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While I sleep fairly well for the remainder of that night, crazy dreams be damned, I’m halfway through breakfast, poking listlessly at the available food when I begin to feel it - and it's... well. It's a sensation I haven't felt in a few thousand years and it's never felt quite like... this. And this is awful, yes, but livable.
I'd been the first to suggest questioning the horcrux snake. I hadn't made a single sound of protest when they'd planned to take her, especially since she'd deliberately be close where I have a chance of intervening if it's needed. But I won't. I can't. Not when there's so much hinging on what she could tell them.
But it's halfway through that last thought when I happen to spy the staff table and see how many are missing— or more, see that both Dumbledore and Snape are missing from the table and suddenly know why it feels worse, in part and I can't-- I bolt from the table and barely make it to the bathroom before I’m losing what little is in my stomach into a toilet.
A nervous-looking first year Slytherin girl asks if she should get someone, but I wave her off with a quiet thanks and after rinsing my mouth, I knock my way straight up to the room of requirement, spell myself into my training Gi, reassemble and reanimate the small army of dummies still piled up there and take my angst and self-hate out in the least permanently damaging way I have right now and do my damndest to keep my emotions from bleeding out to either Lupin or-- shit. Yeah, that sort of feedback loop isn't something I'm going to let happen and sure as fuck not back to Snape. Not when he's feeling this horrible to begin with.
There’s an almost meditative methodology to taking on so many opponents all at once, even with the physical strain it takes on my body, and I gladly sink into it, ducking and swiping, spinning and kicking and earning more than a few bruises of my own, then double my active ‘enemies’ when the sensation in the back of my mind doubles and my skin begins to ripple here and there with scales and tears blur my vision but I don’t stop, can’t stop, this is what I do, who I am because this is what's need—
“FINITE INCANTATEM,” is nearly roared in a growl that shakes the room and makes my enchanted dummies quiver, then pause but also makes my own hackles rise at the interruption. Only, being on the edge of dragon already, it’s a handful of silver-golden spikes that begin spreading down my neck and back when I spin and see both Lupin and Tonks by the door, Tonks paling and wide-eyed with hair streaking a pasty grey with the force of her sudden terror— it’s that, nearly as much as Lupin, his wolf eyes bright with concern that has me stilling, waving a hand back to the dummies and they collapse in unison.
Lupin drags me into an unafraid, protective, comforting hug that makes my knees weak and I suck in one hard, stinging breath after another in time with his hand running soothingly down my back like my already-receding spines aren’t an issue at all.
Had I thought he didn’t act very Gryffindor-like? I’m an idiot. My packmate is stupidly, suicidally brave. And also an idiot, or would be if I didn’t know that he knows my wolf would never let me hurt him-- with the sole exception of when my dragon is riding shotgun. But-- no. I'd never hurt my pack without a life and death reason and now that I can focus on that much, I can hear what he’s murmuring over and over and would maybe collapse entirely if Tonks weren’t suddenly pressing close in from my other side, steady and stable and her sharper scent almost as comforting as Lupin’s and gods but I’m sort of gifted in the few friends I hoard.
“Whatever it is will pass,” Lupin repeats, murmuring down into my hair because I'm still so freaking short, it's ridiculous. “You’re not alone in this, alright? Whatever this is will pass.”
“I hadn’t,” I heave out, clutching at his robes, or maybe his and Tonks' both, sucking in another gasp. “I hadn't thought that I’d feel it— not like this,” I choke out, shuddering again. "I'll be--" I pause to swallow back the taste of bile on my tongue. "I'll be alright. I'll-- I'll be fine."
“Feel what?” Tonks asks gently, brushing my sweaty hair from my face enough to see whatever panic she’d felt before has faded entirely, though she seems surprised at whatever my eyes are doing now.
I still don’t answer yet, newly busy hoping and praying that it’ll be over soon, over now and like it’s just been waiting for me to ask— it is.
It’s a pause of sensation that holds weight in my head— until it doesn’t. Something snips, smoothly and almost gently by comparison to the last long, horrible hours, but I feel what’s left of her soul fading off, peaceful and quiet.
“They’re done,” I whisper, and let my eyes shut with sheer relief, not just my own but Snape's relief, too and finally, we can both breathe again.
