Hello, Hat
Severus has to hold his breath. He has to actually focus on holding it so he doesn’t give in to the mad urge to laugh at this entire situation, but to be fair, he’s not the only one who seems to be doing it.
“Who’s a good spell?” Jacklyn croons, grinning and backing toward the doorway that’s now taking up half the wall and leading straight to the small henge on the eastern side of the castle. “That’s right, it’s you!” She cheers, clapping her hands and Severus’ bound circle wriggles and creeps its way forward after her, like its trying to catch up with her—
“That shouldn’t even work,” Minerva points out, looking somewhat impressed, but her eyes are shiny with amusement at the girl’s exuberance. “I was sure we’d have to break your spell and physically haul him outside.”
“As did I,” Filius agrees, openly grinning. “If there’s anything I’m sure of today, it’s that she’ll keep us all on our toes.”
”And to expect the unexpected,” Severus agrees, then goes back to holding his breath when the girl cheers again. She’s utterly ridiculous.
Snape stares at the page and sucks in a slow breath.
“Which ingredients?” I ask quietly.
Snape’s lips thin, but his eyes don’t leave the page when he answers. “The tear of a phoenix.”
The others don’t react straight off because (and I can only agree) stripping a soul is extreme, even if I'd been leaning that direction already. I was more than prepared to support whatever plan they'd thought up that didn't include a death, temporary or otherwise. But phoenix tears— that’s pretty fucking rare and unique.
“No.”
McGonagall’s voice is cast-iron solid.
“We can’t!” Flitwick exclaims, but his voice is more begging as he looks to both McGonagall and Snape, then finally to me. Then his lips go tight and he shakes his head.
Snape, though, looks almost tortured, his already pale skin turning a bit pasty as he re-reads, then turns to stare at the chunk of mystical stone that I’d set atop the newspaper on the center of the desk.
“It... could work,” Snape rasps quietly, but doesn’t sound like he totally believes it. Or doesn't want to believe it.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, we’re not killing him, Severus!” McGonagall explodes, tiny red and orange sparks shooting from her fingertips in her fury as she storms toward the door, agitated, then back again to stare him down like she can force compliance with her anger alone. Snape remains where he stands, perfectly still. “You owe him, Severus, more than—“
“I know!” He half-shouts back with enough emotional emphasis to have McGonagall freeze with surprise, then he stills with held breath and eyes shut before he slowly exhales, tension visibly draining away and somehow has McGonagall's reflexively doing the same. “I know,” he says again, quieter, only just managing to meet her eyes. “Realistically, any of us would do it if it were the choice between our own lives and letting something that destructive and deadly free and unleashed on the world. Do you think that Albus would offer less than we’d be willing to sacrifice?”
Flitwick buries his face in his hands, slumping in his seat with a watery-sounding groan. “He’d give his life, Minerva,” he mutters, face still hidden. “If it were the only choice.” He raises his head to stare at her pale, suddenly haggard-looking face with his own tortured-looking expression. “And... there’s an antidote? Which means it’s not permanent.”
McGonagall, still gaping with shock, finally turns to me and looks, ironically, murderous. “And you? You, who caused this? What do you have to say?”
I sort of want to throw up in the face of that accusing expression, but now all three are looking at me for some sort of reassurance or counter argument, and I've only got one to give.
"I can take the demon back into myself."
That has all three of them pausing with surprise and McGonagall fish-mouthing like she can't believe I'd suggest it.
"You're right," I tell her honestly, "Fate and I caused this, and it's actually the simplest solution--"
My words are cut off by a near-shrieking sound of stone grating against stone and the groaning of wood and metal locks and hinges dragging against each other in protest while all three professors flinch at the castle’s agitated, high pitch cacophony.
