Chapter 1
have you not heard the wind whistling away in the willows
have you not heard the scorching cries of the widow?
beauty sleep not,
lest you never wake up
or wake up too slow and thus allow
the nightmares of old to follow
where home became a stiff collection of shadowy corners
and the memory of warmth where warmth no longer lingers
Hogwarts cried at night.
Not its bustling population. The students could shed their tears during daytime over breakfast and many dinners remembered. The house elves had wailed, the ghosts echoing their mourning. The wand-waving wizards and witches had thrown lights in the sky to blur out the horror of the dark mark, and the sky had kept them bright among the stars.
Quiet underneath the grief of its inhabitants, the grief of the castle was much more subtle. It sang in sorrowful ripples, the old language of stones. Only few heard – the first night, most were too taken by their own pain and fears. Rose Potter had thought she’d never sleep, for her nerves screamed and pulled and something like living magma coursed through her veins. Yet sleep had claimed her as soon as she laid her fiery head on the pillows.
The second night, though. The second night had crawled into her dormitory and silenced the light conversations of her friends. Soon, only rhythmic breathing filled the room, and it mixed seamlessly with the melodic flapping of the wind.
And it was in that rich not-quite silence that Rose Potter caught the tail-end of the castle’s laments.
She had kept her eyes closed waiting for sleep – it had been perhaps an hour now that she had been waiting – but her body never stilled. She fidgeted, twisted and turned. Her blankets had gone humid from her sweat. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but there had been a lapse in her awareness where the shadows thrown by the window had taken life.
Again and again, she had watched Albus Dumbledore fall and she had been kept powerless to stop it.
Every time he pleaded and every time she urged herself to move. She never could. Sometimes she was too slow, sometimes she was chained and the cold metal bit into her skin, sometimes she was spelled powerless like she had been. Sometimes, she just knew she couldn’t save him and so she didn’t try. He always fell. He always looked betrayed. In her half-sleep, she knew he hadn’t truly looked like that – he hadn’t looked at her at all. But in the fabric of not-quite dreams, she felt the pain of it and her leg gave a sudden jerk.
To think that just a few days ago, Hogwarts had still felt so safe and welcoming.
The window of the girls’ dormitory was open; it felt like an accusation. With her dreams still so vivid, Rose could only acknowledge the funeral song carried by Hogwarts’ magic and apologize for her role in the tragedy.
Hogwarts didn’t need her to be sorry – home stood above such things – but it wasn’t about that, was it?
.
.
Hours past midnight, Rose stepped into the infirmary, treading lightly on the tip of her toes. Madam Pomfrey might be taken aback at the need to keep the young Potter out of the hospital wing rather than in it, but Rose had no doubt she’d be chased away for disturbing the peaceful sleep of the patients. Or rather, patient, singular; of the people injured the night prior, only the students had stayed once the day broke.
‘Rose?’ a familiar voice asked from one of the beds. Shifting sheets rustled as her friend sluggishly sat up. She smiled.
She might have felt childish for seeking out comfort after a nightmare – gods, what a mess she would make when she’d leave to fulfill Dumbledore’s last request. However, no matter how silly she felt, she couldn’t deny herself making sure her friends were still alive. Were still close. Besides, with the year she had ahead, it was probably logical to fill up on small comforts while she had the chance.
She let the invisibility cloak slip off her shoulders. ‘Hullo Neville. How’s that leg?’
‘Should you be here?’
She shrugged. ‘Thought you could use a friend.’
Neville watched her closely. He must have read something in her ginger posture, in the tight grip she kept on her precious map. ‘We can always use true friends,’ he offered at last, laying himself back down.
Appeased, Rose grabbed a chair.
She’d miss Neville. She would miss them all, as surely as she would miss a lung if it were torn from her.
Still, missing them was better than having them die for her. Too many had done so already: if anyone else crumbled, lifeless before they even hit the ground, on the sole account that they had mistakenly chosen to love her... her heart might crumble along, never to be whole again.
.
.
Morning came. Rose felt it touch her eyelids, recognized it by the fresh dew on the potted plants, by the crick in her neck and the cramp in her hip. She rubbed at her dry eyes, feeling slightly ridiculous. If Madam Pomfrey caught her, she’d be incredulous that Rose Potter would willingly spend the night in a place she detested so vocally.
It had helped, though.
‘Thanks, mate,’ she whispered at a sleeping Neville before making her exit.