“They?” Lupin demands, gripping my shoulders and sets me back a little, peering down at me with human eyes that widen a little with sick realization. “They— you mean they’re done interrogating—“
“Oh no,” Tonks breathes out, now also looking sick. “Tell me you didn’t feel all that—“
“No, I— not… not like you think, no,” I rasp, almost dizzy with exhaustion and maybe I look it because Lupin guides me to the closest chair that has all four legs and a seat remaining and settles me there, kneeling at my side and looking more than a little pissed off now, though Tonks just looks sort of heartbroken.
“They—,” Lupin tries, drops his head with a soft curse and then spears me with a semi-sympathetic look. “You’ve been feeling this all day and said nothing?!” He demands.
I swallow the fury trying to bubble up and stare back as openly as I can. “There are several levels of importance that supersede anything and everything I actively feel, and this was one of them. Insane as it sounds, this is my job and more, this is literally my last job with the fates.” I sit a little straighter, feeling and accepting every ache and bruise and a few hairline fractures, because they’re part of the job too. “They needed answers and if you'll recall, keeping her alive for that alone was my first idea. And there were very limited options on how to get them. I accepted that when I let them take her out of the school.” I grip my knees and breathe and settle my eyes back on his. Also? In my very American way of thought: This ain't my first rodeo; this isn't the worst thing I've accidentally felt."
“You should’ve said something,” he rasps, but his eyes— seriously, no one should have eyes that soulful. “We’d have figured something else out.”
“We could’ve taken her further away,” Tonks adds, but not like a chastisement. “Had Moody known, he absolutely would’ve. Cranky old buzzard has a soft spot for you.”
“Not sure I could’ve let them take her fully away,” I shrug. “And it’s over now besides.”
Tonks twists her lips a little, almost a smirk. “It’s a good thing I like my friends a little crazy.”
I smile and snort and drop my face into my hands, rubbing vigorously while Lupin runs his hand down my back again.
“Personally,” Lupin huffs, eyes flinty and serious, “I like my friends and my pack at least a little bit sane, so… don’t do that again. Please.”
I lift my head and give him a serious look right back, shaking my head a bit. “I can’t promise that. What they’re up against isn’t a mere possibility. It’s a prediction. Fatemakers don’t get called in for little things; we stave off large-scale disasters and you've already seen just how bad it can get and still wasn't big enough to entice a fatemaker... until now."
Lupin straightens, half nodding. “I know,” he admits softly. “But I’ve lost too many already. I don’t want to lose more.”
Lupin… seriously. He just doesn’t play fair.
“Someone threw a curse at me once,” I tell him honestly, because I’ve had several thrown at me over my many lifetimes. Also, there was that one bomb in Sydney that was also a curse. “Strong enough to level half of Australia.” But there was also that magical pipe bomb on the school bus, easily disposed of because… “I absorbed it.” Gotta love secret keeping loopholes, (though I feel a little bad for twisting disjointed truths to make a believable half-lie). That I died a half second before I absorbed the semi-curse from my first life here (though obviously not from the curse itself) is besides the point, because I actually am sturdy enough to survive that sort of trauma.
Both Lupin and Tonks’ eyebrows climb.
“I’m a little tough to take out these days. And my sanity’s survived these last two hundred thousand years; it’ll last a while longer,” I assure them, because that’s true too.
Tonks purses her lips again, head ticking a bit to the side. “Okay,” she says, then smiles. “Doesn’t mean you have to tough it out alone, though.” She tips her head at Lupin. “He’s been a bit twitchy. All day.”
I blink. “All day?” A flick of my eyes to the window shows nothing but darkness and I wince. Yeeeah. All day.
“You haven’t eaten today, have you?” Lupin demands, eyes narrowing.
“Ha! Haaa!” I huff, bone dry and humorless. “Take your daily twitchiness, compound it by ten and add a mental and emotional soundtrack of shrieking horror movie actual screams, then tell me how much you manage to keep down,” I suggest flatly. "My breakfast didn't survive and nothing else would've either."
Lupin slumps and Tonks ticks a shrug. "Fair point," she decides.
Tonks lets me slump into both their sides on the way back to the Hufflepuff common room where I again get passed off to Annie who promises to tip me into bed and glue me there if I try to leave, which isn’t necessary because I’m pretty sure I’m dead asleep before I even hit the pillow.
***
Nothing starts your Sunday off right (for some given definition of ‘right’) quite like getting stalked. I’d maybe shadow-blink my way up the grand staircase if I wasn’t mostly sure Snape would simply latch onto my shadow at the last second and just blink with me. I opt for a little mischief instead, veering down one hallway, slip behind the tapestry shortcut, double back (which doesn’t work because he’s followed me so far) to the dead end hallway he seems delighted to get to corner me in, only to curse when he finds the hall empty.
