Asteria's visit left Harriet feeling very thoughtful. She sat on her bed while the icy rain beat against the night-black windows and watched the sea shift in her painting.
There should be birds calling, she thought. Sea gulls. And the ocean should whoosh and hiss, like it was breathing.
How did she know that, if she'd never been to the sea?
Anaita returned not too long after Asteria had gone—or perhaps it was a long time. Harriet really didn't know. The thrum of the rain and the movement of the painting were hypnotizing.
"How do you feel?" Anaita asked. She was wearing her soft-looking scarf looped round her shoulders, for even with the fire going it was very cold.
"I feel all right." She did, although she felt. . . thoughtful, she supposed. When Asteria had talked about herself, it had made her remember things about herself—not painfully, or with that sudden, shocking stream of memories that she usually got, but with a sort of gradual settling in. It was like watching birds take off from the corner of her eye.
But the things she remembered. . .
"Did your friend help you?" asked Anaita. Harriet nodded. "Did she paint this?"
"Yes. She draws and all that. She made me a card last term, when I was in hospital for. . ." She frowned. "Something."
"She's very talented."
"That's her home. She told me all about it." When Asteria had talked about her home, her mother, her sisters, Harriet had thought of a cupboard beneath a staircase. It had given her a dark, cold feeling, like a numbing hollowness in her heart. She couldn't shake the feeling that it was where she'd lived.
Whatever it was, she hated it.
"What's your home like?" she asked Anaita, who looked surprised.
"My home?"
"Are you married?"
"I'm widowed," said Anaita, simply.
"Oh," Harriet said. "I'm sorry—"
But Anaita only shook her head, as if saying It's all right. Harriet didn't see how it could be.
"Do you have any kids besides Parvati?"
"I have another daughter, Parvati's twin—"
"Padma," Harriet said. Now it made sense—she'd been picturing Parvati looking two very different ways, wearing blue sometimes and red others, which for some reason she felt Was Not Done; it didn't seem to make sense, although she didn't think that when Anaita wore different colors.
"Yes. They're my only children."
"Do you have any other family?"
"My parents are still very much alive—my mother almost too much so, at times." But she was smiling as she said it.
Harriet didn't smile back. When Anaita said that, she got a peculiar feeling that her own parents were. . . were dead. Only—it was even more than that. . . like they weren't just dead but. . . something worse.
What was worse than being dead?
"What's your mum like?" she asked, pushing these thoughts away, or at least trying to.
"She's very intelligent, capable, forceful—she terrifies everyone she meets. She's a Healer, specializing in women's health. Women come the world over to consult with her. She did not remotely approve of my career choice." Although her voice was dry, Anaita was still smiling faintly.
Harriet couldn't imagine someone not approving of Anaita. "Why not?"
"Divinations is considered to be codswallop by practically everyone. I wish I could say there weren't a great many fools in it who've earned us that reputation. My mother has a few colleagues whom I wouldn't trust with a sea sponge, but they at least look sensible. My colleagues tend to wear too many feathers."
For some reason, Harriet was picturing a woman wearing sequins and tassels and overlarge glasses that made her look like a human dragonfly.
"Why is it codswallop?"
"Because it deals with possibility, I suppose." Anaita smiled more fully. "And the fools in their feathers."
"Why did you want to do it, then?"
Anaita looked to be considering the question seriously. "It always fascinated me, somehow. . . the idea that we are influenced by the movement of stars and planets. When I got into it, however, I saw it wasn't really about that at all. But I'm happy in my choice. I look into the past every day, but I've never looked back."
Harriet didn't really understand, but Anaita spoke with a content kind of certainty that made her almost envious. Or maybe envious wasn't the right word. She didn't know—all she knew was there was so much she was uncertain of. . .
But she was getting the feeling there might be a lot in her life that maybe she didn't want to remember.
The night of the half moon, Slytherin House received this letter from their Head of House:
Most people are out for themselves.
This is one of the first lessons that we learn as Slytherins. We know it instinctively. It is one of the core tenets of human nature, though most of humanity would pretend it isn't. Our acknowledging it makes them uncomfortable. They choose to believe that they are superior to us in their hypocrisy.
We have always been isolated from the rest of the school, by our own design as well as theirs. Most of them do not understand what drives us, and those that do understand us, as much as any outsider is capable of, hold us in contempt.
We have no need of them. When they turn on us, they only drive us to become stronger from within.
You are Slytherin. We have lasted for onn gve thousand years, despite all attempts to divide us from one another, to expunge us from the school, to eradicate our loyalties to our traditions. Hogwarts knows, even if its people do not, that without us the school would crumble. We are essential. Should you let anyone convince you otherwise, you shall find yourself betraying us all. Doubt is for the feeble-minded.
