Title: The Memory of Stone
Author: Obsessed One
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Summary: A back up plan only works if you remember what it was.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never have been. Never will be. I make no money from this, and suing me would be pointless since I don't even fully own the laptop it was written on.
Feedback: Please feed the writer! obsessedone AT gmail DOT com!
Beta: Alas, none. I took too long writing this 18,000 word monster. A beta-read version may be posted later. Maybe.
Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm All others must ask first.
Challenge: History
The Memory of Stone
~~~*~~~
Part One
Iona, Western Alba, Early Autumn 570
When the Romans came, they were tired and weary, bogged down by illness that had plagued them from across the water and as they trekked northward to our lands. Their tempers were short and their tolerance limited only to those weak-willed enough to bow to their ways and to accept their gods. They fought against us and our ways, time and again, meeting on fields that seemed permanently stained red by the blood of brother and foe, attacking our villages, murdering our women and our children. We made strikes of our own, of course, raiding their camps and supply trains, terrorizing them and their camp-followers until their leader ordered them to build a wall.
It was a great wall that stretched from water to water, thick and strong. While our fathers wondered at why their leader would imprison his own people, no one was willing to object. It brought, in its own way, a sort of uneasy peace to our land.
At least, this is what I have been told. Everything I know about our people, I have been told, in patient tones that are usually used for gods-touched children and the feeble-minded old. My new tribe cared for me, taught me our ways, hoping that one day I would remember on my own, even though our language still feels strange on my tongue, though it flows as smoothly as a river in early summer.
I knew that they wouldn't be so patient with me if I were not gods-blessed with the powers of a priest. But while I've forgotten my own name, the name of my mother and my tribe, at least I have remembered how to ply some of my gifts, which was what found me my home with my new people; their priest, an old man with swollen joints and clouded eyes, had not made it through the last winter. So they took me in, gave me a new name and a new home and never once took both eyes off of me for three full cycles of the moon.
While the Romans had long since gone home, their wall left to slow and crumbling ruin, we had turned to the people of Alba for our new enemies. Our numbers were fewer and fewer each year, but after generations of war, it was too late to change our blood now. And with my dark hair and eyes, the way my skin was clear and unmarked in the way of our people, I know they suspected I was an enemy. Right up until the ceremony where I took my first marks, curling painfully up my spine and declaring loudly that I was of the Picts. Other marks followed without the aid of knife and ink, growing across my pale skin as I slept, the magic in my blood doing its work. I was decorated from my back to the edge of my scalp, to the sides of my neck and down the upper half of my right arm. In the six cycles of the moon that I lived with my new tribe, I developed marks enough for my entire manhood up until then.
While the warriors went on raids and hunting parties for food and other men, I would stay at the village, watching the women and learning our ways over again. I know they laughed at me behind my back, at how easily I picked up the skills of a hearth-tender, but it came second-nature to me, something I knew instinctively was part of me. I could squat beside a burning fire and mind a pot of food with one eye, cleaning the hides of prey with my hands and use my gods-given abilities to feed the flames all at once. It felt right to be useful in this way, but wrong to be there, not that I understood why.
One day, when I was doing just this, Brighde, a young woman of the village, recently orphaned and just barely old enough to be wed, sat beside me, watching me in silence for long moments. I hummed in the back of my throat one of the strange songs that came to my mind now and then, working until whatever it was she wanted came up.
“Do you not like the company of women, Eanraig?” she asked at last.
I stopped, set my knife down and wiped my hands on my tunic. Brighde, as strong-willed as the goddess she was named for, was never one to hold back on words.
“I find them just fine,” I said slowly, in case I misunderstood.
“You take none to your bed,” she said with an impatient shake of her head, the thick plait of fire-coloured hair flicking over her shoulder. “You never seem to notice the curve of a breast or the dip of a thigh.”
“Perhaps I'm just not as obvious as the rest,” I said with a shrug and scratched at my sparse beard. Unlike the other men of the village, I seemed incapable of growing a proper face of hair; something that I knew entertained them greatly.
Brighde made a sound of irritation in the back of her throat and spat in the fire. “You're impossible, Eanraig,” she said.
I grinned at her, flashing my white and even teeth before I remembered how that bothered the people of my new village. No one had teeth like mine, so strong and neat; that spoke of good farming such as couldn't be found for days' worth of walking in either direction. To cover my slip, I closed my lips and shook my head, smiling tightly.
“You're beautiful, Brighde,” I said, patting her hand. I was enough summers her senior to be able to get away with it and looking at her always seemed to put me in a brotherly mood. “But you'll want a man that isn't looked at with suspicion each day of his life.”
“They don't…”
I merely looked at her, stopping her empty protest. “I'd suggest Niall is a good man,” I said. “He is strong, honest and kind. He's also horrible with a bow and wouldn't mind his wife taking over that job.” It wasn't that I didn't like the company of women, but rather that I desired no one to warm my bed, woman or man. Something in me held back each of the few times I'd had the chance, not that I could find the words to explain it. Not even to Brighde, my only friend in the village.
Her eyes lit up. “Niall? Do you really think…?”
But her question was not to be finished, for at that moment, there was a commotion at the head of the village. Setting my tasks aside and checking that my stew wouldn't burn while I sought out gossip, I stood and brushed my knees off before offering Brighde a hand. She took it and kept it clasped in hers as she hurried to the noise, dragging me along like we were a pair of children.
The men had caught something. A man. His glittering eyes and snarling mouth were hidden beneath dirt, grime and long hair that hung in lanky clumps to the centre of his back, his clothes were ragged and mud-stained and each time someone tried to touch him, I half-expected him to snap like a wounded dog. I stayed back, quietly doing the rudimentary magic I still remembered, looking for curses and danger. He had power in him, I could sense this. Power and anger.
“What is this about?” Brighde spoke for all of us, her hands fisted and braced against her hips. “You're not a war party.”
Donaidh turned to the other men and rolled his eyes. “We know that,” he said in the sort of tone used with children. “But plans change, little Brighde.”
Brighde sniffed at him. “Talk to me like that again and your plans for more bairns will be changing too, Donaidh.”
There was a brief moment of silence, and then the men erupted into laughter. Donaidh's face turned red, but Seumas just slapped him on the back. “You'll not win this fight, brother,” he warned, pushing his friend back into their ranks to watch over the prisoner.
“We went to visit the Christ Man on the mountain,” Seumas said, his voice carrying over the village's growing chatter. At that, my neighbours fell silent around me; the Christ Man cast circles without walking them and didn't summon the Lady to his altar of stone, it was said. He spoke of strange magic, of men raised from the dead. The men of our village had decided it was time to understand this strange priest, the Christ Man with the strange words that had come from across the water. It was said, even, that the Christ Man had saved the life of one of our own, a Pict who had fallen from his boat and was attacked by a beast of the deep. And now they had returned, with more than just tales for sharing around fires.
I should have objected to this pilgrimage in the first place, I knew, but instead kept silent. How could I be their spiritual leader, if I didn't even know fully what we believed yet?
“What of the Christ Man?” I spoke up, eyes drawn to the bound man. His was the tale I most wanted to hear, but I knew you couldn't rush the words of a storyteller and Seumas had always loved to weave his tales.
“The Christ Man speaks madness,” Seumas said and as one, the village leant closer, already intrigued. “He says there is but one god and no magic but miracles and prayers. He has a book of stories to prove himself and he says he will come to visit us before the winter and tell them to us. He says his god told him to come and talk to us.”
I felt eyes on me, everyone glancing to see how I would take this news of a rival holy man. Surrounded by my tall and solid clan, knowing they were dying of curiosity to see if the Christ Man truly was as mad as Seumas claimed, all I could do was shrug in disinterest. “A few more stories to pass the winter never hurt a village,” I said. “We know the truth of the Lady, after all.”
There was a murmur of agreement around me and I breathed a sigh of relief. Brighde gave my hand a brief squeeze before turning her attentions back to Seumas.
“But what of him?” she demanded. “Does the Christ Man give slaves to prove his words?”
“We caught him lurking around our camp,” Donaidh piped up. “He might have slit out throats in our sleep if I hadn't seen him.” The crowd rippled in blood-thirsty pleasure; it was not a good story without some danger, after all.
“The Christ Man told us we'd be ill-omened for our trip home if we killed a fellow traveller,” Seumas added. “He said we'd be cursed by his god for being so dishonourable.”
“But he didn't say there was anything wrong with making him a slave,” Donaidh added, poking the prisoner in the back with the butt end of his spear.
“Do not touch me again,” the prisoner snarled abruptly, turning around as best as his bindings would allow, eyes flashing with deadly intent. “Or I will see to it that your family line ends here and now.”
The men looked at each other nervously, sensing the threat of a curse for what it was. Seumas, always the one with more brash than brains, laughed much more loudly than he needed to, stepping forward.
“Your threats are pointless,” he said, sticking his thick chest out. “Our priest will protect us. Won't you, Eanraig?”
My mouth went dry at that. Everyone knew I was hardly more useful than a novice, but now I had to play the part of a full priest? Trying desperately to swallow, I stepped forward.
“Of course,” I croaked out and the men laughed, both at me and at the way their captive held so very still at the sight of me; short and slight, my eyes always squinting because I never could manage to see anything but the closest things properly, I wasn't the most imposing of characters. I didn't even wear armour, instead favouring the simple cloth tunics of the priesthood that I didn't really know the rules of. In fact, the most unusual feature I had were the twin scars upon my forehead, shaped like fire bolts. One had been old when my life began anew, the other a wicked cut that Brighde had sewn shut clumsily that day that she had found me.
Seumas laughed again, this time without his earlier fear. “I think we know who to give our new captive to,” he said and I couldn't help the embarrassed flush that brought to my face. My home was one of the few without a slave to tend it; I had no family, no fighting skills. I existed solely on the good will of the rest of my clan and here was another example of that grudging charity, back-handed but still necessary. The others nodded in agreement with Seumas, most likely because none of them wanted a slave like this man, with his proud eyes and defiant words. No matter how troublesome, slaves were depended on and when you were forced to kill one, it always left no end of extra work for you to do.
I sighed. “I thank you, my brothers,” I said stiffly, and then looked to my newest possession. “Come with me. You're filthy and I'll not have you making a mess of my home.” When I turned around to lead the way to the area of our river reserved for bathing, something my clan could not understand my affinity for, I saw Brighde looking at me encouragingly, smiling with pride. I managed a weak smile back; little did she know that I honestly had no idea what I'd do with a slave.