"Enough," I grate out quietly, my voice heavy with magic and power, glaring lightly at the ceiling and instantly, the castle goes quiet and the exchange has the others staring at me with surprise. "Your objection is noted," I add softly, brushing my fingers down the wall in apology, then look up at the three still staring at me, now looking newly worried. "Had the demon stayed with me, my magic would have burned it out by now," I explain, crossing my arms and leaning into the wall. "The issue isn't so much my ability as it is that I've gone the ether equivalent of a month or more without food or actual sleep and unconscious doesn't count. I'm not tapped out yet, but I'm close--"
"You can't be serious," McGonagall rasps, shaking her head. "No one can--"
"I can and have," I cut in, lifting my chin and staring her down with enough 'serious' in my expression to have her lips snapping shut. "I'm aware that I currently look like I've got one foot in the grave, but when Fate chooses it's assistants, it doesn't go for the light list; it chooses with the 'go for broke or go home' attitude, which means I'm a damn lot tougher than I look, even now. I can do it, but... it will be a close call," I confess.
"And the castle clearly doesn't want you to," Snape grits out, looking furious when he turns back to McGonagall, who's now looking at me with something that might be guilt and just shakes her head at him, wordless.
"The castle doesn't dictate my actions," I counter. "Nor do any of you. But if there's any alternative solution to temporarily stripping your friend's soul, then I'm it."
So busy trading appalled and upset glances with each other, none of them expects the near-musical screech from the door as a bird, huge and colorful, like a living flame, swoops in through the open door, circles the room once, then twice before aiming for me. I squeak, alarmed, and duck just in time to be clobbered by a large, brown and gray bundle that I catch on reflex. Then the bird (holy hell it’s an actual phoenix) settles on the back of a stool next to the circle where it’s apparent companion lay, trapped in slow time.
We all stare at the bird in silence before McGonagall deflates with a murmured “Fawkes” and stumbles over to her own vacated seat. It takes a few seconds to realize everyone’s now watching me. Or, more pointedly, staring at the bundle I’m still gripping. It still takes me a minute to really see it.
“Offff course it’d be you,” I mumble, a wavering smile flitting there and gone as I turn it in my hands. “Hello, Hat.”
The Sorting Hat, a bit more rumpled, patched and threadbare than last I’d seen it, does nothing at first. Then it trembles and straightens, fabric-mouth parting to say, simply:
“Put.
"Me.
"On.”
My stomach sinks, but I close my eyes and do as it says. I'm pretty sure it’s literally the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done in the presence of witnesses, because I have a terrible feeling there’s more to this conversation than simply picking which house I might belong to now.
“Back yet again, eh?” The hat mumbles and then there’s a lightning flash of images, there and gone in a blink, of my and Wyn's first arrival here, the dark revelations uncovered while we helped build a legacy, and even our private apartments where the hat would often sneak off to so our conversations could continue and on and on. A life, short though it was, living here until it all went wrong.
But Godric was wearing the hat that final night, shoulder to shoulder with the other Founders, surrounded by allies and enemies alike and all with the singular focus of putting a stop to the chaotic nightmare that those same Founders had wrought for us all. I was just the delivery system.
And then it’s my turn, as conversations go, to speak with memory, to show the hat the rest. Not quite lightning fast, but quick, Gawyn on the field, approaching, eyes soulful and pleading, then a flash of sickly green, stunned, shocked, falling, falling.
Gone.
And I knelt there in the mud with more power at my fingertips than all the collective, active power left in the northern hemisphere, yet helpless to undo what I’d done and for the first time in my life, lost and utterly alone in my grief. There was only one plea I had left to wield. I called on fate with everything in my half-mad, agonized heart... And I made a deal.
“Oh, child,” the hat murmurs, sad and apologetic. “‘Twasn’t all on you, you know. Wasn’t you who lit that match, nor the matches that followed. They should’ve known better— well. They did know better. And your suffering was great. As was your penance. You have learned and conquered, sacrificed and suffered.
“Crafty, determined and ambitious as always is the Slytherin in you. Even now, your bravery and true-heartedness astounds me, as it would Gryffindor. Your strength of mind has grown and expanded with time and understanding; Ravenclaw would be impressed. And you’ve never, not once, complained of the burdens you’ve inherited and taken the task of rectifying again and again; Hufflepuff would be proud.