You are Slytherin because you are strong, resourceful, cunning; because you turn the hypocrisy and weakness of the world to your own benefit; because you do not permit despair and doubt to stymie you; because you adapt and come back wiser, stronger, more cunning, more adept, for every obstacle, every unfair hand life shows you.
The other Houses have issued you a challenge.
How will you answer them?
Professor S. Snape
With Severus visited—finally—and the letter to Sirius dispatched—at last—Remus fell to tackling his next impossible task: policing the Slytherins.
From avoiding the staff room and isolating himself at mealtimes, from sequestering himself in his rooms when he didn't have class, Remus had skated over the banked furor that was burning insidiously through the castle. Now that his eyes were open and looking, he noticed something really quite. . . interesting, he supposed—for what it meant, not for what it was.
He'd been surprised, on coming back, to find that a lot of the Slytherin-directed hatred he remembered from his days at school had been scaled back. It had been a pleasant surprise, in fact, to find that Hogwarts had progressed; that although there was still that tendency to equate Slytherin with Evil, a word that ought not to be associated with children, it was lessened now.
But then he came to realize it wasn't exactly that the dynamic had changed: it was more that Snape was better at controlling it.
Slughorn had not been House-biased. Although Head of Slytherin, he'd been fond of influential or promising students from every House; his blind partiality preferred a student's status. He had not been cruel or heartless, but his focus had been different. Snape's considerable focus was brought to bear on protecting his House and punishing the other three. He and Minerva had had a conversation to that effect last August.
But with Snape gone, Remus was noticing a rise of incidents that were typical of House attitudes twenty years ago, not twenty days. Not only were the other three Houses enjoying this absence of Snape, but so were the Slytherins. He overheard Minerva using the words "free for all" to Poppy as he passed the smoking remains of a tapestry after a protracted fire-flinging match that had sent two Slytherins and three Ravenclaws to the hospital wing to have their hair and eyebrows re-grown.
Remus thought about telling Snape that the other teachers were finally appreciating his draconian approach to inter-House discipline; but they weren't on good enough terms for him to attempt the joke. Snape would think he was being criticized or mocked.
He wondered, more than once, what had driven Snape to enlist him of all people (of all werewolves), and then decided the decision likely sprang from several overlapping motives: boosting House morale. . . making use of favors owed. . . getting back at Remus through his students. Remus wouldn't put it past Snape to tell his House to make the task of protecting them as difficult as ingenuity permitted.
The thought was the first bit of amusement he'd had in a long time. He'd appreciate the distraction.
Remus had more than enough evidence to know that anti-Slytherin prejudice was very real, in Hogwarts and beyond; but he also knew that Slytherins were the exact opposite of placating and conciliatory. Slytherin House made no bones about its insular loyalty. Whether its isolation was self-imposed or outside resentment had isolated them long ago, the fact remained that as a group they coexisted with the rest of the school as peacefully as a bamboo splinter underneath your fingernail. And while individual Slytherins could be perfectly pleasant, as a group they were mistrustful, hostile, and double-dealing.
But the instinct that had made him uncomfortable and ashamed whenever James and Sirius targeted Snape was a purpose that his adult self could not turn away from: a person's repulsive behavior did not justify attacking them, and it certainly did not justify ganging up on them.
The dungeons were difficult to navigate without foreknowledge, but the topmost level (with Snape's classroom, storeroom and office) was easily accessible. By the time Remus' investigation was ongoing, the Slytherins had retreated to their alternative routes in and out of the dungeons: more secret passageways than the Marauders had had the wherewithal to map. The first day that Remus sallied forth into the dungeons—the day after Snape had given him the assignment—a group of fifth-Slytherins had come round from a concealed door and ambushed a group of fifth-year Gryffindors who'd been lying in wait near the main staircase. The usually dim corridor was lit up like a parade route, with about as much noise, including a great deal of creative swearing interspersed with increasingly ridiculous spells.
On some level, it was really quite funny. On another, it was a sobering reminder.
Stepping round the corner, he hoisted a Protego, deflecting a bolt of electric-blue light that, if he remembered correctly, would make all of his hair sprout ten years' worth of growth.
"Finite Incantatem," he called, and all of the spell-lights winked out, leaving the corridor shockingly dark again and everyone's vision blotted with spots.
"Now, I'm quite sure I never assigned a skirmish for homework," he said mildly, as all the boys struggled to focus on him (the intruder).
"We were just—" started one of the Gryffindor boys; but then he didn't know how to continue, and looked helplessly at his friends.
The Slytherins had assumed a stony silence. Snape's interference they would have accepted, perhaps even gladly, but Remus' they clearly resented.
"Dueling in the corridors," said Remus, finishing the Gryffindor's excuse, "which as you know is not permitted."