~*~*~
“Harry! Stop him!”
Hermione's scream carried over the shouts and explosions of dogged hexes, moans of pain of friend and foe alike. Harry turned his head to see just as Hermione's eyes went wide with surprise, crossed and rolled back in her skull. She crumpled like a bundle of rags, revealing Lucius Malfoy behind her.
“Stop him, Harry!” he mocked in a falsetto, throwing the heavy piece of wrecked furniture away, one side stained with Hermione's blood. He smirked at Harry, and then deliberately put his blank mask on once more.
Harry's eyes narrowed and his hand tightened until his knuckles went white. He'd get Malfoy; make him pay, save Hermione…
A hand landed on his shoulder, thin fingers digging hard into Harry. Snapped out of his rage, Harry whirled around with his wand at the ready, his other hand on the knife he kept hidden at the small of his back.
“Don't bother. You'd have been dead by now, anyhow, Potter,” Snape growled, slapping Harry's hands away. “Worry about her later. We have something to do now .”
Nodding tightly, Harry followed the tall, skinny figure through the hole in the ruined castle wall. Behind them, the fighting continued, but Harry couldn't spare the time to look back. Not again.
Snape flattened himself against a wall, near another gaping hole, this one charred about the edges, the steel plating on the other side still glowing faint orange from the heat as it curled away from them. Inside the next room, sirens blared and lights flashed, revealing dark-robed figures scurrying about in the smoke. There was an irritated snarl and the noise cut off instantly, though the lights continued to strobe. Harry's lip curled distastefully; bastard was probably doing it for effect.
“Finally,” Voldemort's voice sliced through the silence, a high, raspy whisper that turned Harry's stomach. “The Stone…”
Beside Harry, Snape began to rummage through the myriad of pockets in his robes, muttering, gathering various items and putting them in a small bag, shaking them together. Harry dearly hoped it was another contingency plan, something less drastic than their other one. One that would stop Voldemort before he reached the Stone of Destiny. Which would be soon, if his sibilant grand standing was any indication.
“Do you believe in destiny, Harry?” Voldemort called out. Harry started, but stayed put when Snape pressed a hand to his chest, holding him still. “I know you're there. You and your precious turncoat. Please, stay out there; I'd much rather have the pleasure of killing you both with my bare hands.”
~*~*~
Iona, Western Alba, Mid Autumn 570
I woke from the strange dream, my heart pounding and sweat cooling on my brow. It had been terrifying, that dream, but even as I tried to put the fear and anxiety into words, the details faded away in the shadows of my home, the faint glow of my banked hearth soothing in its familiarity.
Knowing that there would be no more sleep tonight, that once I had one of my elusive dreams the night was ruined for rest, I pushed away the thin, scratchy blanket, already worn almost completely through at my toes by the time that I'd received it and sat up. I stepped carefully over the sleeping form of my reluctant slave, curled on his pallet on the floor near my bed and picked up my cloak. Perhaps some fresh air, free of wood smoke and body odour, would calm me enough to think; somehow, I knew that the dreams were the key to my past.
I walked away from the village, leaving my small house and unwilling life behind as I made my silent and familiar way to the trees and hills that surrounded us. There was something about this pace, the roll of the hills and the quiet movement of the lake that the others avoided as “cursed,” that spoke to me. I felt comfortable here, like I almost belonged in a way that I knew I didn't in the village, with those people that could never honestly be called mine.
Sighing, I leaned back against the rough bark of a tree and watched the way the moonlight reflected across the gentle ripples of the lake's surface. Who knew what lurked beneath, waiting to be revealed as it burst forth from the murky depths…
“I've been told a slave is to guard his master,” a bitter voice said behind me. “How am I to do that if you sneak off in the middle of the night all the time?”
I turned, confused about the hint of amusement in his voice, but my slave had his eyes turned to the ground.
“I'm sorry, Sormr,” I said, shrugging. “I only wanted a walk. Go back to bed; I'll be fine.”
“Of course you will,” he snorted and leaned against a nearby tree, close enough to watch me but still just beyond arm's length. I always thought it strange that it seemed to pain him to be any nearer, but since I myself felt the fundamental wrongness in my owning this proud man, as though he were a stew pot or a scroll, I chose not to comment on it.
“Do you miss your home, Sormr?” I asked, wondering what it was like to know what you'd lost.
He tensed but did not jump like I somehow knew he wanted to. “Not really, no,” he said at length. “Home is… a relative term.”
“There's no one there for you to miss? No family, friends?”
There was a long pause and I wondered if perhaps I'd gone too far past the line between master and slave again. The last time, I'd served him first from our night meal, unthinking and still unused to the idea of being considered above someone else. I'd done other things as well; walking beside him, insisting on using his given name, which he'd told me grudgingly and I still suspected to be false. In the single cycle of the moon since I'd been given him, we'd shared living space so much that I couldn't help but treat him as an equal at the very least. A man more than twenty summers my senior did not deserve to be treated as less than a village dog.
He lowered his head, the curtain of his long black hair falling forward and hiding his face. I knew that his jaw would be tense and his eyes closed, though I'd never seen him morose before. The instinctive familiarity stirred something in me and my hands itched to touch him, to trace the long crooked nose and the sharp lines of his face that he kept stubbornly free of a beard, as though I could read my past through my fingertips.
“There's no one there,” he said at length. How could a man go through as much life as he and not have ties?
“No one?” But I knew even as I said it, that his response would be,
“No one.” He straightened, drew his shoulders back and gathered himself as though shouldering a full tunic of the ringed armour warriors wore. He would leave now; leave me alone, just like I'd always been. Alone, ever since my parents…
“It's late,” he said quietly and I almost missed that as I was wrenched out of the strange thoughts whirling in my mind. “But the moon is full. Be careful on the path, Master.” He turned and made to leave.
“Wait!” The word tore from me, echoing off the vast lake. I reached for him and stepped closer, breaking the perpetual distance. “Wait, Sormr.” My fingers grabbed his arm, thin and bony, but I knew there to be strength unmeasured in him.
“Master,” he said with a hint of pleading in his voice. He refused to look at me.
Now that I had him here, I didn't know what to say. I'd only wanted him to stay, to keep me in quiet company a bit longer. But instead of asking this, I said the first thing that came to mind. “I know you, don't I? Not from here, but before. I know you, I'm sure of it.”
His head shot up and he pinned me with a hard stare, eyes coal-black in the night dark around us. “How much do you remember?” he asked cautiously.
I'd never told him of my memory loss. True, the other slaves likely knew from their masters, but Sormr had made it a point to avoid everyone in the village. The only way he'd have known there was something wrong would be if he'd known me before. My heart beat fast -- as excited as I was -- and my hand tightened, the warmth of his skin branding against my palm in contrast to the cool night air.
He was waiting for an answer, so I swallowed and stepped closer, my voice going lower, close to a whisper.
“Nothing,” I confessed. “There has been nothing familiar in this life since I've come here. Until you.” I felt a blush rising over my face and an overwhelming urge to run away filling me, but I held my ground. There was no other choice, part of me knew; the same part that recognised this man in a visceral way. “Tell me, Sormr,” I pled with him.
His eyes closed for a moment and for a few heartbeats I thought he might actually tell me. That he might open the gates to my mysterious past and I'd finally know who I was.
“Knowledge is worthless if you don't discover it on your own… master.” The words were flat and lifeless, my title added on as hardly more than an afterthought. I wanted to insist he call me by my name, but even I couldn't bring myself to break past that wall that seemed even thicker than it ought to be.
I scowled and stepped back, letting go of his arm. “There's nothing to be learned from ignorance but danger,” I said as I turned away. The words had come up from the dark part of me that I couldn't unlock, that he was refusing me the key to and that was enough to make my bitterness grow. “Go back to bed, Sormr.”
There was silence behind me as I tried to ignore the presence at my back. I looked out across the lake, at the moon and the hills, the winking lights of a village on the far side, but my calm from before, as empty and lonely as it had been, was missing. I felt restless, angry, helpless.
Sormr sighed. It was a heavy sound, full of frustration and it clearly echoed my feelings. “You'll understand eventually,” he said. “But there isn't the slightest chance you'd be able to grasp it all now.”
With a snort of disbelief, I crossed my arms and widened my stance like a warrior bracing for impact. I didn't fool myself into thinking it made me look at all battle-ready, but then that wasn't the point at all.
“It won't help you to lead you by the hand, Eanraig ,” he said, voice low and silky, but there was a definite note of sarcasm under the smooth familiarity. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled in awareness and my back felt warm, as though he were just behind me. “Eventually, you might even get that idea, as well.”
A cool breeze ruffled my hair and lifted the tense beads of sweat from my brow, and then he was gone. It was a strangely empty feeling, being alone even though that was how I'd existed since I could remember. Shaking my head, I did my best to shake off the feeling of being abandoned.
After a while of watching the moon making its progress across the inky sky, I gave up trying to find peace. Heart full of resentment, I turned and made my careful way back to the village, fully aware of the dark, glittering eyes of my slave following my every move as he silently followed in the shadows.
~*~*~
I leaned on my hoe and wiped at the sweat on my brow, turning to grin at Sormr as he tucked a bit of hair behind his ear. We'd gotten a late start on the planting, but the rutabagas would grow large and quickly, ready to be harvested during the winter when our neighbours would be well into their dried and cured stores.
“We're going to have quite the surprise for everyone,” I said, pleased with the work we'd accomplished.
“You shouldn't share with them,” Sormr pointed out, voice as dry as the grain in the village fields. “They wouldn't with us.”
“A priest leads by example,” I said, brushing off my hands and half-laughing at Sormr in order to hide the agreement I felt. “Besides, what am I going to tell them when they insist on knowing why you and I spent a day beating at the earth when the harvest is already done?”
“Let them think we're mad, for all I care,” Sormr said, shrugging and gathering up our supplies. “It's better to be underestimated; then no one will know what you can truly do.” He handed me two of the four empty baskets, and then hung the other two from his hoe. He shouldered the pole and turned to me expectantly.
I shrugged back at him. “If there's one thing that not having any memory has taught me,” I said, “it's that nothing's ever that simple.”