“More so now than the child you were, you have met the challenge of becoming as great now as the lost girl then was terrible. And for that, finally, I can welcome you home.”
It’s like a punch to the gut (or to the soul) hearing that, and by the curious looks on the professor's faces, it was only me who’d heard it. But going by their faces, they certainly hear the hat’s final judgment.
“Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Hufflepuff.” The professors all jerk in place, stunned. “Welcome home, Mistress," the hat adds, somber and proud.
I take off the hat, my hands still trembling. “Thanks? But I won’t be staying," I choke out. "You know I can’t,” I add in a mumble, setting it on the desk, but it quirks up it’s leathery lip.
“Not forever, no,” it agrees. “It’s a school, not a prison.” (I can't help wondering if that's not where I'll be heading after I've fixed what I can, regardless.) (If they can find a prison strong enough to hold me, that is.)
“You can’t be all four!” McGonagall exclaims, but doesn’t look like she actually believes that. Besides, is the hat ever wrong?
“Why...” Flitwick asks, voice soft but serious, “did it call you Mistress?”
“That... is a part of the really sad and terrible story I’m apparently not allowed to talk about,” I sigh out, eyeing the hat. “I can see that spell in the air, old as it is. Am I reading it wrong?”
“Oh no!” The hat says cheerfully, then wriggle-hops until it’s facing the others, too. “It’s a tale untold, sadly. Very few can speak of it. Most quite literally can’t. And before anyone asks, no, it’s not something that can be forcibly undone, not with the magics of the world as they are now.”
It makes me wonder if the 'magics of the world' include me yet. I'm pretty sure they could, but that would make the hat a liar and that's one thing it absolutely cannot be.
Flitwick studies the hat, then studies me a bit longer. “Do you intend to run the castle? As it’s mistress?”
I scoff, but it’s a light, uncomfortable scoff. “I think the castle has proven it’s more than capable of running itself. Like anyone living here, I can possibly encourage something to happen, but not force it without an emergency situation. It’s not my place to.”
The hat grunts, like it wants to disagree, but it’s ‘eye’ wrinkles in the fabric only give me the side eye, then agrees, though reluctantly. “Free will and all that,” it remarks. I nod my agreement back.
Flitwick looks like he’s got a hundred more questions, but a musical humming from the phoenix sounds like it’s reminding us all there’s a reason it’s still there.
"So there's a decision to be made--" I murmur, but quickly cut off.
"There's really not," the hat snaps, looking amazingly grumpy (for a hat) and I scowl back but don't manage to do more than open my mouth again before it continues. "I was just in your head and know exactly how much energy you've got left. And it's not enough. You'd be unconscious again before it's burned out enough and that would just give it room to flee."
"If I'm circle-bound--" I try, but nope.
"There's none that can hold you and you know it," the hat huffs. "You'd give that leech free reign with all your abilities?"
.... Damnit.
"No," I grind out quietly through my teeth and huff in frustration, not totally missing the almost relieved looks on the others' faces.
McGonagall sucks in a shaky-sounding breath. “So we’re killing our headmaster, then?”
The hat turns to her, stiffening. “Of course not, Minerva,” it declares and for a second, her face lights with hope. “You’re simply taking out his soul, banishing that foul, famished... thing back to the ether, putting the soul back in and letting Fawkes be a fiery, tearful hero.” McGonagall’s face tightens, but she nods. “Minerva,” the hat says, almost chiding, “with all the power and knowledge we’ve all, and I include both myself and the castle, accrued, do you think any of us wouldn’t do everything in our power to stop something that will, not can but will, destroy everything and everyone you’ve ever cared for? Do you think Albus wouldn't give all he has?”
Finally, her face falls, but she straightens a second later. “No,” she admits. “No, of course he'd-- He'd give everything,” she admits quietly, then turns to Snape and nods curtly. “So, lead on, Professor. What do we do?”
***
The reversal potion / antidote takes all of twenty minutes to make, easy and done.