Most of the group, Slytherins and Gryffindors both, looked mutinous, though one of the Gryffindor boys had the grace to look embarrassed. Remus remembered him from class and knew him for a soul like himself: disliking this, but willing to go along if his friends wheedled, begged and pushed hard enough.
"In fact," he said, eying the Gryffindors, "you should not be in the dungeons at all. It isn't class-time, which is the only excuse you would have to be down here."
"They're down here," muttered one of the Gryffindors.
"They live down here," Remus said, exasperated. "I don't want to see or hear that you've been down here again unless you're on your way to Potions. And if I catch you dueling in the corridors again, you'll learn how easy I'm going on the lot of you. Now move along."
He probably should have taken points, but then he'd need to dock from the lot. He knew what had happened, but he had no proof, and he couldn't act without it. It would make both parties resent him even further, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.
The Gryffindors left, sulking, and the Slytherins turned to go without a word—except for one, who stood glaring narrowly at Remus.
"I know what you are, you know," he said in a low voice. His friends paused, looking over their shoulders, ears pricked.
Remus stared the boy down. He should have known that Snape's essay had had some effect, although he hadn't known Snape had tried that tactic on anyone but the third years.
"A Pisces, you mean?" he asked, keeping his voice mild.
The boy stared defiantly back, but after a moment dropped his gaze. "Whatever," he muttered. Slouching his shoulders, he shuffled after his friends. They left, glancing thoughtfully back at Remus as they went.
Well, that could have gone a great deal worse. But it would be hard to find someone who could match Snape's abilities, either as a boy or a grown man.
Severus was poring over his books and letters, staining his fingers with ink, when he heard the sound of Dumbledore's voice engaged in pleasantries. It was time for that, then.
Pushing everything away, he pulled on his outer robe and walked out of his room, out of the quarantine ward and into Pomfrey's office nestled at the back of the main ward.
"Good afternoon, Severus," said Dumbledore, who was placing a chair for Mrs. Patil. Pomfrey was already seated behind her desk, partially obscured by towers of healing journals, notes, and old files. For the past two weeks, ninety percent of the material on her desk was to do with mind-healing and magical amnesia.
Severus took a seat without greeting any of them. He rarely spoke during these sessions. Pomfrey clearly didn't think he should be there, and Mrs. Patil just as clearly didn't understand why he was. If it wasn't for Dumbledore's indulgence, Severus would have needed to resort to magical methods of spying; but Dumbledore, for whatever reason, permitted him to involve himself in these discussions of Miss Potter's progress.
Mrs. Patil looked troubled today.
Severus swore internally. She hadn't looked troubled for days now. Once diagnosing Miss Potter's problem and starting her treatment plan, she had been cautious but consistently optimistic. But now there was a crease between her eyebrows and a vagueness in her expression, as if she were busy debating with herself.
"Mrs. Patil," said Dumbledore as he took his seat, in the manner of one opening the floor for discussion.
"I am worried about her," said Mrs. Patil without preamble. "I think. . . I think, Headmaster, that Harriet is now deliberately trying not to remember."
"I see." Dumbledore's tone gave nothing away.
Small wonder she should, Severus thought.
"Do people often do this?" Pomfrey asked, as if she needed to look further than the events of Miss Potter's life for an explanation.
"There are always things we would rather forget, but. . . I can't recall ever working with anyone who has been through the sort of trauma Harriet has—not at her age, certainly. And her age has a great deal to do with it."
Whenever he heard Mrs. Patil talk, Severus found himself wondering how someone so sensible had wound up reading tarot cards for a living. But Mrs. Patil seemed to practice an entirely different sort of Divinations than Trelawney. Perhaps that was all the explanation anyone needed, in either direction.
"We've all found ourselves sometimes dwelling on unpleasantness in our past," Mrs. Patil went on quietly, "but at this moment, Harriet has nothing to do but dwell."
And the unpleasantness dominates most of her early life, Severus thought. Everyone in this room knew it.
Mrs. Patil was silent for a moment, but then said firmly, as one who has made up her mind, for better or worse, "I believe it is time for her to be reintroduced to her friends."
"It won't overwhelm her?" asked Pomfrey, sitting up straighter.
"It may, but at this point I believe it is necessary for Harriet's health. Whatever she and Asteria talked of, it appears to have returned her to memories that make her. . ." Mrs. Patil hesitated, but then shook her head and said, "Deeply unhappy."
And Miss Potter had a great deal to be deeply unhappy about.
"If you think it best—" said Dumbledore.
A light flashed inside a small glass globe on Pomfrey's desk. Immediately she stood.
"You'll have to excuse me," she said. "Someone's come."
She whisked herself out of the office.
"If you think it best," Dumbledore resumed, speaking to Mrs. Patil, but Severus found himself distracted by a hated sound:
"Professor Lupin," said Pomfrey's voice, "what is it you need?"
