sixteen, asking the boy she’d liked for over a year if he wanted to be her boyfriend. She was twenty-one, watching her soulmate in her casket, at her wake, crying next to her family and friends.
On and on it went, endless memories that left her screaming inside her mind. It seemed like there was no escaping the onslaught. If Dumbledore would stop for a second, she’d be able to tell him that using Legilimency wasn’t the best idea. Searching for memories that didn’t have an emotional component was not the same as searching for those memories that had impacted her throughout her life. And reading a fantasy book, no matter how much she had enjoyed it, didn’t trump all the other emotional memories she had. Especially Helena. It was killing her to see Helena dead again, after all this time.
And then Dumbledore seemed to latch on to something he found useful. She was seventeen almost, pacing her room in the middle of the night, arguing with the air. She was unsure why he’d latched onto this memory until she realised, she was professing her undying love to Severus. Of course. When she’d first started imagining joining the world of Harry Potter, it was for the sake of her feelings for Severus, an effort to save his life. An effort to make him feel like his life was worthwhile. If there was anything emotional to find in her memories, it was that. After all, she was here, and her love for Severus was as alive as ever before. But it was the only link to this world that he found, and Almathea felt Dumbledore’s frustration as he retreated from her mind.
“This is hopeless.” She heard him mutter.
“I could have told you that.” Alma realised her voice was hoarse, like she’d been screaming on the outside, not just the inside. “I don’t come from the future of this world. I come from the future of the Muggle world, if anything. I don’t even come from this universe; I don’t exist in this universe.”
“Yes, I am beginning to realise that if I want genuine answers, I will have to dig deeper.” Almathea felt her heart beat faster, but Dumbledore turned his back to her and seemed to deflate in his anger toward his failed Legilimency. “Which will not prove practical in the long term.”
“Gee, I’m glad you’ve come to this conclusion now and not after turning my brain to mush.”
“I would never do such a thing.” Dumbledore said turning back to her, and Almathea felt whatever bonds held her to the chair loosen.
“I’m sure the Lestranges and their entourage said the same thing while they were interrogating the Longbottoms hoping to find out if they knew anything about Voldemort’s demise.” Almathea lashed out as she got up from the chair before Dumbledore decided to restrain her again. “It’s nice to know you can be just as ruthless as them when you discover that things don’t go your way.”
Dumbledore seemed to deflate even more at the accusation, his normally gentle eyes clouded over with the pressure of grief. “The possibility of Voldemort’s return and our unpreparedness for it keeps me up endless hours in the night.”
“I know that!” Almathea bit out. “Don’t you think I know that? I think I am just as aware as you are of the horrors Voldemort is capable of and how much damage he can cause. But that doesn’t justify rifling through my mind in a ditch effort to get answers I can’t provide you.” Her hands clenched at her sides. “Nothing justifies that.” She turned toward the door and made to walk out. “I won’t be accepting any more conversations alone with you if this is how they are going to proceed from now on, I hope you realise that. We’ve all got demons we’d much rather not dig up inside our minds, and if I have tact enough to not ask questions about Grindelwald and Ariana, I sure as hell want to be shown the same courtesy and not have to spill all of my grief inside this office.” She exited before Dumbledore had a chance to answer.
By the time she made it to the dungeons, she was already hyperventilating. She reached her quarters, thankfully, before she collapsed against the wall in a heap of pain and tears. Her head was killing her with a splitting headache, but it was the image of Helena that was burned behind her retinas. She could close her eyes and see her clearly lying there. It hurt that she couldn’t focus enough to think about a different memory of her, just to get the image out of her head. It hurt so much that she wasn’t here to comfort her. No one was here to comfort her. She had no one. Dumbledore could do anything he wanted to her and no one would care.
She was insane for thinking she could belong here. She had been lying to herself for months, rewriting her history, playing with wands and pretending like she fit in with all these people who couldn’t give two knuts about her. The only people who had ever cared about her were dead to her now, and she was dead to them. If everyone here knew the truth about her, they’d despise her and condemn her before they came to her rescue.
She figured there was only one thing for it. It was the wizarding world that was so adamant to keep her controlled, so she had to start over, somewhere they couldn’t find her. She lifted herself off the floor and wiped at her eyes slowly, taking big gulping breaths to soothe her emotions. She grabbed her wand, the cloak and shoes, all of which were hers because Una gave them to her. Her eyes motioned to the Floo powder on the mantel and she grabbed a pinch before she could change her mind. She called for Diagon Alley and was consumed by the flames.
***
Severus slid the vial of potion into his pocket and slipped silently from his rooms. It was the middle of July and the castle was at its most quiet, with the children all on holiday and the professors having vacated the premises that day. He made his way to the only inhabitant left, Albus Dumbledore.
He’d pondered the conversation he’d had with Albus after Spencer’s disappearance last month. They’d argued endlessly that night about his use of Legilimency to get information from her, Severus a firm believer in the usefulness of the art in acquiring what was necessary. But in this particular case, Albus’ impatience had served them poorly. Instead of granting them information they’d longed for so long, it made Spencer succumb to the rash decision of leaving the safety of the castle into the Muggle world. Albus was in no way prepared to follow her there and it took a month for the tracking potion to be finished for Severus to now have his chance.
“Good evening, Severus.” Albus said as he soothed a newly burned Fawkes. The small phoenix cooed under his ministrations.
“Albus. I have finished the tracking potion. You said you can provide me with Spencer’s hair to activate it?”
Albus moved to his desk and took a box out of a drawer. He removed a thin hair form inside and Severus unstopped the vial for him to slide it inside. The potion glowed an adequate light blue, meaning it had activated. Now all he needed to do was use it.
“Please remember what we’ve discussed, Severus. One catches more flies with honey than with vinegar.” Dumbledore said sagely. Severus scowled and ignored him. It was bad enough he had to humiliate himself with babysitting an adult, now he had to humour the whims of the headmaster as well. He poured the contents of the vial unto a quill he’d taken from his office. It glowed and Severus felt the magic of a portkey starting as he grabbed it.
He appeared on a busy street somewhere, in the small space between two parked cars. He felt his dark coat catch on the back bumper of one of them and he jumped to extract himself from it. Unfortunately, that managed to place him in the street and a car horn sounded. Severus lifted his head in time to see headlights coming for him. A hand jumped and grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward the side of the road, between the parked cars. His wide dark eyes met green mischievous ones and he inhaled sharply as he tried to get his breathing back in order.
“Careful, professor. You’re not in Kansas anymore.” Almathea smirked up at him.