Until he turns around.
He jolts with a soundless snarl and I grin. Then he glowers and I smile beatifically, even adding a shadow-like halo over my head.
“Hi,” I finally say and he glowers harder, which has me really seeing the mood lurking behind those glowering eyes and I let my halo go, huffing a sigh. “So… you talked to Lupin… on purpose. If you’re not careful, you’re both going to start to like it,” I warn. "And that might be the last full seal to break to kickstart the Christian apocalypse."
I can almost hear him growl on a subvocal range so low that none of my inner animals register it but that I manage to hear anyway. Interesting.
“You could’ve messaged,” he bites out finally, but now takes the time to actually take stock of me, in all my very alive, completely unharmed (albeit, still a little pale) badass, girly glory.
“And yet, when that wasn’t my first instinct—“ I sigh.
“—which means your instinct is clearly faulty,” he finishes, teeth still grinding.
“Usually it means,” I continue patiently, “there’s a good reason for it that I just can’t see yet,” I correct. “And these are the same instincts that have my work history with fate at a success level of one hundred percent,” I add softly and he gets it almost too well because he just gets angrier.
“That. Is not. The point.” He grinds out from between teeth seemingly locked together.
I stop and just breathe for a second, because up close, he's still a bit pale too and probably hadn't had the mental vacation of ten plus hours of dreamless sleep and maybe it's all of it-- he’s really, seriously upset and I’m not sure how to fix that with anything but the truth.
“Lupin said he’s lost enough people and just… doesn’t want to lose any more.” Snape stills, relaxing a fraction. “Everyone,” I breathe out with genuine emphasis so he knows he’s included, “has lost too many. And if me enduring a few hours of discomfort, and that’s what it was- mental and emotional discomfort, means it’s that much more unlikely that anyone has to lose anyone more… I can live with that,” I finish quietly.
By the not-quite-hidden look in his eyes, he's mentally experiencing the unpleasant sensation of swallowing an over-sharp, baseball-sized rock. I hate that anything I do could put that look there, but I haven't lied to him even once since we've met and would rather not start now. Still, it's an uncomfortable ten seconds before he replies.
“A full day is not a few hours,” he finally counters quietly, but the tight set of his shoulders has loosened a little. (Maybe a drop of water out of the lake type of ‘little’, but it’s something.)
“I’ve deliberately survived worse for longer for stakes much lower than these and will likely have to endure worse in some way or another before all of this is over.”
He almost jerks back hearing it, but nods slowly, like he'd expected it.
“If there’s a next time,” he says quietly, already turning away, “say something.”
He goes, vanishing around the first corner he reaches and I let him, even as it squeezes something inside me painfully tight.
***
After the breakfast the next day (that thankfully remains where I put it) that doesn’t appeal but I know I need, I go for a brisk walk outside to get my blood flowing, then head for the basement to maybe work out a few more backup potions, almost tripping over Dumbledore near the dungeon entry on the way. He smiles like he’d planned it and… he likely did.
“Here to take a peek at the lake in my ceiling?” I guess, slowing and lengthening my stride a bit to keep a meandering pace.
“Among other things,” he says agreeably and there’s that tone that I’ve already heard twice in the last day and am tired of already.
“You are all terrible, terrible gossips,” I accuse, peeking up at him and his faint smirk only confirms it. “I am fine, honestly. A good night’s sleep and a meal have made a huge difference and frankly, I’ve gone through a lot worse for a lot less.”
He hums in a mildly unhappy way, but doesn’t argue, which... makes me a bit suspicious, actually.
“Did the snake tell you how she got in?” I ask when he says nothing more. He pauses for half a second before resuming his stride, but eyes me curiously.
“Professor Snape didn’t tell you?” He asks, looking a bit surprised.
“No… but short as our conversation was, it wasn’t a happy conversation. He seemed to need some alone time.” I side-eye Dumbledore back and can’t quite decipher the look in his eye before he turns forward, expression blanking to something contemplative.
“Nagini. She’d been Voldemort’s… companion, since he was first in power.”
Now I give him a slightly disbelieving side-eye. “You call him that too?” I finally ask, surprised.
It’s not until he gives me an approving look while half-shaking his head that I realize it was a tiny test. Those are going to get old sooner rather than later. (Nevermind that they already have.)