"Good afternoon, Poppy. I was hoping to see Severus, if he's available."
Severus supposed he might as well go. Miss Potter was resisting memories of Petunia starving her and locking her in a cupboard; now she was going to be reunited with the aggravating Granger and the ape-brained Weasley, to speed her along to happier times; there was nothing more to be learned in this room. Perhaps Lupin had brought what he asked for. It would almost be worth enduring his company if he had.
He swept out of the office without a word. Making eye contact with Lupin, he sneered to signal that he should follow him into the quarantine ward.
"Well?" he demanded as soon as Lupin had shut the door to this hateful little room, of which he was so thoroughly sick that the setting was starting to stain his nightmares. "Did you bring it?"
Lupin fished inside his pocket and tossed him a pack of Benson & Hedges. The cellophane crinkled against his palm. The sound of it, the shape of the box, made his mouth tingle with a Pavlovian desire.
"It all feels very illicit," said Lupin. "Contraband, and all that."
"I'm in hospital, of course it's fucking illicit." Although he ached down to his toenails to split the cellophane and smoke one right fucking now, it would be taking a foolish risk with Pomfrey awake. He hid them inside his robes instead, in a pocket he'd long ago charmed with an Undetectable Extension Charm.
When he looked up, he saw Lupin staring down at the books he'd got from the library, that he'd not shut properly when he'd walked out few minutes prior. One drawing had arrested Severus with a sick feeling in his stomach: a werewolf being gored on pikes.
The expression on Lupin's face was impossible to read. . . but not like it usually was. Lupin was normally inscrutable from practice. This was the incomprehensibility of an emotion that could not be interpreted.
"Your Slytherins have been taking matters increasingly into their own hands," Lupin said mildly, looking away from the drawing, looking up at Severus, who found himself almost grateful that Lupin was not going to attempt to console either one of them. "They've been waging a kind of guerrilla warfare around the castle, ambushing groups of would-be attackers."
"I told them I could count on them," Severus said, making sure the challenge in his voice was as clear as the satisfaction.
"Everyone's becoming rather resigned," Lupin went on. "I believe they've forgotten what it was like, fifteen, twenty years ago. . . They've had the interim to forget, when things have been quieter."
But Severus found suddenly that he had no desire to relive the past. He'd got his smuggled cigarettes, and his Slytherins (as they'd reported to him) were taking care of themselves, getting a bit of their own back, in the meantime. He wanted nothing more of Lupin.
"You can get out now," he said.
Lupin nodded without any surprise. He didn't even say anything as he left.
There was nothing he could have said.
When he'd gone, and even the soft click of the shutting door had faded, Severus returned to the books. The artist had drawn a glaze of pain in the werewolf's frenzied eyes as the pikes severed its limbs from its body and gouged straight through its heart.
The corner of a moon chart protruded from beneath the book. He'd drawn it up, though he hadn't needed it. Lupin had told him that he couldn't feel the full moon coming, except psychologically. Severus knew what he meant. There was no heightened power of smell or hearing, no sense of change; there was only the anticipation of it, like a shard of bone beneath the skin.
There was no forgetting that by the time the moon rose tomorrow night, he'd know.
He didn't blame Miss Potter for wanting to forget.
Remus thought he wouldn't sleep, the night before the full. He lay in bed for hours, staring into the dark, knowing there was no way he could rest his mind and get to sleep. But apparently he'd underestimated himself, because when he closed his eyes the room was pitch dark and when he opened them it was awash with pre-dawn light, the color of fog and mercury.
Something warm and heavy was lying on his legs. Nothing warm and heavy should be lying on his legs. Blearily he raised his head, wondering what it could possibly be.
For a second, it didn't register. Then he nearly flipped himself off the mattress.
"PADFOOT!" he bellowed.
In a blink, the dog was Sirius again. His hair was still tangled and matted; his robes were still those filthy rags from Azkaban; he looked exhausted; and he did not seem in the least bit cowed.
"Good lungs on you, Moony. That's the first time you've yelled in, what, fifteen years?"
"And do you remember the last time I wrung your neck?!" Remus threw a pillow at him. The way it bounced off Sirius' filthy head was inappropriately comical. "You had better fucking find a way to Apparate yourself to Ibiza before I find my wand—"
"Hell," Sirius snorted, "if I could do that, I'd make a new identity for myself and come out of hiding, 'cause I'd be rich. Calm down, Moony."
"If you wanted me to calm down, you shouldn't have come! Merlin and Mother of Christ, Sirius, what do you think you're doing?"
"You said Holly-berry's sick. Or something—didn't quite understand what exactly was going on, but—"
Remus buried his face in his hands and collapsed backwards onto the mattress. He'd predicted it, but expecting Sirius to act like the mother of all reckless fools was a lot different than waking up with Padfoot stretched out across his legs.