.
The first day after Dumbledore’s fall had had the school in a silent daze. The food sent up by the elves had been overly salty, but the murmur of voices hadn’t remarked upon it. It was like a great blanket had been laid over the schools, nestled tightly within the wards, and everything under its dome had been muted. Conversations kept starting up only to fizzle.
The whole disquiet had been very similar to the tangible unease which had followed Cedric’s murder. Not that Rose enjoyed the silence: the constant buzzing in her ears had been louder this time than the piercing cries of Inferi, even as she numbly recounted her story to her friends. Being careful to tell them enough that they understood the importance of what had happened without letting on that she’d soon be gone. That she might never see them again, if she didn’t make it.
The second day still had the whole school feeling off – the ghosts, the portraits, the walls; everything about Hogwarts seemed a bit crooked and empty.
And Hogwarts was indeed emptying itself – students were turning up with their trunks, some looking shamefaced about it, others showing an angry sort of impatience. The Slytherins were obnoxious about their early departure. The Hufflepuffs who chose to go home weren’t meeting their friends’ eyes. Nobody could blame parents who wanted to squeeze their child against them and revel in their continued heartbeat, but. But leaving without saying goodbye wasn’t well regarded. It was – cowardly. Seamus fought to stay.
That was what Gryffindors did, wasn’t it? Because yeah, the school didn’t feel quite so safe without the presence of the greatest sorcerer of three generations, and yet...
Where else could they feel safe now anyway?
.
.
‘I’ll rip his throat out,’ Rose announced as she closed yet another useless tome. ‘On my life I will.’
Ron nodded emphatically without looking up from his parchment. ‘Malfoy or Snape?’
‘Voldemort,’ Rose responded, then paused. ‘But them too. Sod them all to hell.’
It was late afternoon and her feeling of detachment had been growing, twisting, expanding until it wasn’t anything resembling detachment anymore. It itched and choked. It wanted out.
They’d been researching Gryffindor and Ravenclaw’s treasures for hours now. Ron had called dibs on Gryffindor, and had spent a full hour sketching the legendary sword that Rose had jabbed through a big snake’s brains. Rose had persevered through countless lists of Rowena Ravenclaw’s wardrobe, from her most regal gowns to her enchanted shoes. She had discovered many things – among which, apparently the lady was the first to create reading glasses – but only felt more restless as she turned the pages.
An inscribed mirror offered by an admirer was all good, but she hardly thought the evil bane of her life would go for something so lovely and feminine.
The closest thing they'd made to an important discovery had been Hermione finding out about Eileen Prince’s existence. And that had only fouled up Rose’s mood some more.
Pushing the incident out of her mind, Rose picked out another book – the slimmest one she could find; it looked like the diary of a Renaissance lady – and sighed. ‘At least Malfoy looked terribly pathetic. Everything’s his fault, but Dumbledore wanted to…’
Dumbledore had wanted to save him. A few moments before he died, that had been what was on the great man’s mind. Even when she didn’t want to acknowledge it, the offered hand lingered in her mind.
Ron made a sound of frustrated agreement just as Hermione came back to their table with an new pile of books. She set them with a thump.
‘Drawing a horse, Ronald? At this rate-’
Ron straightened up. His cheek and ears were already turning red. ‘That’s not just a horse, that’s Godric’s loyal horse!’
‘You drew five legs,’ Hermione stated curtly before turning to Rose. She has this look. It promised caring. Rose didn’t like it one bit. ‘Rose, your eyes are glassy.’
‘I’m fine.’
Ron scoffed. ‘Well, my eyes are glassy. And they burn. Let’s just go, alright?’ He stood. ‘Don’t start, Hermione. Honestly, woman. It’s obvious the fifth leg’s a tail and your eyes need a rest if you can’t tell.’
Hermione squinted at the messy drawing. It was still a horse with five rather uneven legs. By the time she looked up to argue the point, her two friends had made their daring escape.
.
.
They got back to the Gryffindor tower with more questions than answers. Usually, it made Rose thrum with the knowledge they were inching their way closer to the truth. This time, she only felt deadened and heavy, like every reach she made only served to distance her from her objective. There could be no thrill when there was no time.
On the way up the dorm rooms, Hermione threw her an anxious glance. They had not talked much since the half-blood prince conversation, and hadn’t that gone swell.
‘I’m sorry, Rose. For dismissing your concerns about Malfoy and for… for insisting that Professor Snape somewhat cared for you.’