“In public? Yes,” he admits. "But mainly to prove there's no real power to the absurd name he's given himself. Whatever’s become of the remaining pieces of him, he remains Tom Riddle to me. But I’m somewhat singular in that.”
“Well,” I offer, “the castle said he was afraid of you. I doubt that’s changed much. Will he know Nagini is dead, do you think? I’ve encountered plenty of horcrux-happy realities, but soul-splitting wasn’t ever the focus of my tasks in those.”
That seems to surprise him too, but he pauses to think on it. “I doubt it,” he finally admits. "I believe he's split it more than once.”
I nod. That’s not all that surprising. “Paranoid people do like their backup plans,” I allow. “Have you begun searching for the other pieces yet?”
It’s obvious he’s trying to hide a sliver of anger, but I shrug; he had to know I’d ask. Finding the others is logical, after all.
“The castle remembers a lot of conversations, Professor. Even those some would like to both forget and have forgotten -- like one between Riddle and Horace Slughorn about multi-splitting horcruxes; a seven way split, in fact. The sooner we get rid of them, the better and that's not something I can do while I'm bound here to school grounds.”
Now he stops again, frowning at me. “Private conversations?”
Really? That's the part he's focused on?
I give him as mild a look as I can, then spread my arms a little to indicate the halls, the floor, the— everything. “The castle is invested in its continued existence as well as it’s inhabitants. If it thinks a conversation is relevant to its survival or to the continued good health and safety of those within it, it will offer what it can in support of those goals.”
Dumbledore frowns, like it’s unexpected and really? Has no one seen all of what the castle truly is? Is it really only me left? Or me and the elves? Well... time to fill him in a bit.
“The safety of the children is it’s first priority, their health is the second, then onward to the staff, house elves included. It’s magic won’t be permanently damaged by losing even a full half of the school itself. It will rebuild, bit by bit over time, though faster with help. And it will let itself be destroyed completely if it deems it necessary, a literal last resort to stopping something or someone with truly evil intent and power. To be all it is, it needs a long and accurate memory. That cannot be changed.”
Dumbledore’s face is as blank as any I’ve ever seen. “And yet,” he finally murmurs, “I was told you were evil. And it still let you live here.”
I pop my eyebrows up. “You were told? Or led to believe?” I counter, because there's a difference. “There’s at least one very vital element needed to be defined as evil in truth. Or to be equally defined as ‘good’,” I add just as softly, but fully and totally honest and I let him see my sincerity and judge it as he will.
He doesn’t answer with more than a subtle nod and a softened expression, but for now, it’s enough.
“Nagini had help getting here by way of a squib under an Imperious curse,” he says at last and I subdue my flinch as best I can. “And it was sent in just as we sent it out.”
“The tunnel to the shack?” I surmise, accepting his nod.
“Did she know who laid the curse on the squib?”
“No,” he sighs, sounding heavy. “But she was most insistent that she would see you dead… because you are a danger to her master.”
“And was that sentiment from her… or that foul bit of Riddle housed in her?” Foul is a good word, too; it had looked so, so wrong.
“Likely both,” he murmurs.
Riddle’s a major issue and these horcruxes… they’re a bigger problem than I’d realized, here. I’ll give it more time, though, before I broach the subject again, but based on Dumbledore's reaction alone, I've got a niggling feeling that it’s now Dumbledore who’s hiding a vital secret or two.
We continue our walk for another quiet minute.
“The wand has been repaired,” he finally says as we finally stroll down the stairs to the dungeon level and I nod with a questioning look that he nods back to. “It’s history… or the portion I could garner, is worrying,” he admits. “There were fourteen other attempts, but no way to know if they were all successful.”
My stomach sinks. So many possible victims, just here at the school itself.
“In any of your past lives… have you had experience with curse work? I know a few experienced wizards who could possibly work up a counter curse, but that often takes months if not years and it seems Professor Penumbra may not have had that long to begin with—“
“I can, yes,” I cut in and his shoulders sag a fraction with relief. "But," I add, "we might need to think of better excuses than my random illnesses if there’s too many more of these sorts of issues. Reverse working a curse could take as much as a week, maybe more. It’s tough on the body, too, since there will be next to no eating and even less sleeping. For me, it’s trance work on three day stretches.”
“Miss Devons,” Dumbledore sighs, looking almost annoyed now, but I don’t let him get far.