It takes a while for the soul-removing potion portion of the spell to steep and even longer to first bicker over the ingredients with Snape because he swears there’s been ‘improved’ methods of mixing and crushing and re-growing and— well. Everything that’s meant to go into the pot, basically. Problem being, quite a few of his suggested replacements have the potential to interfere with the portal and I tell him as much.
“This potion doesn’t even go to the portal,” Snape sighs, looking grumpy and weary. “It’s meant for the obsidian. There will be a full minute difference between absorption and the portal thinning.”
“Your headmaster has a lot of personal magic at hand. And by a lot, I’m saying you got a bowl of broth and he got everything else in the caldron,” I shrug. “For him, it will activate faster.”
“How could you possibly know who has what amount of personal magic?” He snaps, agitated.
“Because I can see and hear and read magic from the air, the elements-- from the castle, from those in it. It’s continually changing, cresting and ebbing in time and in tune with the planet. It’s likely a forgotten art and with good reason because making a drastically original spell, something brand new, more often than not kills whoever’s attempting it because they couldn’t attempt it well. In order to give magic a task by wand or by hand, at the time of creation, it’s necessary to view all the possible and even impossible nuances in the making," I explain patiently.
"Some mages spend entire lives crafting a single, unique spell to it’s probable perfection only to have it flop and fail at the last second because, oops? They didn’t take solar flares or geomagnetic byways into account and now never will because they just blew up themselves and everyone else in town,” I continue as seriously as I can and now the poor man looks a little crestfallen, like he’d been certain there was no good reasons behind my reasoning. “Most people can’t be trained to see and decipher magic. Either you can or you can’t. But this is Beakerstein’s work, yes? If he was like the other two versions of him I’ve met, he could both see and read it and still built it this way for a reason.
“If this potion is to work at all, it’s best to keep as close to the written instructions as we can. Especially one from Beakerstein. He was as picky and precise as he was arrogant and snobby, but his potions never failed, to the best of my knowledge,” I murmur softly, squinting into the jar of cayden snails for the perfect size. Too small and we’d need two and that’s too much material than can be reasonably used. I finally find the perfect one hiding shyly at the bottom of the jar and murmur to it soothingly as I coax it onto my finger. “Hey little guy, careful there. It’s a long way down to the floor,” I warn gently. “And it’s time for a bigger shell, buddy. You’ve nearly outgrown this one.”
I waggle my fingers in a come hither motion at Snape’s office door until a small, open box of purified shells in varying sizes swoops out and lands on the desk and slides neatly to a stop at my elbow.
“Alllllright, let’s see if we can find you a good one, Goldilocks. Not too big, not too small.” It’s not until I’m nudging the snail into its new home for inspection that I realize I’m being stared at and blink around to see all three professors are giving me odd looks, though it’s Flitwick who’s smiling gently. “What?” I demand, shrugging while my ears go hot. “Every life is precious, big or small. I’m not going to destroy one when it’s not necessary. Senseless death is... y'know. Senseless.”
“It’s a snail,” McGonagall protests, sounding somewhat impatient.
“It’s also a soul,” I counter softly, my eyes returning to the tiny snail as it pokes its head out, tiny little antennae waving with excitement and satisfaction, the new shell already beginning to glimmer with the added magic. “Glad you like it,” I whisper and conjure up a sweet apple leaf for he and his tiny friends to munch on when I tuck it back into the jar and set it aside, now focusing on the used, still-glistening shell. “Also? Dry land pearls and the making of them is kinda nifty, if you think about it.”
“How,” Snape asks softly, like he’s trying not to overly distract me while I dismantle the shell to get to the cayden pearl (and it's glittery cushioning within), “are you doing any of that without a wand?”
“Wands are directive tools designed to enhance and simplify working magics, especially finite magics,” I murmur, running my fingernail like a magical laser around the barest edge of the shell’s midline and then tap it once. It falls into two, perfect pieces, the pearl a glowing purple spot no larger than a corn kernel within the shell’s golden, shimmering insides and Flitwick exclaims with interest, hopping onto the stool next to me and leaning in. “Since I can see and read magical energy already, there’s little I’d need a wand for,” I finish, stretching my neck.