"I'd say you went mad in Azkaban," he said into his hands, "except you were always like this. Godric and Jesus."
"Your half-bloodedness is showing," said Sirius. "It's indecent, my mum'd say—so I say keep it up. Look, the Dementors are gone—"
"Right, because it's safe to be a wanted criminal with soul-sucking monsters after you, as long as they're a few miles away—"
"And Dumbledore knows I'm innocent, and so do you—"
"I repeat—"
"—what else is there for me to bloody fucking do? Lie round on a beach on bloody Ibiza, sipping drinks with straws in?"
"And get a haircut." Remus scrubbed at his face. "If you don't realize why it's insane, you coming back here, I don't even know where to start drilling a hole through your metal-plated skull."
Sirius fidgeted with the edge of Remus' blanket. His fingers left sooty streaks on the counterpane.
"I could barely bring myself to leave," he said quietly in that strange, hoarse voice that Remus was no longer accustomed to, in just the three weeks Sirius had been gone. "If Holly-berry hadn't told me to go, I'd. . ." He trailed off.
Silence unspooled through the whole room, looping over them, tying them together, in some strange way.
"Why'd you send me that letter?" Sirius asked.
Remus dropped his hands away from his face and stared into the shadows on the ceiling. The light had hardly shifted at all since he'd first woken. It was going to be a rainy day.
"Because I knew it's what you'd want."
Sirius made a noise that sounded like contentment. Eventually he said, "I can't leave again."
"I know that, too."
They were silent for a longer time. Then Sirius changed into Padfoot and curled up with his head on Remus' chest. Remus rested his hand on Padfoot's matted and flea-bitten fur, and scratched behind his ears. He knew Sirius didn't go to sleep because he stayed as Padfoot; the transformation always lapsed when he fell unconscious.
Eventually he got up and ran the bath—well, a shower, to be more precise. When he turned round, he saw Padfoot sitting in the open bathroom door, looking uncertain, or as much as Remus could make out through the matted fur and doggy features.
"This is for you," Remus said, waving through the faint outlines of steam at the spacious tub. "Don't worry, I won't stay to sponge you clean."
Padfoot still didn't transform. Remus walked out of the bathroom and nudged Padfoot gently with his foot.
"It's the least I can do, after botching everything," he said gently.
That turned Padfoot into Sirius. "You and Holly-berry," he croaked. "You've got massive fucking guilt complexes, the both of you."
"You're one to talk." This was getting too serious, making Remus ache in a way he'd always done his best to avoid, for fear of its never healing. "Go on. We can cudgel our consciences when you're clean. Though I might have to get something extra for those fleas. . ."
"What, you stopped using the dog shampoo?" Sirius' tone was dry, but he was peering into the tub as if he mistrusted its very being. With a sadness that seemed to echo endlessly inside him, Remus wondered when last he'd had a bath.
"I no longer run through the woods once a month with three wild animals," he said mildly.
Sirius looked around, frowning. "What did you do, before Snape started making you that potion?"
"Take your shower," Remus said.
Sirius snorted. "Nice to know I haven't forgotten what you deflecting looks like."
"I'm going to order breakfast," Remus said, and carefully shut the bathroom door. He heard Sirius sigh behind it.
In the sitting-room, he inhaled with deliberate calm.
"Dobby," he said.
Dobby popped in, bowing. "It is being good morning, Professor Lupin Sir. How is Dobby helping Sir today, sir?"
"Good morning, Dobby. Dobby. . . I regret that I find myself needing to add to your workload for the time being. Can you make sure my rooms are cleaned, visited, attended in any way, by no elf but yourself?"
"Yes of course, Professor Lupin Sir!" said Dobby, round-eyed. Well, more round-eyed than usual.
"And can you undertake to tell no one of this arrangement? Beyond what is necessary, of course. Not punishing yourself," Remus added firmly.
"Yessir, Professor Lupin Sir!"
"Thank you, Dobby." Remus smiled at him, feeling suddenly exhausted by his eagerness. House-elves always filled him with a terrible sympathy. "I shan't add to your work any more than absolutely necessary."
"Dobby is always happy to be serving Professor Lupin Sir!"
"Thank you, Dobby," he repeated. Dobby bowed and cracked away.
Remus left a pair of his robes on a chair next to the bathroom door. They'd be too short on Sirius but perhaps not too much smaller now that twelve years in Azkaban had wasted him down to nothing.
Sirius was in the bath for a long time. Remus figured the water must have gone stone-cold ages ago. When Sirius finally emerged, his hair dripping all over the floor, he said, "Tonight's the full."