Rose stumbled.
She laughed to dispel the awkwardness of the moment. The brittle pitch only made it worse.
‘Lucky I knew better, yeah? I told you. Snape never cared for anybody.’
After all, Dumbledore had begged and Snape had shown no mercy.
Dumbledore had pleaded a friend and a traitor had struck him down.
(What did it say about her that, hours before that ultimate betrayal, the headmaster had pleaded her, begged her for her mercy, and still she’d fed him poison through his pitiful whimpers?)
On the other side of the country, the man who had in fact never been known for his caring heart stared at a bird of immortality and fire, and the package it carried.
It was not a friendly stare. ‘I will burn it. Get it away from here, you daft bird.’
Fawkes let out a sorrowful trill. To Severus Snape’s ears, the call sounded like a screech.
‘Severus, my boy, no need to show such haste towards bitter rage,’ scolded the man from the portrait, though many consonants were swallowed by the yellow sucker the old man had popped into his mouth. The casualness made Severus’ blood boil. ‘We have much to discuss over the coming months; you may dispose of my frame later.’
‘Am I to understand you expect me to follow your orders from beyond the grave? To do your bidding because a splash of ink and paint tells me I must?’
Before the man could answer, Fawkes cried sharply out and disappeared in a blaze.
The portrait stayed. After a moment, it spoke. ‘My dear boy, I do not expect you to obey my orders – but I do trust you will keep to your word and act out in the best interest of those who have earned your trust.’
Snape’s eyes were dark and intent. One might have been able to find sorrow in them; however, he only meant for them to flash with annoyance and ire. When he answered, his teeth barely unclenched. ‘I find some vows more pressing than others.’ Noting his old employer’s frown, he continued, ‘If memory serves, old man, my loyalty was never given to you.’
Dumbledore’s frown only deepened. ‘Severus…’
‘I do not care,’ Snape cut in, voice silky and thus dangerous, ‘that you did not see fit to tell me the details of your secret quest for Miss Potter. The word you refused to speak, for fear the Dark Lord might find its echoes in my mind, as if I were some young novice in the art of sealing my thoughts. I care that you know the vow I have taken to protect that foolish witch, and that still you asked me to guide her to her death.’
‘It is inevitable,’ the painted Dumbledore said, and no real trace of regret marred his brow, an effective reminder that the portrait wasn’t the man, wasn't even a good imitation. ‘Even the most rigid unbreakable vow would not blame you for merely sharing information about a matter which cannot be escaped.’
‘And yet the vow does lay blame. Does that surprise the great Albus Dumbledore? Or have you another explanation for the pull I’ve felt ever since you made me promise I would inform an innocent girl of the fate you were too much of a coward to inform her of?’ The man sneered, setting his shoulders back in a swift motion. ‘And today I find myself talking to your portrait, delivered perhaps because you wished to delay the relaying of critical information until a time you were flesh and bones no more.’
Dumbledore’s offending candy had long disappeared. ‘You were always too sharp to allow an old man much comfort, my friend.’
‘Will you share this information now should I inquire?’
‘Everything in its due time, Severus. The march of history, as you may know…’
Another beat passed. ‘Yes,’ Snape said with a downturn of his mouth, leaving no doubt as to whom he was wishing to disparage, ‘I suppose we do sometimes sort too soon.’ His eyes fell then to the jar he had been meticulous in preparing, and the dried flowers scattered around it.
For almost a year he had felt the magical oath he’d made to a dead Lily and a younger Dumbledore stir his guts and unstitch his dreams. It had been severely unpleasant, especially combined with the Unbreakable Vow he had made for the sake of the young Draco Malfoy. The experience had not left him feeling too kindly towards either of the dimwitted souls he had promised to protect.
When the constant thrum had changed into a stampede of prickling stings, he had figured one of his vows ready to snap.
But then he had killed Albus Dumbledore and afterward he had fled, fulfilling one vow; and still his insides throbbed and ached. It sent sharper signals when he thought of the Dark Lord’s snake and of Potter’s life.
It was at its most unbearable when he leafed through his foreign research on the subject of souls and extraction. And, because Severus Snape was no dunderhead, he knew. He knew that, for once, his vow was being helpful. It was cheering in joy, rejoicing in his findings and the possibilities they offered.
After all, if what he had read about the surprising magicks of the distant Fire Country proved true…
The girl would live.