For a moment, Sormr just looked at me as though he didn't recognise me. Then his lips twitched into a smile as he chuckled. It was a strangely warm sound, if a bit rusty from lack of use.
“Maybe…” he began, but stopped, the smile fading from his face as he focused on something behind my shoulder. Suspicion flashed in his dark eyes and his lips compressed, face shuttering so quickly I wondered if he'd ever been smiling at all.
I turned around, but saw nothing amiss with the quietly milling herd of sheep, blurry in the distance, nor with the two dark figures watching over them from the shade of the lone ancient tree in the middle of the grazing field. While the sheep were usually left on their own, the growing autumn had brought with it a gradual increase in trouble with wolves and mountain cats. An extra pair or two of eyes on what would be the village's primary source of fresh meat in the coming season could only be a good thing.
“What is it?” I asked, turning back.
Sormr shook his head. “Nothing, Master,” he said instead of using my name with the easy familiarity we had when alone. I scowled, but he continued on before I could object. “It's almost time to check on that willow bark I left to boil. Let's go.”
Nodding, I lifted my hoe and balanced it over both of my shoulders, arms looped over the pole as I stretched out the tired muscles of my back. The empty baskets bumped gently as I moved and turned to look at Sormr and expecting him to follow me. But instead, he was looking up at the sheep and their herders still, forehead puckered in thought.
“What is it?” I asked again, more insistent.
“I think there's a storm brewing,” he said with a last glance to the sheep and the red sunset that was just beginning to stain the wispy clouds in the western sky. Then he shook himself and focused on me again. “Come along, then,” he said coolly, brushing past me.
I stood there for a moment longer, gaping at his back. Then I gathered myself and followed after, trotting behind his long-legged stride for a few steps before falling into step with him. I laughed suddenly, drawing a scowl from him.
“What's so funny?” he asked, eyes suspicious, this time of me.
“You're a terrible slave, Sormr,” I said with a crooked grin. “My brothers were fools to think you'd be otherwise.”
“Maybe they were hoping I'd slay you in your sleep,” he deadpanned.
I blinked up at him. He was probably more right than he had any idea. “Maybe,” I said slowly. “But then who would put up with you?”
~*~*~
The Forbidden Forest, Early Spring 2005
Gray light dappled the canvas walls of the tent, filtered down through the ancient and gnarled branches that sheltered those below from the threatening and pregnant clouds that rolled across the sky on rumbles of distant thunder. Inside the tent, Harry and Snape slept uneasily, clothes sodden and torn and their gear crammed into the small Muggle tent around them. While a late season frost covered the world around them, inside the tent, it was body-warm and almost comfortable for it.
Harry shifted uneasily, rolling closer to the warm body beside him. Instinct had him burrowing into a welcoming and surprisingly strong embrace and for a moment, he wondered if he hadn't dreamt the skirmish from the night before, the blood and death, the desperate flight into the woods where they didn't dare use so much as a warming charm. He nosed along a thin neck, stubble scratching at his face; warm, familiar scents assailed his nostrils and Harry relaxed further until he placed where he'd smelled them before.
It was the bitter tang of bone-mending potions that brought reality crashing in and Harry blinked in surprise as he pulled back from his unlikely bed mate, hoping Snape wasn't already awake.
“Good morning, Potter,” Snape said, though his morning-rough voice lack the usual sardonic jab. “I trust you slept well?”
“Erm…” Harry said, knowing he must be blushing, but less occupied with hiding that than he was with hiding the helpless morning erection that was pressed against Snape. “Well enough, I reckon,” he finally muttered. “You?”
Snape snorted. “Like a baby, I assure you,” he said, but didn't let go of Harry just yet. “Have you any injuries we didn't find last night?”
“No,” Harry said quickly, and then paused to take mental stock of himself; his right hand throbbed dully from the gash that was already bandaged snugly, his right knee burned from a wicked wrench he'd taken in a fall and his back felt like it was one giant knot from carrying packs full of magical items over kilometres of uneven terrain. “No,” he said again, more certain this time. “I'm fine.”
Snape's dark eyes searched Harry's face for a moment. “Good. It would be most inconvenient for you to die of some trivial injury at this point.”
Harry rolled his eyes, relaxing a bit. “I'm so very glad you care,” he muttered.
But instead of the sarcastic retort Harry expected, Snape was quiet for a long while. “Of course I care,” he said quietly, and Harry's breath froze in his lungs. Snape shifted closer, and Harry found their bodies pressed together once more. “Everyone cares what happens to you.”
Harry drifted closer, mind fogging slightly from the warmth and closeness, precious commodities any more these days. “Everyone needs their figurehead,” he murmured. “And their enemy.”
“That too,” Snape said, one hand splayed across Harry's back, the thin, bony fingers warm even through the damp layers of clothes. “Even Albus had those who called him friend as well as leader.”
“Does that mean we're friends?” Harry asked, momentarily surprised that the emptiness that talk of the late headmaster usually brought didn't come. But then that thought was gone, because Snape was so very close and Harry could smell his bitter breath, knew that his own probably wasn't much better and he found that he didn't care. “You and me?”
Snape shook his head slowly, lips quirked bitterly. “Not in the slightest,” he said, breathing against Harry's mouth in the instant before he closed the space between them and kissed him.
Harry's entire body jolted at the kiss, arching closer to Snape's, arm winding about Snape's thin waist, mouth parting and tongue darting out to lick at dry and chapped lips. Shifting impatiently, Harry moaned softly, squirming and trying to deepen the kiss. It had been too long since he'd been touched in passion and even then it hadn't been enough; nothing ever seemed to be able to remove the great empty, desperate part of Harry that should have been filled by normal human contact.
He didn't care that it was Snape he was kissing. The sharp dig of the other man's hipbone against Harry's arm, the strong, blunt fingers clutching at his back, the rasp of tongue to tongue; this was what mattered, because it made him feel alive. He felt more than just half-wild and pushed, deepening the kiss, rubbing their bodies together.
Snape gave a soft groan, and then pushed back, breaking off the kiss. “Harry,” he panted. “Harry, stop .”
Harry blinked myopically at Snape, hands paused in their effort to worm under his clothes. Deciding he must have heard wrong, he ducked his head to attack Snape's neck, fingers stumbling over buttons and hips grinding against Snape's. His heart was hammering, veins on fire with the primal beat of desire and Harry wanted more of it, more of this wonderful, out of control desperation.
“I said stop,” Snape said, pushing harder, sending Harry back enough for them both to scramble onto their knees. “I didn't kiss you for this.”
Harry growled and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Plans change, Snape,” he said, pupils dilated and eyes fixed on the open collar of Snape's shirt. “People die. And unless you don't actually want me, I suggest we don't waste the chance to change your plan.”
Snape's mouth twisted bitterly. “I'll not be your last fuck before dying, Potter ,” he said. “So you can get that idea out of your head, right this instant.”
“But everything could be my last,” Harry argued, crawling close again. “Or yours. We should treasure each chance, Snape.”
“Exactly.” Snape's agreement managed to stop Harry dead in a way that nothing else had. Head cocked to the side in question, Harry waited for the older man to go on. “I want things I can treasure. Not some mindless rutting in the middle of the woods with some man-boy that won't even say my name.” He speared Harry with a long look, full of a hundred unspoken things. “I want to have something that means something despite all the impermanence that surrounds us. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
Harry thought he might, but a part of him was incredulous that he'd even have the balls to so much as think that Snape was saying he wanted a real relationship with him. Him, the one who had tried to kill him, who had suspected him of evil plots great and small, who had taken far too many years to learn to even say ‘thank you' for saving his life. Most likely it was the lonely part of Harry's heart doing more than its own fair share of wishful thinking. Besides… a relationship with Snape ? They scarcely got along as working partners!
“I… I don't think I do,” he finally admitted. “What are you saying?”
But Snape just shook his head. “It won't help it I lead you along by the hand,” he said. “But maybe you'll get it on your own, eventually.”
~*~*~
Gasping, I woke suddenly. The dream had felt so real , so familiar. Images of Sormr, wearing strange clothes and looking at me as though he could undress me with his eyes alone, feelings of desperation and desire, panting mouths and eager hands, hard and hot kisses…
I groaned, shifting restlessly in my bed. The dream conversation was slipping away already, but the rest lingered, pulsing through me, slow and wickedly enjoyable. The rough-spun cloth of my night clothes scratched at my skin and I groaned again as I twisted under the sheets, pulling off my tunic impatiently.
“Are you all right?”
I froze, Sormr's voice shocking me in the midst of my addled haze. I turned to him, his face thrown into shadows from the red coals of the fire and for a moment my vision blurred and greyed, like pre-dawn light through thinly-stretched hides. Reality faded and bled into the memories of my dream and I reached for him with a wordless sound, pulling Sormr into bed with me.
“I'm fine,” I said, rolling and pinning him beneath my smaller body. “Now.”
“Stop,” he said, the command ripped from him. “Get off of me.”
But his words just washed over me, the idea of stopping so foreign that I dismissed it at once. Instead, I kissed him, licking at his mouth, tasting the mint tea he always made for us at the end of each night. He was pushing at my shoulders, but I only nipped at his lips, still kissing, knowing full well he could push me clear of the bed if he really wanted free.
And then his mouth parted on the softest of moans and rational thought deserted me when his tongue snaked out to touch mine. Struggling free of the sheet, I straddled Sormr, bare from the waist up as I kissed him and he kissed me back, rocking up against me. My fingers tangled in the long, slick locks of his hair, surprisingly free of knots and I groaned into the kiss.
This felt familiar, right, even more than what I had just dreamt of, and I desperately wished I could remember what to do next, to have more than this. I shifted and suddenly our hard lengths were aligned side-by-side, rubbing through our leggings as we kissed and moved and grabbed. He was panting and shaking under me, his eyes closed and just as needy as I was.
“Sormr,” I gasped, tearing my mouth from his only to kiss his neck, tasting wood smoke, salt and something cool and green, like the plants he loved to add to our food. “Sormr…”
He jerked and started pushing at me again when I said his name. “Stop,” he said, rolling us over. The move rubbed against my hard length and I groaned, clutching at him. Whimpering, I rocked up against him, my eyes pleading.
“Don't,” I breathed, pulling him back down, trying to kiss him again. “Please…”
“No,” he said, covering me with his body. He was surprisingly heavy for his reed-thin form and he was deadweight atop my squirming need. “Not like this, Harry,” he whispered in my ear.