"Yes." Remus thought of Snape and felt like ice was encasing his skin from the inside, but stopping short of his heart, leaving it beating painfully hard. "I'm going to cut your hair now."
"Thank fucking Merlin," said Sirius.
Remus had to shear it incredibly close to his scalp to get past all the snarls. When he was done, Sirius looked as alien as he had with that tangled mane. Remus had always remembered his hair as being thick and shining, somewhere between long and too long, soft between his fingertips.
"I need a flea comb," he said, setting down his scissors as if he could put that memory down with it.
"Transfigure yourself one," Sirius said.
"That's your answer for everything."
"When you need something transfiguring, yeah."
Sirius ate breakfast without pausing to chew. Wolfed it down, Remus thought without any humor, not even a bleak kind. Sirius didn't use a fork, only held the plate close to his mouth and shoved the food in. When he'd scraped the plate clean with the pads of his fingers, he belched, long and loud.
"How I've missed that," Remus said dryly, while his chest ached. "I could never quite manage to replicate that volume—or duration."
"Snape still making you that potion?" Sirius asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
"No." Remus realized Sirius didn't know. He hadn't put it in the letter. "Severus has been in hospital, unable to do any magic. That spell I had him do drained him—and he cast a Patronus when the Dementors attacked you, strong enough to repel the lot of them—"
"Dumbledore told me." It was hard to tell, with Sirius' changed face, what he thought of that. Whatever he was feeling, he didn't seem to want to dwell on it. "Didn't see it, though—I passed out. Fucking useless." He was clearly of thinking of Harriet.
To get Sirius' mind off that, Remus said baldly: "And I may have bitten him."
Sirius grasped his water glass and took a long drink, watching him over the rim.
"You probably did, or everyone's just being paranoid?"
Remus felt a surge of anger. "It may not seem like a big bloody deal to you—"
"I'm just asking what really happened," Sirius said in a low, even voice.
Remus tamped down on the boil in his heart. "Poppy couldn't find any evidence. But they can't take any chances."
Sirius watched him for a long time without speaking. Remus realized he could no longer tell what was going on behind Sirius' eyes, inside his head, deep within his heart. It was strange to think he'd thought for twelve years that he'd not known those things the way he thought, only to learn he had; strange to find the ability had really gone this time.
"You're a full-grown werewolf now," Sirius said at last. "What are you going to do?"
"Albus called in a favor—discreetly—for a months' supply of Wolfsbane for me. It doesn't keep, apparently, so Severus couldn't make any extra supply. . . before."
"And Snape?" Sirius asked, his gaze not wavering. "What's he doing?"
"I haven't asked. He can't take Wolfsbane on the chance he's not infected, I know that much. The level of aconite alone would be lethal to a human."
"They're going to put you in a cage, aren't they."
Remus didn't answer him. Sirius swore.
"It's fucking inhumane—"
"I asked them to," Remus said sharply. "After what happened last month—"
"What did happen?"
Remus explained about mistakenly putting sugar in his potion, thinking it was tea, thus negating all its effectiveness.
"The Shack might not contain me anymore," he said, wondering why he was bothering to pretend that Sirius could ever be reasonable about the cage. "You know that metal can be reinforced more powerfully than wood—"
Sirius chuntered a mutinous string of swear words.
"And you know you can't come with me," Remus said. "No arguments, Sirius. No one can know you're here, Sirius—no one—except Albus, we'll have to tell him—"
"I don't want to tell anyone."
"Sirius, we cannot keep secrets from him. Not anymore. I couldn't—after everything he's done—" Even some things I haven't asked him to, some things I don't want him to have done, that it's not my privilege to refuse—
Sirius knocked back the rest of his water like it was whiskey, and then looked resignedly at the glass, as if wishing it had been.
"I'm surprised he didn't sack you, honestly," he said gruffly. "Not that I want you to get sacked, but—"
"I really can't fathom why he didn't. I deserved to get sacked, and more."
"Bollocks," Sirius said automatically.
"No, it isn't. I lied—my lies endangered all of the students, Harriet specifically—and my colleagues—I tricked Severus into doing that Dark spell, lying to him, endangering him there, on top of the rest—and in my carelessness I further endangered the lot of you by negating the Wolfsbane—"
"You didn't do that deliberately, it was an accident—"
"It wasn't deliberate, no, but it's my responsibility to make sure I'm. . . controlled during the full moon—"
"How have you been transforming, all these years?" Sirius demanded, as if by barking suddenly like that he could trap Remus into telling the truth.
"It doesn't matter."
"You locked yourself in a cage, didn't you? Or something equally shitty—Morgana's tits, Remus—"
"It doesn't matter," Remus repeated.
Sirius set his jaw. For a long moment, he didn't speak. In another life, Remus would have said his eyes were angry, hurt, disappointed.