“Professor,” I counter, tugging his sleeve lightly as I stop to get his full attention. “It’s not doing any permanent harm to any portion of me, at all. The effects of my workings, regardless of what they are, are all temporary,” I say earnestly, then lay it out as best I can. “Fate is very, very picky in who it chooses as assistants. My reasons for being chosen are layered, but no less relevant. I’m sturdier than most, in mind, magic and body. My instincts are sharp and my skill level is high in many, many areas. I think most of the protests I’ve been hearing come from a good place, and it’s appreciated. I also think those protests often come because it’s difficult not to see me as much more than a gifted child, no matter the logic to indicate otherwise.” I raise my eyebrow at him, a gentle accusation he doesn’t refute so much as he purses his lips in a way that says it’s likely (or definitely) true. “If I looked Tonks’ age and were actually able to show off my true measure of power and ability, this argument wouldn’t last thirty seconds— and I'd win.”
He studies me for a few more long seconds, nods once in silence, and we resume our walk.
“I’ve got a small stock of polyjuice potion,” he finally says, like a peace offering. “If you wouldn’t mind Tonks or another female Auror being you for a week or so, but I’m not certain how it might work with your... unseen physical aspects,” he admits, almost cringing at the possibilities.
“We… should probably not attempt that,” I suggest, also cringing. “Ever," I add. "But I can whip up a fair glamor charm that can also include things like class knowledge, what the work’s been so far, the names of classmates, and all of that,” I offer. “And I'd make it a bit sickly, to cover any additional discrepancies; everyone gets a little soft-minded when they're fighting an illness. But best to leave polyjuice as a non-option. We really don’t want an amateur accidentally breathing fire if someone tries to steal my shorthand ink.”
“Very wise,” he agrees, nodding, just as we arrive at the potions classroom.
Snape’s not in his class or office, so I actually offer Dumbledore the slide to the bottom, absurdly thrilled when he actually agrees and might even laugh more than I do (because fun is ageless), even though I go down sitting and literally spinning circles like a Disney tea cup ride. (The paintings cheer when I finally spin to a stop and collapse on the foyer floor with a giggling groan.)
Dumbledore's even more awed by my daytime bedroom ceiling and it’s current shaken snow globe effect while I visit the few small paintings in my room.
One is of the cottage Wyn and I found after we left our dead mother behind. We’d stayed with the ancient granny there for almost six months before she admitted she didn’t think she had much time left, then collapsed not long after. Even as a muggle, she was one of the most accepting people I’ve ever known. Helga even took us to the funeral and we secretly charmed and blessed as many of the woman’s family as we could.
The other painting is the dream I occasionally revisit of Wyn and I flying kites. It’s a distant landscape, but a lovely one that sometimes makes me long for simpler times.
On our way back down the hall, I tell Dumbledore a bit of each painting, or as much as I’m able, then re-explain how quickly we’d grown at first, using loophole’d mental conversations as best I can. When we reach the lab, he finally offers me the wand but reminds me of the Ministry meeting the next day.
"Beyond what they've seen through their little spy spells, how much does the Ministry actually know about what's been happening here?" I ask, pulling the visuals of the curse from the wand to hover midair, runes and glyphs scrolling by to give me a basic idea of what I'll be working while Dumbledore gawps at seeing the magic this way. (If I survive these tasks, I'll write a book, maybe, on the various ways to view magic and how it can best help in magical engineering.)
"I've told them very little, myself," he says slowly, eyes still fixated on the scrolling magic until I let it fade and he refocuses on answering. "But over winter break, the Ministry's workers gleamed enough to pique The Minister's interest and Alistair has been stomping out rumors ever since with the obvious warnings that fate isn't to be tampered with and therefore neither are you. The officials that approached you after Professor Penumbra's death were scolded for their intended coercion well enough to keep most of them quiet, but a few remained unconvinced. I've also been told Delores Umbridge has been meeting with those few quite regularly."
I nod, unsurprised.
"That said, they know you're powerful and therefore a potential rival, politically speaking," he goes on, despite my exasperated eye rolling on that point. "Best to bear that in mind when you speak with them."
I nod agreeably, then tuck the wand into my robe pocket and carry on with the tour.
Wyn’s painting is simply a shade right now (or pretending to be), but I’ve got a feeling that will change when Dumbledore’s gone. It’s not until we’re heading back up the stairs that I wonder if the paintings— perhaps all of the private paintings might be more than they seem. If Helga managed a portal painting to Salazar's not-so-secret chamber, perhaps there's another that might lead me to Wyn’s gallery.
I add investigating them to my to do list.