“Oh my,” Flitwick whispers, delighted. “I’ve never seen that shade before. Aren’t they usually blue, Severus?”
“Yes,” he breathes out, leaning close. “The closer to purple, the better,” he murmurs. “You chose that one for the magic in it?” He asks, eyebrows high.
“Well... yes and no. There's a few enhanced snails in there, yes,” I admit as I scoop out the pearl and tip it onto the silver dish set off to the side, then tug the shell halves a bit closer, the golden slime sparkling with its own light. “But, that little one was also the perfect size. He's also shy and likes to spend time away from the others. But despite mostly being a loner, he's the happiest snail in there. And happy cayden snails make the best pearls, so don’t squander that one. But the best pearls require the best of the best slimy dust and thaaaat’s,” I murmur, my sterling silver needle spin-collecting the glimmering slime onto the pinhead from first one shell half, then the other, “what we have now,” I finish, sitting straight with a sigh and offer the pin to Snape who looks almost happy to receive it.
“Fascinating,” he breathes out, peering at the glittery drop from an inch away. “Definitely more potent,” he agrees, then dunks the droplet into the caldron and the mixture swirls gold, shimmering brightly. Snape's eyebrows pop up. “More than I’d expected from such a small snail.”
“Size isn’t everything,” I assure him, then slide off the stool with a groan to stretch my back out again as my body finally begins to give in to the stress of the last few days. “And this is a good example of why to focus as much on the snail as its shell— if it can perfect a pearl once, it can do it again.”
“Ohh!” Flitwick exclaims, peering into the cauldron, his large ears almost wiggling with excitement. “Almost makes me wish I’d gone for potions rather than charms,” he says with a grin.
“Well, it’s the binding agent for your headmaster’s soul while it’s resting in the stone, no matter how temporarily. Taking an extra five minutes to make it right ought to be warranted, yes? I’d hate to think he’s losing fond memories because of leftover residue that didn’t peel off like it should. My Granmama always said if you can only do it once—“
“Best do it and do it right,” McGonagall finishes, now with a sparkle of approval in her eye. “Is this what you did in your last... er, reality? Potions?”
I groan, a little unhappily and drop back onto my stool. “I wish, but no, unfortunately. With the exception of planet-wide, genetic shifters, which could be scientifically explained, my most recent reality had nature-based, elemental magics only, magics anyone with sense could do with enough practice, but... few people actually believed in magic of any kind. For most, magic was just a word that Disney practically monopolized as purely make-believe to give little kids hope and a bit of joy.” I finish it softly because... well, I was one of those children. Only, I did believe, perhaps too much since my first four year old temper tantrum sparked a magnitude 7.2 earthquake that I’ve never forgiven myself for. So many people hurt. So many dead. (And fate still swears it would've happened anyway, regardless.) (I'm still not sure I believe that.)
“And the elements aren’t to be tampered with when there’s no magical backup to undo any potential damage.” I shrug and hope that’s enough explanation.
“A world without magic? That sounds dismal,” Flitwick mumbles. “Well, you’re here now,” he says consolingly. “May as well make the best of it,” he adds, nodding smartly. “So what are your plans for the immediate future, young lady?”
I offer him a lopsided smile. “Still not as young as I look,” I remind him.
“Hmph,” he counters, squinting at me. “Are you older than 62?"
I playfully squint right back. “In this lifetime? No,” I admit.
“Then you’re still younger than me, young lady.” His ears raise again with a playfully smug air and I chuff a half smile.
”Fixing fates is usually a full time job, but I wouldn’t say no to continuing my last job, which is arguably one of the best, anywhere.” At Flitwick’s curious look, I confess. “Professional student.”
”Professional—“ McGonagall repeats, eyebrows high.
”Student?” Flitwick finishes, mirroring her expression.
I grin and nod, giving the cauldron a curious sniff to see how far along it is and pretend not to see Snape subtly following suit while I turn back to Flitwick. “Even muggle education is educational and there are some universities who will offer full rides and amenities like room, board, canteen meal plans and even basic living expenses just to have a student who not only scores well but consistently across several majors. It lifts accreditation very quickly and most universities, even well-known ones, are always eager for the additional points.”