“But I need ,” I whined pitifully. I let my arms drop to my sides, though I still tried to kiss him again, tried to capture his mouth and recapture the mood. “I need, Sormr. Please.”
“Not everything is always about what you want,” he growled, rolling away from me and climbing off the bed in one smooth motion.
I sat up, reaching for him instinctively. “Wait…”
But when he turned at my voice, I saw the anger flashing in his eyes, bright and as dangerous as lightning. His hair was dishevelled, his tunic hung off one pale and bony shoulder and his lips were kiss-swollen, yet he stood arrow-straight and with that ingrained pride I had sensed on the first day I had seen him. He arched an eyebrow expectantly and with bare minimum patience.
“Never… nothing,” I stammered, shoulders slumping forward.
He sneered at me, bitterness and hurt lurking beneath the curl of his lips, and sketched a low bow.
“By your leave, Master ,” he spat, and then whirled away, snatching up winter cloak and boots before yanking the door open, the hinges creaking dangerously as he slammed the door shut behind him.
I sat there for a long while, confused by my own actions and desires. Doubtless, they had to do with whatever it was that Sormr was keeping from me about my past. I could only wish to know what it was that I'd done wrong this particular time, because kissing the man that was supposed to be my servant was the first thing I'd done in this new life of mine that felt so absolutely right.
~*~*~
Part Two
“And you haven't asked him yet?” Brighde rolled her eyes as she picked up one of my newly-made arrows to check the fletching. Winter was fast approaching and the entire village was banding together to gather supplies enough for the coming time of snow and cold, an activity I'd even been drawn into. Apparently satisfied, she grabbed another. “Honestly, Eanraig, what am I going to do with you?”
“I wouldn't know, but I'm sure it involves telling me what to do,” I muttered, wondering what had possessed me to tell Brighde about that night a fortnight earlier, when I'd kissed Sormr and he'd kissed me back, only for the morning to dawn cold and lonely with an invisible barrier, greater than the Romans' wall between me and my slave.
Brighde hit me across the back of the head for my comment. “You shouldn't have asked my advice, in that case,” she pointed out.
I rubbed the sore spot she left, scowling. “What ever happened to respecting a priest and his power?” I asked.
“That wouldn't be a problem if you knew what you were doing,” Brighde said airily. “Besides, you and I might hand fast any day now. You won't curse your love, would you?”
“Pardon?”
She laughed at my wide-eyed look. “Niall's dragging his feet about asking for my hand, so I've taken matters into my own hands. Speaking of taking matters into your own hands,” she said, winking at me. “If you don't actually do something about this mess you've gone and made because of your prick, nothing will get better and well you know it. What if Sormr's just lost his lover? Or he doesn't like that sort of company from other men? The last you need is a man who knows where you sleep and keep your medicines to be angry with you. Especially when he makes your meals.”
“That's easy enough for you to say,” I grumbled, snatching an arrow from her hands, folding a feather over as I did. “I don't think I can talk to him about this. It's just so strange.” I cursed at the broken fletching, fingers dancing over the wasted work. A strange word floated to the front of my mind, a whisper of a thought, and then before my eyes, the feather repaired itself.
“Eanraig,” Brighde said quietly, taking the arrow from my hands and setting it down among the others. “You can do much more than you think you can.”
I looked up at her, confused. But her bright blue eyes were just as empty of answers as I was. No one in our village would be able to explain my gifts to me. None save the one man who I suspected was planning on never speaking to me again.
“I'll talk to him,” I said at last, eyes closing as I nodded in agreement. “Tonight.”
“ Now ,” she said firmly. “Talk to him now. I'll finish checking these.”
I spared her a smile, as tight as it was not entirely grateful as I stood and left my home in search of my slave. It had been snowing slowly and steadily all morning and though it would like as not melt off within an hour of the fall's stop, snow covered the world for now, blanketing it in gentle white. It was then, as I looked across the unfamiliar white landscape, that I realised I had no idea where to find Sormr; since the beginning, I'd given him free run, though now it was coming back to haunt me. I couldn't ask my neighbours if they had seen Sormr, either. Not if I wished to avoid more scorn than necessary, or to accidentally make them think Sormr had run away and was in need of punishment.
Deciding to try the quiet places I had gone with Sormr trailing behind me, scowling at the trees and thoroughly unhappy about his self-appointed guard duties, I turned my back on the village and made my way up the hillside. Soon enough, I spotted a lone set of human tracks that I knew must be Sormr's, as none from the village were comfortable with venturing into the woods alone.
The tracks ended at the tree line, the undergrowth and the trees too dense to allow for a regular path or even for much snowfall. Aimless, I wandered, letting my thoughts dance about. How had I known how to fix the feather? What language was the word I'd only needed to think? Was it the language of my true people? And if so, did Sormr know this language as well?
Lost in my questions and confusion, I almost tripped over Sormr when I did find him, perched on a rock and gazing out at the lake. He looked over his shoulder at me, huffed irritably, and then looked away without a word.
I wanted nothing more than to just turn around and leave. Surely, things would resolve themselves if we left them alone. And if I never recovered more of my memory than a few spells to fix things, then perhaps I'd be able to accept my fate one day...
“Who is Harry?” I asked abruptly, the words flying out of my mouth before I could lose my nerve. The name felt right rolling over my tongue and I tried it again. “You called me Harry... is that my name?”
“If you're looking for a pat on the head and a sweet for figuring out the blatantly obvious, you've come to the wrong person,” Sormr said in a voice as cold as the air around us. “I haven't the energy to play these games any longer.”
The wind gusted, blowing snow into my hood and I drew my cloak more snugly to my body. My fingers were going numb as I knotted them in the wool of my clothes and my feet felt heavy as I came closer to Sormr and sat on a rock beside him. The cold of the stone seeped through in a matter of heartbeats, but I refused to move.
“Maybe the games would go better if I knew the rules,” I suggested, squinting at the high, pale clouds that put a ceiling on the world. “Or even knew what was going on at all.” I barely resisted cringing at that; I hadn't meant to sound so petulant, but it had just come out so naturally.
Sormr snorted. “Ever the same spoilt boy,” he drawled. “What ever possessed me to think that you…” he trailed off and pressed his lips together, jaw set stubbornly.
I scratched at my beard as I waited for him to go on, breaking off a few bits of ice that had formed from my breath. “Fine,” I said, eyes narrowed when it became clear he wasn't going to say anything else. “Then tell me this at the very least, because everything else aside, it's obviously important now , much more so than my wanting to know about then ; we were lovers, Sormr?”
That got him to look at me, eyes pinning me to the spot with something unnameable and I barely resisted the urge to squirm in discomfort, to look down at the toes of my shoes, slowly soaking through with the damp snow. The silence stretched and lengthened until I looked up at him, daring to repeat the question with my eyes.
“Would you like us to have been?” he asked instead of answering.
“Not very much just now, no,” I answered honestly. “You're a stubborn bastard that won't answer simple questions, won't tell me what I've done wrong and you only told me my name by pure accident. You're rude, cold and entirely unfriendly. To be honest, I'd rather we'd never met if it weren't for the fact that you're one of the few here that treat me like just another person, instead of a nuisance or a cursed stone without a mind of my own. All I've wanted since I've come here is to be treated like everyone else and you... well, you don't really, but it's close enough that I'm not for splitting hairs.”
“There's nothing special about being like everyone else,” he remarked in a soft voice.
“Exactly.”
Sormr laughed at that. “Only you,” he said, shaking his head, “would have a life's ambition to be less than you are.” His voice was soft and I wondered that maybe he hadn't meant to say that out loud. Not that I was going to let it pass me by, of course; every hint to my past was precious.
“Tell me,” I begged, turning to face him. “Tell me who I am?” He scowled slightly, but I was certain I could see his resolve cracking beneath it all. Determined, I pushed again. “I know I don't belong here, that there's something I ought to be doing, but every time I try to remember what it is, it just slips away. Give me something more than my name. Please?”
When Sormr turned to face me, I held my breath in anticipation. The wind gusted, making the tree branches creak and crackle behind me, the dry underbrush shifting restlessly as a small animal moved somewhere nearby.
“Eanraig. Harry ,” he said softly.
I licked my cracked and chapped lips. “Yes?” The word was barely spoken, but I knew that he'd heard me. There was another animal behind me now, making more noise than the small forager I'd thought it to be at first. Awareness prickled across the back of my neck, my legs tensed and my right hand itched to hold something smaller than the dirk strapped to my belt.
“Run!” Sormr yelled, pushing me face-first to the ground just as the rock I'd been on exploded. The air filled with pebbles and stone shards, earth and snow flying upwards for an instant. Sormr stood, hand wrapped tightly around a stick as long as his forearm. He saw me, sprawled on my back and stunned. “I said run !” he shouted, another boulder meeting the same fate as the first.
I scrambled back, rocks digging into my palms. Sormr crouched low to the ground, eyes scanning the trees. Hands shaking, I drew my dirk, fingers curling around the handle. My back bumped against the rough bark of a tree, needles crackled underfoot and I peered through the low branches, squinting into the forest.
Silence held for a handful of rapid heart beats, and then it held some more. My eyes scanned back and forth once before I gave up and closed my eyes to say a prayer to the Lady.
There. To the left. I opened my eyes and went to warn Sormr, but instead pointed my dirk like a sceptre and shouted a strange word.
“ Impedimenta !” I bellowed, every hair on my body standing on end as all of the energy rushed out of my fingers in a ball. I sagged against the tree, eyes wide as a branch came hurling out of the forest, and then just stopped. It hung in the air, a few hands' breadth from Sormr's head. His head whipped around, glittering eyes seeking me, but I couldn't have explained if I tried.
There was another rustle in the woods. Sormr pointed his stick and yelled, a stream of red light shooting from him and hurtling away. I heard something exploding, wood splintering, earth hitting earth and trees and a heavy thud that could only have been a body collapsing. I whooped in victory, ready to rush out of my hiding place and join Sormr.
“Stop!” He wasn't even looking at me as he held up his empty hand, index finger extended in warning. “There's another...”
I froze, eyes darting back and forth. I saw nothing, heard nothing, but Sormr did not relax. Maybe the other one had fled when his partner fell, I wondered. I opened my mouth to suggest as much, but the words never came.