"Call Dumbledore," he said roughly. "I want a word with him."
Harriet was getting so bloody sick of this stupid room. Asteria's picture helped loads, but it couldn't get her out of the room. It couldn't return her life to her—whatever her life had been like.
She'd woken up in this barren, empty room seven days ago. One week.
It felt like forever. Like it was all she'd ever known, sometimes.
She wanted out.
You have to remember more, they said. There is too much out there yet, it would overwhelm you, you haven't remembered enough to weather it, you must get stronger. . .
Memories pushed at her, like fish in a net: dark, cold, slimy, unpleasant; like rotting, like unhappiness, like fear. Voices, in a mist, screaming—a mirror that made her feel so desperately lonely—a man with two faces, one of them the face of a monster—a beautiful silver creature bleeding to death on the floor of a forest—
A beautiful, sparkling creature, incapable of being killed or hurt, filling her with hope and happiness. . .
It was one of the only things she remembered that she wanted to remember. And she wanted to remember more of it than she did. Whenever Anaita guided her to meditate, whenever she drifted to sleep at night, Harriet thought of that beautiful thing, trying to know what it was. . . She felt like she'd been chasing it for so long, wanting to know it, to know where it came from, why it came to her, how she could make it stay with her. . .
She could see it now, moving just ahead of her through the darkness, striped by tree trunks in winter, shining more brightly than the snow—she'd wanted to get to it, so badly, because at the other end was. . . was. . .
Bang. BANG. Kk-k-kk-BANG!
Harriet woke up fully.
Groaning, she rolled over until her face was pressed into her pillow. I almost bloody had it!
And what was that bloody noise?
Scowling, she pushed herself onto her elbow and groped for her glasses. There—the window was banging—a shutter come loose? No—something was running into it, attacking it—
It was a tiny owl, not that much larger than her fist, and gray as a dust bunny. It was hurling itself at the window with as much energy as ten owls twice its size. The sight of it was so funny that her annoyance (mostly) dissipated.
"Hang on, keep your feathers on," she said, trying not to laugh at it.
It's got a letter for you, came the thought. That's right; owls delivered letters. Like a lot of the things she'd been remembering, this felt both unnatural and yet not. She didn't understand, but she'd given up trying.
She needed to let the owl in, particularly before it started raining again, like it had been doing all day, but the windows in the quarantine ward didn't open. How to get to it, then?
She slid her gaze toward the door. Maybe one of the windows in the main wing opened. . .
She wasn't supposed to leave the room without someone with her, but no one was scheduled to come for a while. . . And besides, she was sick to death of being mollycoddled and told what she should and shouldn't think and do, who she should and shouldn't meet.
Holding her breath, she pressed her ear against the door, listening for any voices or movement. Nothing.
She eased the door open a fraction and peeped out into the corridor. Empty. All the doors off it were shut, as usual.
Pushing the door just wide enough to slip out, she tip-toed down the hall. At the door to the main hospital wing she listened again, but all seemed quiet.
When she peeped in, she found the whole room empty from stone floor to vaulted ceiling and as silent as the quarantine ward. There didn't even seem to be anyone hiding behind a privacy screen. Odd. Or maybe it wasn't?
Well, whatever it was, she wasn't going to waste the opportunity.
She stole over to the window and cranked it open. Thunder rumbled, unprotected by the muffling glass, and a ferocious wind chapped at her skin.
She whistled for the owl. A moment later, it came winging excitedly into sight, a speck in the distance, and swooped toward her.
"Just in time," she said, stretching out a hand to catch it, "you missed the rain by a hair—"
—and as her fingers closed round its fluffy little body, a memory flashed through her head of catching a small golden ball with vibrating wings; a feeling of triumph, pleasure, happiness—
She pulled the owl inside and shut the window, a bit louder than she meant to. The owl hooted happily, as if wanted nothing more than to be manhandled about.
"Shh!" Cupping it in both her hands, she darted back to the quarantine ward and pulled the door shut behind her.
Her heart jumped at the sound of one of the doors opening.
Resigning herself to the wrath of Madam Pomfrey, she turned, still cradling the owl, and came face-to-face with the man who was stepping out of his room. She saw him jerk to a stop, actually recoiling, as if she was the last person he expected, wanted to see—
—but a wave of memories was rising high, high above her, cresting over her, dragging her under; so many her head was spinning, roiling; so many she couldn't see what was happening around her. . .
She was falling. . .
She thought she was being held up, carried, but she couldn't really tell. She thought she heard him saying something to her, but she couldn't make out any of the words, not even the tone of his voice. Everything that was happening was drowned out by what she was remembering. There was so much of it she couldn't even make out individual parts; she didn't know anything yet, not even his name—
Severus, she thought.
And her memories exploded.