”So you were getting paid to learn?” McGonagall concludes, looking impressed.
”Since I was working on my fifth PHD, I was getting paid very, very well to learn,” I agree with a gleeful smile.
”Fifth?” Snape repeats, squinting at me.
”I started uni early,” I add with a half shrug. “High school bored me, so I tested out at fourteen.”
”Well, with those skills, the opportunities for furthering your education now—“ Flitwick begins, but is quickly interrupted.
“Perhaps we can let this discussion wait until the Headmaster is able to offer opinions as well?” Snape cuts in a bit impatiently. “The potion’s nearly done.”
“Finally,” McGonagall sighs. “And which of us will be opening the portal? And how? Do we have options for that?”
“I’ll be opening it,” I announce, once again striding slowly around the time tamper circle. “If I somehow get sucked into the ether, nothing of this world will change much. If it’s one of you, the domino-butterfly effect could set off an apocalypse in a hundred years. If you lose me, you won’t be losing anything,” I assure her, shrugging.
It takes me another turn around to realize everyone’s staring again. I stop, eyes swiveling around. “What?”
“You think so little of your own life?” McGonagall exclaims, aghast.
“Nooooo?” I argue. Then, I replay my own words back to myself and see how they might’ve taken that all wrong, I huff a sigh and try again, waving off their worries. “Not like that, no. But this is a logic issue, not a personal issue. You were all born into this reality in this specific timeline. You all have a future here, beyond today and I’d rather not risk undoing this reality’s future timeline simply because you didn’t want the woman who looks like a child to get hurt.
"I, on the other hand, was born in this body I’m in now, in a different reality and a different timeline and unlike you three, I’ve steered my own way through the ether before. Me going is the most logical course, because even if I can’t get back on my own, which I can, Fate will drop me back here anyway to do what needs doing. Not to mention, my blood is simply stronger for this sort of portal work.”
“Wait— blood? Blood magic?!” Flitwick exclaims, eyes bulging and looking ill. “No, that’s just—“
“Just exactly what’s needed to open and seal the portal with the type of haste needed to keep your friend from gross amounts of both spiritual and magical mutilation," I cut in, gentle but serious. "I dislike blood magic as much as you, I suspect, but I’ll risk it to save the man who, intentionally or not, has already saved me.”
Snape looks uncomfortably close to objecting... but manages not to. Instead, he dunks the soul obsidian into the cauldron, tamps the flame beneath and lets the stone absorb every last drop before he peers in, lips parting with a silent ‘Oh’.
Without further explanation, he slowly and carefully lifts the stone back out to set on the table and even Fawkes gives a soft, musical exclamation at the sight.
“Oooooooh,” we all chorus quietly with contented sighs and it’s mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, like glittering nebulas and the northern lights all swirled into one; like a whole galaxy shrunk down and stuffed within.
“Wow,” I breathe out. “That is— wow.”
“It’s beautiful,” Flitwick whispers, nodding, eyes bulging a little behind his spectacles and even Snape whispers something almost complimentary.
“Well, I think Albus would approve,” McGonagall harrumphs, but her stern and steely eyes are soft with wonder just under the surface.
We all stare for another minute longer before Fawkes squawks and stretches his wings impatiently and I nod.
“Exactly right,” I agree, straightening. “The sooner this is done, the better. Shall we?”
***
To get the headmaster into position in the stone circle, the castle opened the equivalent of a cargo door, it's opening taller and wider than the standard while (and Snape’s face was priceless for the duration) I essentially lured his time tamper spell (and the possessed man within it) out and onward like I would with an excitable puppy who’s eager for attention.
“Who’s a good spell? That’s right, it’s you! Come on! We’re almost there, good job!”