From the cover of the trees, I heard someone snarl a strange word, different than the one I'd used moments before. Still, there was a strange power behind it that made my stomach clench in foreboding. Above my head, there was a terrific cracking noise, the groan of an ancient tree being abused and the trunk at my back shuddered.
I looked up to see the sky falling. The tree exploded in slow motion, a shower of snow and pine needles and splintered wood. I could only watch as it fell, Sormr's warning shout faint to my ears. A large branch, turning end on end, fell toward me and I knew in that instant that I was about to die.
An invisible hand pushed at my back, shoving me forward and flying above the ground and out of the way of my doom. I bounced across the ground, hands and face scraping along the frozen earth, and then came to a halt. Bits of the tree still rained down from the heavens as I turned to thank Sormr, knowing he must have done it somehow.
Then my vision lit up with countless bright, glittering stars. Pain exploded through my head and the world went grey about the edges as I crumpled to the hard and unforgiving ground.
~*~*~
“I don't understand why we're going to all this trouble,” Ron grumbled, thick fingers wrapping and knotting threads together, pausing only when he had to look at the scroll of directions, written in a familiar, spidery scrawl. “If everyone else does things like they're supposed to…”
“We won't need a back-up plan,” Hermione huffed as she leaned over his shoulder, inspecting his work. She sniffed once, scowling at his dirty fingernails, but nodded once in approval of the rest. “Yes, I heard you before, Ron, but the point is that we might need one.”
Ron rolled his eyes and looked to Harry as though to say help me out here, mate.
“It's not as though things have a way of going like they're supposed to,” Harry said slowly. “And if things go pear-shaped this time, we might not get another try, if Snape's right about what Voldemort might be planning.”
“If Snape's right,” Ron mimicked. “Time was you thought he was an obnoxious git.”
Harry snorted. “Snape's still an obnoxious git. He's also bloody well brilliant and he's saved my arse more times than I can count. I'd be denser than a bloody rock to not listen to him.”
“Besides that,” Hermione pointed out, plucking the braid from Ron's fingers and dropping it into a small cauldron full of a burbling, sickly-sweet smelling concoction. There was a popping sound and a puff of blue smoke rose in the air as Hermione gave it three clockwise stirs with a silver mixing wand. “It's an exciting prospect, to see history being made like that. Why, Harry, you might even meet one of Godric Gryffindor's ancestors! Wouldn't that be simply wonderful?”
“Undiluted bull-headedness and a charming tendency to look at the world in black and white?” Snape drawled, sweeping into the room on silent feet. “Delightful, Miss Granger, I'm sure.”
Harry sat up a bit straighter in his chair and pulled his book closer. From over the edge of the spine, Harry watched as Snape bent over the cauldron, poking at it suspiciously even though he'd brewed the potion himself. Snape fished the cord out of the mixture and sniffed it, nodding once as he hung it over the waiting drying rack.
He really isn't very attractive, Harry thought. Snape's hair, grown long enough to be hastily tied back with a bit of string, still had the sheen of too much oil, although it really wasn't as bad as Harry had called it when he was younger. His black robes, the only sort of clothes Harry ever saw Snape dressed in, were worn thin where his pointed elbows rubbed and there were grey bleached spots all over the cuffs from countless splattered potions. Not to mention that there wasn't a single graceful line on the man; his shoulders hunched forward defensively, his fingers were frequently clenched in irritation, his mouth thin with displeasure and a lifetime of suspicion had etched deep lines around his eyes, furrowing the pale skin, almost sickly-looking with the sharp contrast to his dark hair and clothes.
But still, Harry was drawn to him. He sought Snape out in the quiet times late at night when he couldn't sleep for the nightmares that plagued him regularly these days, often finding his now and then mission partner in the kitchen, cold tea forgotten on the table as he traced lines of text back and forth across yellowed and faded pages. There were nights that Harry would just sit there, with his own tea full of confusing leaves swirling in the red-brown drink and hiding the future from them all. Sometimes they talked about the fighting, the rumours and the comrades that still hadn't come home, but other times they just talked quietly for hours on end about nearly everything else. But never about that morning more than a year ago.
Everything and nothing had changed after that, as trite as it was to say. There were no more kisses, no teasing brushes of fingers or promising looks, although Harry had tried at first. Instead of enticing Snape, however, it only angered him and had him withdrawing almost entirely. Baffled, Harry had stopped his ham-handed attempts.
And then, oddly enough, they became friends. Harry grinned at the thought; him, friends with the horrid Professor Snape. It was just too weird for words.
“Something funny, Potter?” Snape asked, yanking Harry out of his reverie. Harry blinked, coming back to himself to see a smirk on Snape's face and a fleeting look of genuine humour in his eyes. Blushing, Harry ran a hand through his hair.
“Sorry,” he said. “Was thinking about something else.”
“Is that so?” Snape mused and for one horrible moment, Harry was worried he'd have to come up with a lie to cover himself. But then Snape turned to Hermione, dismissing Harry and his discomfort. “I'll be back for this in an hour. It should be dry by then.”
Ron shook his head as Snape swept out of the room, closing the door behind him. “He's mental, I swear,” he said. “I mean, was he actually teasing you, Harry? Men-tal.”
Harry blushed and shrugged awkwardly, but Ron didn't see, too busy already with cleaning up from his work. Hermione did notice, though, both of her thick, dark eyebrows shooting up her forehead in surprise.
“People change, Ron,” she said after a beat, giving Harry one more long look. “You never know what could happen.”
“That's why we always have a back-up plan, eh?” he asked, tugging on a lock of frizzy hair. “Come on, then, you two; let's get some lunch. M'fucking starved.”
“Ronald!” Hermione gasped, hitting him for his language. Harry just laughed and shook his head as he pushed back from the table and headed for the kitchen, leaving his bickering friends to follow along at their own pace.
~*~*~
One week later
Pressed back against the wall, Harry fisted a trembling hand in Snape's robes. It had gone quiet inside the room, with only footsteps across crumbled stone to show any life inside. Harry turned to look at Snape with wide eyes. They were going to fail.
“The Destiny Stone…” Voldemort crooned in his high-pitched voice, sibilant and chilly. For one hysterical moment, Harry wondered what on earth it was with Voldemort and stones of legend, but at the very least it made him slightly easier to predict. “The magic on this stone makes those crowned on it undisputable. Did you know that, Harry? Not only will you fail in your pathetic attempts to stop me, but you'll have to bow before me. As your king as well as your dark lord. Won't that be nice?”
“Kings are just impotent figureheads these days,” Harry called out. Snape shot him a look, nodding curtly; keep him talking. Slow him down. “But you'll have a fetching crown, I reckon. Got to admire a bloke that can accessorize.”
Voldemort laughed maniacally, his unholy glee sending a shudder of revulsion down Harry's spine. Snape pried Harry's hand free and pressed something to his palm. A disk of metal attached to a rough, hand-made braid. Harry's breath caught, but he managed a wide-eyed nod. It was time.
“Oh, yes,” Voldemort crooned. “I can feel the magic. So ancient. So dark. And soon,” he giggled, “it will all be mine. It's perfect. Potestas Vacuus!”
The breath in Harry's lungs froze as Snape laced their fingers together, the charm clasped between their palms.
“Ready?” Snape asked, already sprinkling oils over their joined hands.
“Not really,” Harry admitted. “Think we could get some more time for this?”
“We're about to have nothing but, Harry,” Snape said as the sound of rushing wind grew and filled the room, honey-gold light shining brightly enough to make them blink owlishly. “ Tempestas vix,” he shouted, voice much deeper than normal as he gave Harry's hand an extra squeeze.
Footsteps pounded from around the corner, drawn by Snape's incantation. “Stop them!” Malfoy shouted to someone. But the magic was gathering around the pair, wrapping heavily over them, like a wet wool blanket.
And then the world went black and silent as something yanked them clear off their feet. Harry felt a hand, vice-like, grabbing at his ankle as they were pulled through time. Back they went, back before the battle at the castle, before Voldemort's return, before Harry's parents were killed, before any of them were born, or their fathers' fathers.
The hand on Harry's ankle tugged, wrenching him free of Snape's grip and suddenly he was adrift. Alone. Floating through time for only a few heartbeats before he crashed back to earth, the talisman clutched between his fingers as he rolled down a soggy hill, thudding to a halt as his forehead struck hard against a jagged rock, throwing Harry back into black emptiness.
~*~*~
Iona, Western Alba, Mid-Autumn 570
I woke slowly, clawing my way past the memories and blinking in the firelight that filled the small cave. My head pounded in time with the blood in my body and I groaned, covering my eyes as I wondered if I could just go back to sleep. I felt a presence at my side and peered past my fingers to see a familiar, too-thin figure leaning over me.
“Sormr…” I moaned, then paused at the name, knowing it was wrong. “ Severus. M'head's fucking killing me. Did you get the number on that Knight Bus?”
There was a pause, and then Severus snorted once. “I see you've got your memory back,” he said, poking at a sore spot on my scalp. “Thank goodness for that; I wasn't sure how much more earnest naivety I could handle.”
“Ow!” I said, flinching away from his hands and scowling. “That hurts! Haven't you ever seen a head wound before?”
“Feeling better, as well,” he said calmly, but his fingers gentled anyhow as he went on in a quiet voice. “You've been unconscious for more than an hour.”
“Sorry,” I said quietly, not sure what else there was to say to that.
The fire crackled quietly, a wet log hissing as steam was released and I held still while Severus finished inspecting the cut and sat back on his heels. “You'll live,” he said after a while, looking away at last to tend the flames. “I'd be happier if we could patch you up properly, but being as our friends are out there somewhere, it might not be the wisest of ideas to set up a magical beacon. Not when we've got this nice little summer cottage to ourselves.”
I laughed, the vibrations making my skull pound harder. The laugh turned into a groan as I closed my eyes miserably. This was turning out to be one horrid mess of a back-up plan. Of course, it wasn't my fault that we'd been separated.
I cracked an eye open. “Where have you been, anyhow?” I asked.
“Taking basket weaving lessons,” he said, arching an eyebrow at me as he handed me a twig. “Chew on this. Willow bark is an analgesic, although tea is much better.” When I took it and cautiously nibbled on the end, he nodded in approval. “I was looking for you. I can only assume that your amnesia affected the location spells and I had no way of knowing where in the time line you'd come out. It seems that you got here at least five months before I did, however.”