Miss Potter had stared at him, a look coming over her face of one being exposed to a blinding light—and then her eyes had rolled back and she'd started to collapse, boneless, to the floor—
Severus had caught her before she cracked her head, and got a face full of barmy owl. Both his hands taken with holding up Miss Potter, he couldn't smack it away, but swearing at least made the buggering thing flit off.
He carried Miss Potter—who was completely unresponsive both to his language and the volume of his voice—into her room and laid her down on her bed. She was breathing rapidly, like she was under great physical stress, and her pupils were dilated; she was awake, he supposed, but completely out of it. Locked in another time-distortion? Or were her memories doing this to her? Shit.
"Miss Potter?" he said, but she made no sign of hearing him. But nobody called her that now, did they? Mrs. Patil used her given name. She might not even know she was Miss Potter.
"Harriet?" he said through grit teeth. The name felt alien, awkward coming from himself. But there was still no reaction.
He heard a clatter in the corridor; Pomfrey's monitor must have gone haywire. Sure enough, a moment later she flung the door open. Mrs. Patil came with her, and behind her, Granger and Weasley, the former looking frightened and the latter determined.
"She was out of her room," Severus said forcefully, before Pomfrey could snap a word of reproach. "And I didn't expect her to be, since she ought not to be, and walked into her—"
Pomfrey whisked her wand over Miss Potter. "And this happened?"
"She's been completely unresponsive since."
"I'm sorry," Mrs. Patil was saying to Granger and Weasley, who were hovering in the doorway. "Your meeting will have to be postponed."
"But—" Weasley started.
"I-is this what would have happened if she'd met us?" Granger asked, face pale, voice tremulous.
"I believe so." Mrs. Patil touched Granger's shoulder, and then Weasley's, turning them gently and guiding them from the room. "We shall see how to proceed when she recovers."
Severus wished she'd just fucking throw them out, but Pomfrey saved him from losing his temper by drawing his attention wholly back to Miss Potter.
"She doesn't seem to be in any danger at present, though her body is showing signs of physical stress—but if it goes on much longer—" She turned toward Mrs. Patil, who'd managed to get rid of Granger and Weasley and was shutting the door. "What do you do when this happens?"
"This is unusual." Mrs. Patil appeared to be in full control of herself as she moved toward the bed. "I believe it's the result of her trying to process a great many memories, both natural—of the past, I mean—and unnatural, of the future." Her gaze skimmed over Severus in a way that made him bristle, although he couldn't interpret what she was thinking.
"But it didn't happen with Asteria Greengrass," Pomfrey persisted. "Surely she had future memories of her, too?"
"The significance of those memories also matters," said Mrs. Patil. Her face had an odd, shuttered expression on it, like she didn't want to be any more specific.
Pomfrey looked confused. Severus felt the same way. . . although he had a sense that what Mrs. Patil wasn't saying was extremely important, and maybe not something he wanted to hear.
"Severus," Pomfrey said then, her eyes going to the window. "You should be. . ."
Going. He should be going. Yes.
Before the moon rose.
Fuck.
Someone knocked on the door. Severus knew who it was likely to be, and moved to open it before Mrs. Patil could.
Dumbledore stood on the other side, Miss Potter's visiting owl perched on his pointed purple hat.
"This little chap has a letter for Harriet, I believe," said Dumbledore.
Reaching up, he extended his palm, and the owl hopped onto his hand. He untied the many-times-folded note and handed it to Severus, who passed it to Mrs. Patil without a word.
"I think he's a little too excitable to stay with her," Dumbledore said as Severus stepped out of Miss Potter's room, shutting the door behind her. "Is Harriet unwell? I saw Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley leaving—"
"I was just coming to find you when I ran into Miss Potter—out of her room, where she shouldn't have been." But there was a small measure of comfort: if Miss Potter was breaking rules, it was only what she normally did. She might be returning to herself. She might not have been damaged beyond repair, or changed. . .
"It's good to see her getting back to her old self," said Dumbledore as if reading his mind, twinkling in one eye.
If I didn't just ruin it. Even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't like him to blame himself for accidents.
"I apologize for being late," Dumbledore said, sounding sincere. "An unexpected matter came to my attention, but it's been dealt with for the time being." The twinkle had faded to a glimmer of compassion and fortitude. "Are you ready?"
Severus wished he hadn't asked, because it put him to the task of answering. And how should he answer? With recrimination? Contempt? Cold reserve? Fear was out of the question.
"Let's just get it over with," he said.
Dumbledore rested his hand on Severus' arm for a moment, taking him aback. But he withdrew it almost at once, as if he hadn't meant to give in to that impulse.
"Whatever happens," he said, "I will be with you."
Too little, too late, Severus wanted to sneer, but he didn't. Because it turned out not to be the case, after all.
As it turned out, he was grateful.