Flitwick grinned and McGonagall bit her lips together to keep from grinning, and I had the feeling that Madame Pomfrey, now on hand for potential injuries, kept to the back to hide her laughter in her robes but her cheeks were flushed and bright when she finally joined us a moment later outside the circle. That was the last of the hilarity, unfortunately. There were no smiles when Snape broke the tamper line and the Headmaster's squatter resumed it's shrieking.
“Don’t you dare!!” The demon hisses, wriggling madly trying to escape the binding spell and snapping its teeth, vicious and intending to do worse than harm. “I’ll take you alllllll. Weeeeee’ll feast on your pretty little souls, fatemaker. We’ll show you what a pretty little bitch like you is meant for.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” I counter, snapping a barrier up around the circle to keep it from fleeing (on the extreme off-chance it escapes the binding spell), then catch the soul stone Flitwick levitates over, his eyes wide and wounded at hearing his friend spew such filth. “I’d say you need to get new material, but it's pretty much a guarantee that, reeking of magic like you do, you’ll be someone else’s dinner in a minute. So, may as well save your breath with the talking,” I add in a bored tone, setting the stone on the man’s chest to begin it’s work. “You’ll need it for screaming.”
My advice goes unheard because the second the Headmaster's soul begins ebbing away from his body, and his remaining magic along with it, the demon kicks it’s efforts into high gear, ferociously yanking every which way and audibly breaking bones in the process, whipping it’s head nearly hard enough to break it’s host’s neck and I hurriedly tug a blade of grass out, spread and widen and duplicate and weave it into something of a padded neck brace, tight enough to keep head motion to a minimum and padded enough to cause no additional harm. The demon shrieks louder the more the obsidian absorbs and I eye the phoenix perched atop one of the monoliths, hoping it’s ready to snatch it the second it can—
Of course it can. And it does.
Fawkes swoops up and over the barrier, dives low and is gone in a half second after while I pull the small silver dagger I’d pilfered from the potions lab, neatly slice an inch-long cut into both my palms, clap once to bind their purpose with magically iridescent, glowing red power, brace my feet, grip reality by the seams and pull.
All in all, it’s actually sort of anticlimactic after that.
The demon, anchorless without the magic it’d been eating and the soul it'd been clinging to, is peeled off of and out of the man and the windstorm of the portal vacuum steals it, sucks it down and in and gone while I hurriedly tackle the headmaster’s body onto the ground to keep it from following the creature in while my ears pop at the pressure change. It was a bit of a struggle to carve the additional glyph into my palm, let my own magic, now bright as a tiny supernova, shine out when I aimed it at the portal to seal it and seconds later, all we had was a temporarily dead wizard and a slightly bloody fate assistant left.
“Ouch,” I whisper-groan, pulling back and up and yanking the grass safety collar off the corpse, then nod to Fawkes who’s already diving back in, stone clutched securely in its feet, and lands on the man’s belly with a worried cry, nudging the stone up to the man’s chest. “Easy now,” I murmur exhaustedly, then snap the circle barrier off to let the trio of professors and the healer spill in with cries of alarm.
“Hurry Severus!” McGonagall warbles out, on the verge of tears.
Snape doesn’t bother replying so much as he begins chanting and sprinkling the sparkling silver elixir onto the body and stone, (seemingly going right through the bird entirely) and with a final cry, Fawkes bends his feathered head low and releases a single tear to splash into the obsidian.
The effect is not immediate. It’s a long (eternity) seven seconds for the man to suck in a long, deep, painful-looking breath as the soul stone forces the man’s power and spirit back where it’s meant to be. He arches sharply up, then collapses back, gasping and coughing and dazed and likely exhausted. But he’s evidently still him, because he blinks up at his bird, then around at his friends and nods once with a wavering smile.
“Well done,” he croaks, then promptly faints.
I'm just rubbing the magic-heavy clay into the small cuts on my still-shining palms to encourage quicker healing, somewhat envious of how easily the Headmaster checked out, because I'm beyond tired. But hey, there’s no reason now not to hop on this trend, right? “Think I'm gonna," I slur out quietly, catching both Snape and Pomfrey's attention, "follow his fine example.” But I’m almost smiling with relief at a job well done when the world goes dark around me.