Struggling to sit up, my clothes damp along my back and caked with mud, I scratched irritably at my beard. I knew I looked horrid with facial hair; it grew in spotty and at odd angles, with shots of red in the wiry black hairs. I itched for a shave, a shower, clean clothes and my wand.
My wand. I sighed; my wand was probably gone for good, lost in time, at the bottom of a lake, burnt in someone's camp fire, stuck in the ground and growing a wand tree or whatever it was that made the special wood Olivander used for wands.
Letting go of that for now, I pressed on. “Did you find the stone?”
Severus scowled and nodded. “I can't get to it without harming anyone. I'm afraid I might actually need your Gryffindor fair play to keep from altering the time line. We can worry after that about getting home, since you've lost the talisman.”
I opened my mouth to ask how he'd know that, but stopped before I made too much of an arse out of myself. Of course he'd know; Sormr the slave had cleaned my house top to bottom. I'd wondered at the time why he'd done it so voluntarily, but looking back, I could see that it made the searching that much easier. “Oh.”
“Indeed.” Severus' lips twitched in amusement. “But at the very least, the stone isn't too far from here. I'd only made camp the night before when I met your charming friends.”
My lips twitched at the mental image of Severus trying to resist the urge to hex my adopted brothers sideways. Particularly Donaidh, whose own wife barely tolerated him. “At least they didn't know to take your wand,” I pointed out, unable to keep the wistful note out of my voice. “We'd likely be dead if you didn't have it earlier.”
Humming in absent agreement, Severus knelt over me again, hands more careful this time as he brushed my hair aside. “It will scar, most likely,” he said. “But it's close enough to the hairline. No one should see it here.”
I snorted. “How nice. I'm getting a hell of a set, aren't I? It's such a good thing I've got a thick skull,” I said, letting myself wish that I didn't. My life would have been so much simpler then; shorter, but a hell of a lot easier. “It's not as though people don't already stare at me enough. I'll just shave my head and make it easier for them to look at the scarred wonder, shall I?”
“Stop it.” Severus grabbed my chin between cold, hard fingers and forced me to meet his eyes. There was an intense, almost desperate look in his eyes for a moment, and then it was gone, masked by his usual wry look. “That's my job, Potter.”
The cave pitched at an angle when I shook my head, stars shooting off across my vision. “Sorry,” I said in a shaky voice, my stomach twisting. “Didn't mean to steal your thunder.”
Severus let go of my face, hand sliding down my arm to cup my elbow. “Can you stand yet?” he asked. “As nice as our hiding place is, we likely don't want to stay in one place for too long.”
“Help me up,” I said, twisting my arm to clasp his wiry bicep. The muscles flexed under my fingers as we stood together. It took me a few moments to get my bearings, the concussion making my knees dangerously weak at first. Finally, I looked up at him. “Thanks.”
Severus was closer than I'd realised, his face the only thing I could see, lips pinched in concentration. I could remember how it had felt to kiss those lips and before I knew I was doing it, I was leaning closer, closing the space between us.
“Harry.” My name sounded strange in his voice. Strange, but still right, even breathed in warning like this.
“Severus,” I said right back. “I don't want… not now.” I was fumbling the words, my body heating from being so close to him. “All I want…” I gave up on speaking, not really knowing how to tell him what I wanted because I wasn't entirely sure myself. Instead, I cupped my hand on the back of his head and pulled him closer.
When our lips met, I sighed in contentment and tilted my face to avoid his long and crooked nose, pressing my body closer. His mouth opened slightly, lips going soft under mine even though tension sang through the rest of his body. My other hand curved over his shoulder, ran down his arm and around to the small of his back. Somehow, with our sharp elbows and ribs, him so tall and me so bloody short in comparison, we still fit together as we breathed into our kiss.
Reluctantly, I backed away, hands sliding as I went. As nice as it would have been to keep going, there were other things we needed to do first. Like get into dry clothes and find a way to get to the stone before the Death Eaters that had followed us caught up.
“Harry…” he said quietly, hands just as reluctant to let go.
“Later, Severus,” I said with a careful shake of my head. For a moment, I wondered when it was that I'd started thinking of him as Severus, but then decided it didn't matter. “Let's go back to the village; Brighde will help us get what we need.”
Something shone in Severus' eyes and for a moment he actually smiled at me. It was different than any other grin or smirk, softer than even the rare natural laughter. Rusty from disuse, it was something just for me. And that knowledge made my heart leap into my throat, an answering smile on my face.
“Later,” he agreed softly, leaning in to brush our lips together once more before stepping back enough to sling one of my arms over his shoulders as we made our silent way out into the early evening dark, already pitch black under the cover of the forest.
~*~*~
The snow had finally stopped falling by the time Severus and I hovered in the shadows of Brighde's doorway. As confident as I'd sounded, I still had no idea what I was going to say to her. Being friends was one thing, showing up bloody and hunted on someone's doorstep was another entirely. Finally deciding that worrying wouldn't help any, I scratched on the door and waited.
But it wasn't Brighde that opened the door. Instead, there was a tall, barrel-chested man with thick red hair, sun-red skin and deep lines around his naked face. Severus tensed beside me at the sight of the stranger and I braced myself to run, one foot already behind me.
“Eanraig, Sormr,” he said, smiling brightly and pulling the door open. “Come in. We've been expectin' ye!” His Gaelic rolled differently across his tongue and I wondered if maybe the universal translation spell that Severus and I had cast before the battle at Stirling was beginning to fail.
Brighde sat at the table, her posture relaxed as she smiled at me. I gave Severus a curt nod, but didn't let go of the knife at the small of my back. Not yet.
We stepped inside, the warmth of the round, single room house embracing us. Severus hovered at the door, however, keeping our exit free as he regarded the man suspiciously.
“Oh, my manners!” the man said, extending a wide-palmed hand to me. “Call me Columba, lad -- I believe your neighbours call me the Christ Man; I can't say as I've gotten used to it, even after living here for a few years now, but then again I'm not all that much of an oddity where I'm from, which is why I've come here, to spread the word of our Lord, ye see.” He grabbed my hand and pumped it vigorously, the bones shifting in his strong grip. “But ye're soaked to the bone, lad! And injured? Sit, sit… I've a fair hand with cuts and bumps, so maybe I can help ye with that.” He brushed my hair aside and nodded once. “Yes, it looks worse than it is, I'm sure, but then it seems ye already know all about that, now don't ye with these other marks ye've got here and here with this one so old, too.”
I blinked at him for several seconds before I realised his lilting monologue was done. And then Severus was behind me, propelling me forward, hissing in my ear, “He's the one with the stone!” and pushing me down into a chair near the fire.
Columba tilted my head, his warm and dry hands surprisingly gentle as he prodded at the scab, muttering softly to himself. It sounded familiar – half-heard as it was – and when I felt the tingle of magic dancing across my scalp, I looked up sharply. But Columba only grinned as he walked across the room, wet a rag and came back to me. He dabbed tenderly, washing away the useless scab and winked broadly.
“Wha…?” I asked, even though I knew well what had just happened. I just hadn't expected it, not here, not from a man that in a few hundred years would be the patron saint of the very land we were in now.
“Well, it looks like it wasn't nearly half as bad as we thought, eh, lad?” Columba said as Severus swept forward, brushing my hair aside and running his fingers over my uninjured face, our eyes meeting in understanding. “But then, I've found since I've been in the service of our Lord that things are often that way, because we've a nasty habit of gettin' caught up in our worries and plans and not seein' that our Lord can work in mysterious ways to help us along.”
“The Lord helps those that help themselves,” Severus murmured, still checking me over. I reached up and caught his fingers, pulling them away. It had only been a simple spell, not dark magic; in fact, I actually felt warm all throughout my body now. Calm.
Columba laughed. “As He helps those who helps others, my friend. Sister Brighde and I were just talking about that when you arrived. She was truly in the spirit of God's compassion when she found you, Eanraig. Not many in this world would help a stranger, injured or no.”
Brighde flushed. “It was nothing,” she said, unusually shy, her face glowing. “It was only what was right.”
“Of course it was,” Columba said, patting her shoulder. He turned back to me, his bright green eyes taking in how closely Severus stood, how my hand was still behind my back. But he didn't seem threatened at all; more amused than anything else.
“What are you doing here?” I finally asked, because really, it was best to start with the simple things.
“Spreadin' the word of our Lord, my boy,” he answered back without pause. “And doin' his good works while I'm at it. Yourself?”
“Eanraig's memory's gone,” Brighde piped up. “Remember? I told you...”
“That you did, sister.” Shrewd eyes watched me and I grabbed onto the first wild plan I could think of and shook my head, laughing as easily as I could manage. I could only hope I wouldn't go to Hell for this.
“Trying to stop the spread of evil, actually,” I said, hoping I was doing a decent enough job at acting as though I were some sort of sixth century witch hunter. “The both of us.” I turned my eyes on Brighde, smiling shyly. “I remember now,” I added softly by way of explaining.
Brighde's eyes widened in surprise, but Columba's glittered in interest. “Is that so?” he mused. “How interestin'. It's a dodgy business, fightin' evil. Get hurt much?”
“Usually on the head, but he's thickest there,” Severus said, picking up on the plan.
“Ha! Well, that sounds about right, then. I was just about to tell our good sister how us warriors of good needs must work together to do works in the name of our Lord, because we're best when together as a holy force, I always say. Have ye been fightin' evil long, then?”
“Most of my…” I trailed off, catching Severus' hand signal that we weren't alone. I stood, glad that Columba's magic had taken care of the concussion and drew my dirk, gesturing to the future saint to stay put. “Most of my life, actually. It's a sort of calling, really.” Brighde stood, hand going to a wood axe, but I shook my head at her. I couldn't risk anyone dying that belonged in this time. She glared at me, but I just glared right back until she tightened her hand on the axe handle and ushered Columba to the side of the room, out of the direct line from the only door.
“My parents were in the same line of work,” I said casually, sidling up to the door. I could hear shuffling steps crunching in the snow outside, slow and furtive. Whoever was there had no business to be. Severus came from the other side of the door, knuckles white as he gripped his wand. “I came by it honestly, I reckon you could say.”
I nodded to Severus, my hand on the door. Bracing myself, I flung the door open and launched myself out into the dark, blade at the ready. There was someone there and I slammed into him with a huff of air. The ground shook when we landed and I twisted, straddling and pinning the other man in the snow, dirk to his throat.
“Eanraig!” he spluttered, shoving the dark wool cloak out of his face. “What are you doing?”
“Niall!” Brighde ran out of the house, light spilling out of the doorway as she shoved me aside and knelt over Niall, hands framing his face. “Are you all right?”
Niall huffed and batted at her hands but didn't push her away. “He's mad, Brighde,” he said. “Do you see it now?”
She only laughed, kissing him over and over. “Niall, you're so wonderfully thick minded sometimes.”
Rolling away in the snow and leaving the two lovers alone, I stood and brushed off my knees. Severus was just standing there, arms crossed as he looked on.
“Whoops?” I offered. Severus just snorted and shook his head.
“Really, it's better to be safe than it is to be sorry,” Columba offered quietly, looking pointedly down at Severus' wand. “Especially seeing as ye never knows who ye'll run into these days.”
“Indeed,” Severus said. As one, he and I tucked away our weapons. My wand hand still felt empty and I couldn't help the small pang of useless jealousy that Severus still had his. “Real danger is rare enough, but that can make it worse. It's why Eanraig and I have partnered together. Safety in numbers.”
I nodded seriously. “Warriors of the light are always at risk of attacks from evil.”
“I think,” Columba said, scratching his left eyebrow slowly, “that we might be better off if men of our sort stayed together. Greater numbers and safety.” He gave a sudden, bright grin. “That aside, I think your methods could only benefit from some of the teachings of our Lord and Saviour. Evil can be reformed, ye know. It only needs the chance to see the path. I know it sounds mad, but then again it's not the first time I'd be called mad and it bothers me none after so long. Maybe that's what makes me mad, but then I'll never really know, now will I?”
The idea of patron saint of Scotland trying to convert Voldemort made me laugh. Beside me, I swore I saw Severus' lips twitch as well.
“I'd love to see you prove that claim,” Severus said smoothly. “We'll join you then.”
“Excellent!” Columba clapped his thick hands together. “We'll leave in the mornin', then. It's a two-day walk, but this time of year, the warmth from a good walk is always welcome, I say.”
~*~*~
The next morning, when the sky was just beginning to grow pale with the early dawn, we were ready to leave. Severus and I packed only food and one other change of clothing, assured by our new companion that we would have everything we needed when we reached his home. Before we could go to meet Columba at the head of the village, however, I had one stop to make.
Brighde didn't look surprised to find me at her door at such an early hour. We hadn't mentioned our plans to leave the night before, but she was a bright girl and I knew she had excellent hearing. When I scratched at her door, she sighed in relief when she saw me there.
“I thought you'd leave without saying goodbye, Eanraig,” she said, eyes sad.
“Not to you,” I said. “You're the only one who's always been kind to me here.” I gave the ghost of a smile. “How is Niall? Will he forgive me for nearly gutting him?”
She laughed and looked over her shoulder into the dim of her house. “Niall is fine,” she said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. “ Very fine. He already knows you thought he was someone else. It seems he really did think you were a rival, but I've more than taken care of that notion.”
“Good on you, then,” I said, laughing with her. “I hope you're happy.” I sobered. “Brighde, I most likely won't see you again after this. I wanted to thank you. For saving my life, for being my friend.”
“It wasn't a hardship,” she said, clasping my hand between hers. “I… I have something to give you. To give back, I mean.”
Surprised, I waited outside the door as she dashed into the shadows, coming back with a long, thin package, wrapped in a rabbit hide and clutched in her hands. “When I found you,” she said, “I thought you might be a dark priest, because who else would have these things? But your face was so young, so innocent and when you woke without memories, I thought maybe it was the Lady telling me to let you start a new life. So I kept these. I... I thought I might destroy them, but I was too afraid they might be cursed. And then we became friends and I knew that you couldn't be evil... but I was afraid then that you'd hate me for hiding this.”
“Brighde?” I asked. She thrust the package at me, smiling shyly.
“Somehow, now, I know you need them,” she explained. “Use them well?”
A familiar thrill ran through my hands as soon as they closed around the hide and I opened the package with shaking fingers to find my wand nestled in the fur, wrapped in the talisman that was my key to getting home. My knees went weak with relief as I hefted my wand for the first time in months, the magic singing through me with warmth rather like how it felt to be in Severus' arms. My other hand fisted around the talisman, the etched symbols pressing into my palm.
“Brighde...” I breathed. “I can't tell you how much this means to me.”
“You don't have to,” she said.
“Brighde?” Niall's voice called from inside, thick with sleep. Brighde coloured and ducked her head as I chuckled quietly.
“Be well, Eanraig,” she said, eyes watering.
“Harry. My name is Harry,” I told her impulsively and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.
“Be well, Harry,” she whispered and leaned in to kiss my cheek softly. “I wish you and Sormr happiness and safe travels.” And then she was gone, spinning away and back inside, the door closing quietly. “I'm here, my love,” I heard her say. “I thought I heard something in the grain, is all.”
Grinning like a fool, I walked with a light step to join Severus and Columba. Columba nodded and led the way along the road and soon enough, the village I had reluctantly called home for sixth long months was gone behind the hills at our backs. As Columba walked on, apparently not much of a morning person if his tired face was anything to go by, I took the chance to show Severus a glimpse of my wand.
“Brighde wishes us well,” I said quietly and then grabbed Severus' hand for a moment, handing the talisman to him. His steps faltered for a moment, and then his shoulders sagged briefly in relief that I knew well. We had a two day walk ahead of us, Death Eaters behind us and a missionary with us that liked to talk more than some politicians I'd known, but we were going to make it. I was sure of it.
We were going home.
~*~*~
Our trio camped in the middle of a strange forest that night, sitting comfortably around a fire that managed to keep the late autumn chill away. Surprisingly, it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd have thought it would be, spending hour upon hour with a man so dedicated to the church. I had vague, uncomfortable memories of the time or two my aunt and uncle had been pressured by the neighbours to go to church. The vicar always smelt of old cigars and stale wine and I never could understand why the people on the television were always so keen to have their vicars come ‘round for tea.
But then, if the vicar at the Dursley's church had been like Columba, I probably would have better understood.
Once he'd fully woken and started talking, Columba told stories of the people he'd meant, talking up a steady stream, never once pausing for breath, despite the cart that he pulled along with each step. His voice was pleasant, he never laid blame on anyone and if every single one of his stories had to do with his missionary work, well then that was really to be expected.
After we'd eaten, Columba sucked in a breath and slapped his knees as though he was about to tell another story from his bible or his travels. Inwardly, I cringed; all I wanted was to go to sleep for a few hours after spending the day on my feet. We still had another day of walking ahead of us before we'd reach the place our new companion called home and where he kept the entire reason for Severus and I being there in the first place. But instead, Columba leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his face.
“Would ye boys like to see the pillow stone of Jacob?” he asked, excitement dancing in his eyes. “You'll remember the story of Jacob, who fathered the leaders of the twelve tribes, won't ye?”
“Who could forget?” Severus asked, nearly making me choke on my wine. He almost sounded sincere, but I recognised a hint of the same voice he used to use when a student was about to say something exceptionally stupid.
But Columba showed no sign of having noticed, instead, he stood abruptly and waved us over to his cart as he rummaged through the clothes, food and supplies that he'd already told us he carried everywhere with him.
“He wouldn't have it with him,” I muttered. “There is no way we'd be that bloody lucky, is there?”
“Well, are ye comin' or what?” Columba called.
“I think we might well be,” Severus said out of the corner of his mouth. “We're coming,” he said louder and soon enough we were side by side next to Columba's cart, waiting for the grand unveiling, half sure that this wouldn't be the stone we were looking for.
Then he pulled back an oil cloth and revealed a large rectangular block of grey stone, about two thirds of a meter long, smooth around from years' of being carried across the world. The top of the stone was flat but for a few marks from the chisel of a long-dead stone cutter. It was exactly what I'd seen a lifetime ago when I'd toured Stirling Castle for a bit of relaxed reconnaissance.
I froze, not sure what to say. Here it was, the piece of sandstone that Voldemort would try to use to gain ancient powers and the kingly right to wield them. We could destroy it in an instant, blast it to pieces...
“The pillow stone of Jacob,” Columba said reverently, stroking the stone. “He set his head on this the night that our Lord gave him the land where his descendants were to dwell. Anointed as God's temple. It's made a long journey to be here, but I think it belongs with us.”
“Yet you carry it around with you?” Severus asked, voice cautious.
“Of course.” Columba blinked at him. “It's my altar, after all. Anointed, sacred and timeless. Of course, I need to use some of the gifts our Lord has blessed me with to carry it about. Ye've no idea how heavy it is.”
Reaching out, I couldn't resist touching it, my dirty fingers tracing the smooth edges of tool marks, the stone warm to the touch even in the evening chill. It was almost as though all of the history it had seen and that it was still going to see gave it a life of its own. I could have sworn, if only for a moment, that I felt the stone pulse under my hand and I wanted to apologise for thinking for even an instant about destroying it.
I remembered school when I was younger. Class was always the best part of the day, because Dudley couldn't beat on me during then and even if a classmate didn't like me, there wasn't much that they could do then except to shoot me dirty looks. For a few years, early on, I was a bit of a teacher's pet, always eager to give the answers. I learned soon enough, however, that no one liked a know-it-all and stopped my extra studies. But I still remembered hearing about the Stone of Scone, how it had travelled from Scotland to England and back again and the legends that surrounded it. It was fascinating stuff and I'd imagined myself on more than one occasion as being one of the lads that tried to liberate the stone, being as I knew rather what it was like to have to live somewhere you didn't belong.
And here it was, out in the open instead of behind bullet-proof glass, velvet ropes and armed guards. I looked up at Columba, who was watching me expectantly.
“It's… it's nice,” I said lamely.
Columba laughed. “ ‘Nice,' he says. Sormr, ye've got to work on this lad's words,” he said, covering the stone before I was really ready to lift my fingers. Blushing, I pulled my hand back even as Columba continued to chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “ Nice.”
“He tries,” Severus said, heading back to the fire, Columba in his wake. If I hadn't been still looking at the covered lump that was going to be known one day as the Stone of Scone, I might have shot Severus a glare for that comment, but I only kept silent as he went on. “When I was his tutor, he was even worse.”
That did get a splutter of indignation out of me, but Columba only laughed harder. “For a pair of pagans, the both of ye are great fun,” he said, grinning as he climbed into his blankets and furs. “But I'm afraid I need m'sleep now; I can't keep up the pace I could when I was Eanraig's age without my rest, you see.” He winked at me again and I managed to wish him a goodnight, before excusing myself to take a piss before my watch duty.
I'd offered to take the first watch, but as I made my way back to the warm circle of light that our fire cast, I knew that Severus and I would both be gone long before it was time to change the guard. Awareness prickled across the back of my neck and I paused, ears perked. Was there someone out there? It had been slow travelling that day, Columba spending more time on ambling then on actually progress forward and if the Death Eaters we'd fought had wanted to, they wouldn't have had much trouble tracking us.
But all was quiet, except for the chatter of stubborn insects that wouldn't let the cold and the frost win over just yet. Shaking off the feeling for now, I returned to camp.
Severus appeared at my elbow in an instant, nodding toward the already-snoring form by the fire. “He's out,” he said.
“No kidding.” I thought about mentioning my feeling about us not being alone, but then thought better of it. More than anything else, if the animals went quiet, that would be a far better alarm than my paranoid instincts. “Let's do this.”
On quiet and careful feet, we went over to Columba's belongings and uncovered the stone once more. As I drew my wand, I couldn't help but wonder if the legends really were true. Giving into fancy and knowing I could blame it on the past several months of living as a pagan priest, I bent and pressed my lips to the warm stone.
“Accept our gift, Mother Rock,” I whispered, starting slightly when I felt a surge of magic in response. I shook my head at the fancy and straightened, placing the tip of my wand against the stone. I looked at Severus and he just smirked and shook his head at me. I likely wasn't going to live that down for a long time to come, but I felt almost giddy with anticipation, so I didn't really mind.
“Ready,” he said, wand tip to wand tip with me. “On three. One, two…”
“ Vacuus reparare!” we said as one. The stone glowed, a warm honey-gold colour, pulsing like an over-filled aura. My wand hand tingled and my hair stood on end, but I held fast, concentrating on the spell, on protecting the magic in the stone and the future of our world. There was a scuffle behind us, but I kept my concentration even as the spell faded and the magic settled.
Grinning proudly, I turned to Severus. We had done it. Despite all the screw ups and problems and disasters, we had finally done it and now we could go home.
Then I heard a loud and distinct croaking sound. Turning around, I saw Columba standing there, a large, squirming toad held firmly in each meaty fist and black robes pooled at his feet.
“Ye must come from a savage place,” he said, much more calmly than I'd have expected, considering he had to have seen us casting magic on his beloved Pillow Stone. “Attackin' men from behind when they're placin' blessings on things,” he said, shaking his head.
“Er…” I tried, but Columba only waved me off, the legs of the toad in his hand flapping harmlessly.
“I imagine that's what ye needed to do?” he said.
It was Severus who stepped forward. “It was, yes,” he said. “The stone is protected now.”
Columba huffed good-naturedly. “I'd have said it was safe enough with me, but if ye insist. Ye could have told me, though.”
“We weren't sure you'd understand,” I said.
“Lad, I'm a man of our Lord, blessed with the same gifts as ye,” he said. “I understand more than ye'd think.” He looked pointedly between me and Severus, thick eyebrows raised.
“Thank you, then, for your assistance,” Severus said while I stood there, blushing.
“We can…” I spoke up. “We can finish the trip with you, if you want.” Really, it was the least we could do.
But he only waved me off again. “That's not necessary, lad,” he said. “Ye'll be wantin' to get home now that ye're done. The one question I've got, though,” he added, lifting the toads. “Would ye like to take your friends with ye? Winter in Alba won't be kind on them and I'm not entirely sure they'd do well in my stables. Horses can be so easily spooked and we wouldn't want these wee fellas here to get squashed, now would we?”
~*~*~
Time and darkness roared past us as I clung to Severus, arms tight about his waist so we wouldn't have yet another change in plans. The Death Eaters turned toads squirmed in the makeshift bags we'd fashioned from their robes and hung from our belts. Finally, we popped back into reality at last, the ground rushing up to greet me. I stumbled and nearly crushed my passenger, but actually didn't have a face to ground collision this time.
We were outside of the castle, only a few metres from the gaping hole I'd run through with Severus what felt like a lifetime ago. Untying the toad bags and securing them off to the side to worry about later, Severus and I ran inside. We could hear the wind of Voldemort's magic, feel it rushing by us as we rounded the last corner just as Malfoy shouted, “Stop them!” and we saw ourselves blinking out of sight along with two black-robbed figures, clinging to our legs.
“Bastards,” I muttered as Severus and I stuck to the shadows.
“Indeed,” he agreed, brushing the back of his hand against mine as we held our breath and waited. The spell should have held, even over the centuries. But what if it didn't? What if it had been too long ago? If only we could have been sure that any later reports of the stone were genuine...
The wind suddenly stopped, and then reversed, rushing back into the throne room. The Death Eaters in the hall ran back in when their leader screamed and we followed.
Voldemort had both hands on the Stone of Scone, the throne that used to be over it now shattered, the pieces scattered about the room. The stone was glowing with a familiar honey-gold colour and it seemed to throb with its own heartbeat. In the far corner, Pettigrew cowered.
“Something's wrong!” Voldemort screamed, the veins on his flat face standing out beneath the pale skin. “Wormtail! Save me!”
Pettigrew jumped and scurried over, wringing his live hand over the silver one for a moment before grabbing Voldemort by the waist and pulling. But Voldemort didn't move and if Pettigrew's sudden scream was any sign, neither could he. He could only stand there in a strange sort of embrace with his master.
All the air in the room seemed drawn to that one point. It was then that I noticed Voldemort's hands; they were shrivelling, drying out with each passing second. By the time I could see the skin on his neck drying and turning scaly, Voldemort screamed again, a more primal sound. I shuddered, but couldn't look away.
The both of them seemed to shrivel and dry out in front of us, their magic and life forces sucked out of them. The skin on Voldemort's face cracked and peeled, revealing shining white bones that still screamed for another few seconds. Then there was only the sound of roaring wind as the stone took back what had been stolen with vengeance and interest. The spell to put back what might be stolen had had centuries to sit, to sink into the stone. Now it was linked to Voldemort, it had touched his magic and the stone was taking back everything that had been stolen from it over thousands of years.
And then it stopped. The wind died, the light faded and two skeletons and a silver hand clattered to the floor.
Beside me, Severus drew in a shuddering breath. “We did it.”
“Yeah. We did.”
~*~*~
“The best that I can assume,” Hermione said, sitting carefully in her chair as she reported to Scrimgeour, “is that the magic in the stone also prevented Voldemort from using any of his own, so he couldn't drain those connected to him through the Dark Mark.” The damage that Malfoy's blow to her neck had been fixed by the Medi Wizards at St Mungo's, but they'd said it would be another week at least before the tenderness wore off and she'd be able to move normally again. More than anything else, I was just glad that she was still alive. Alive and here to stand up for us all and what we'd done to save the world, even though time travel enough to land me in Azkaban for a long time, hero or not.
The Minister of Magic flipped through the pages that we'd given him, detailing what we'd done and how Voldemort had been defeated. I was rather proud of my own contribution to the report, considering that it was a complete and total work of fiction.
“This is going to take some delicate dealings with Muggle officials,” he said at last. “Unauthorized use of magic in a Muggle environment, destruction of national monuments, corpses in the middle of a tourist attraction… I've had to authorise a ridiculous amount of overtime pay to cover this mess up. The least that you could do is tell me the truth, because if you honestly think I believe you managed to cast protective magic in the middle of a restricted area without additional law-breaking involved, then you've another thing coming.”
“Does it really matter?” I asked, annoyed. I lifted my hand to scratch at my beard, forgetting until I met with smooth skin that I had shaved it off at the first chance I gots. “Voldemort's dead. Really dead this time, with the bones to prove it and everything. You look like a sodding hero. Isn't that good enough?”
Scrimgeour raised both of his bushy eyebrows, gone completely grey along with the rest of his hair since he'd taken office. “I'm afraid it does, Mr Potter. While the general public might be happy to take this… nonsense, I am not.” He looked pointedly at the curling blue tattoos on the sides of my neck; they really weren't the sort of fashion statement you'd find in the Wizarding world these days, although I was rather fond of them. As Eanraig, the tattoos had been a desperate way to fit in. As Harry, they were something that for once didn't have anything to do with the old scar on my forehead.
“Well, that's what happened.” I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow at him in perfect imitation of Severus, who coughed beside me to cover his snort of amusement.
“Why would Harry lie to you, anyway?” Ron asked, always ready to back me up. “He hasn't done anything wrong, unless you wanted to keep You Know Who around.”
“Fine.” Scrimgeour scowled again, jogging the papers of the report into order. “You are all dismissed… for now. I may call you back if our own internal investigation reveals anything, however.”
I decided to let his parting comment go, especially since we were getting our way and things were actually going to plan for once. None of us would change our story, I knew, and the only two who could spoil it for us were currently hopping round the Forbidden Forest, eating flies. Standing, I left the Minister of Magic's office as quickly as I could.
In the Floo Lobby, I turned to Hermione and Ron. “Thanks, guys,” I said, darting a glance at Severus, who was hanging back while the other members of the Order Flooed away to the waiting celebration at the Burrow. “I'll catch up with you in a bit, yeah?”
Ron looked confused, but shrugged it off. “Okay, mate. But don't be too late, or Mum'll send out a search party, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, nodding as Ron grabbed a handful of powder and disappeared in a whirl of green flames.
Hermione looked at me, then at Severus, and then smiled softly. “Take your time, Harry,” she said. “I'll tell Molly you had something to take care of.”
Laughing, I pulled her into a hug. “I almost don't know what to do now that we don't have to fight anymore,” I admitted softly in her ear.
“You'll figure it out,” she said. “You're good at back-up plans.” And then she, too, was gone.
Alone in the Lobby, since it was a Saturday evening and even the Ministry had to be quiet sometime, I turned to Severus, stepping close to him. “Does this qualify as ‘later,' Severus?” I asked, smiling at him.
There was a long beat when he just held still, and then he melted, relaxing against me ever so slightly and taking my hand in his.
“Yes, Harry,” he said and smiled. “I believe it does.”
~~~*~~~
~fin~