DEAD OF NIGHT

by spinner

*Part One*

Two Three Four Five Six

*One*

Not to Put Too Fine a Point on It

"It was a paring knife," Harry stammered.

"I don’t know who you think you’re deceiving, Mr. Potter, but this is not the type of wound one can inflict with the average kitchen implement," Severus Snape said as his eyes darkened with impatience.

"It’s nothing. It’s a tiny poke. Give it a bit of a healing spell, and let’s be done with it," Hagrid said with a grunt of pain.  

"Mr. Potter?"  

"Yes, sir?" Harry whispered, eyes on the floor.  

"Go outside, get the broadswords, and make sure there’s no blood left on them, unless you want Professor McGonagall to go through the roof when she finds out what you two have been about this evening."  

Harry gazed fearfully at Professor Snape. His thin hands were spasmodically clutching and releasing the kitchen apron he had used to staunch the flow of blood from the gaping wound in the giant’s side before using a kitchen towel instead. Severus reached forward and carefully took one of Harry’s hands away, pulling the apron from his grip.  

"Go get the broadswords," Snape repeated, dropping his voice to a pleasant sound instead of a harsh bark. Harry was frozen to the spot, staring at the floor. "Harry?"  

"I’ll get the swords," Hagrid said, moving to stand up from the chair in which he was slumped. Snape gave him a sharp look and stood up instead.  

"Wait where you are, or that will start bleeding again. Harry will take me to the swords. Come on."  

"Um, no. You’d better not," Hagrid said, rising slowly to his feet. He put a hand on the table for support to right himself. "They’re next to the rain barrel."  

"Why is that a problem?"  

"You’re going to wonder why the rain barrel is charmed to stay warm."  

"Yes, I might wonder why indeed," Snape agreed.  

"It’s because my piranhas are in the rain barrel, and if you knew about them, you’d have to report that you saw them," Hagrid grinned. "But since you haven’t seen them, you can’t be sure they’re even there, right?"  

"Right," Severus said with a nod.  

"I’ll be right back," Hagrid grunted, climbing up to his feet.  

Shaking his head in dismay, Snape watched Hagrid wander towards the front door to his hut. Severus leaned against the kitchen table, holding absently onto the apron he had taken from Harry. Potter folded down to his knees. He took the apron from Severus and started wiping up the blood that had spilled onto the wooden floor.  

"Harry, let me see if you’re hurt. Did Hagrid nick you? You’ve got blood all over you. Let me have a look at you. HARRY!"  

Severus exclaimed Potter’s name as the teen went limp on the floor. Snape dropped beside him, turning him over and lifting his head and shoulders off the bloody wooden planks. Producing a vial from his cloak, he uncorked it with a flick of his thumb, and waved it twice under Harry’s nose. The teen shuddered in response to the vile concoction being waved about. Severus put away the vial and conjured a damp cloth, with which he washed Harry’s clammy face. Finally, Harry’s eyes opened, clouded with confusion.  

"You fainted. Not to worry," Severus told him. "Take a couple deep breaths. That’s it. Nice deep breaths."  

Hagrid was stumbling back into the hut by this point. He was carrying two broadswords, one stained with blood and the other completely clean. Severus took out his wand and waved it across the mess on the floor. Everything vanished, including those mysterious brown spots that Harry had always mistaken for a pattern on the wood itself. The floor probably hadn’t been so clean in years. Harry rose to his knees and struggled for balance.  

"Oh, dear," Hagrid said, dropping woozily into his chair once more. He gave Snape the weapons, keeping the towel pressed tightly over his side. Severus did a quick cleaning spell on the weapons before putting them up on the table between dirty dishes and a bread bowl empty except for crumbs.  

"Harry, go in the bathroom and clean up," Snape said, pointing in the direction of what he took to be the bedroom and bathroom. "Hagrid’s going to be fine. You go clean up."  

"It’s all right, lad," Hagrid grinned weakly. "Go on now."  

Harry climbed unsteadily to his feet and went to the bedroom. Snape waited until he heard the bathroom door close before he pinned Hagrid with an anxious look.  

"What the hell happened?" he snapped, taking away the towel and pointing his wand at the gash he had uncovered.  

"We were practicing, that’s all."  

"Practicing what? Impaling each other?"  

"He begged me to show him more about how to use the swords. He’s scared about being able to defend himself."  

"He’s barely got enough strength to climb Gryffindor Tower, and you’ve got him swinging these damned things? What’s the matter with you? Did you slip and fall on him? Is that how he cut you?"  

"No. I...well...I....I..."  

"What?"  

"I must have startled him."  

"What?"  

"I should have known better."  

"How did you startle him?"  

"I grabbed him ‘bout the waist, picked him up when he wasn’t expecting it, and he–"  

"He what?"  

"Panicked, I guess. He stabbed me on instinct, realized what he’d done, and he kept blinking at me in shock. It was because of all the blood. I didn’t know if he was fixing to faint or sprout fangs."  

"It must have reminded him too much of seeing Lucius Malfoy covered in gore."

"You should have seen his eyes," Hagrid moaned with a crushed expression. Snape wasn’t sure what was hurting the giant more– the hole in his side or the fact he had terrified Harry. It was probably wise that Snape didn’t comment further.  

The Potions Master had been in the forest collecting specimens at dusk, and had come running towards the gamekeeper’s hut when he had heard the sharp terrified scream puncturing the twilight. That same scream was the one that haunted his sleep. He was never far from Harry’s side, helping as much as he could as the boy struggled to recover physically and emotionally from Lucius Malfoy’s attack. Severus had been awakened by that tormented scream on more than one occasion. He knew it meant Harry felt in danger.

Snape had dropped what he was doing and raced to the edge of the forest. He arrived there to find Hagrid leaning something shiny against the side of his hut, next to the rain barrel. Hagrid spurted a trail of blood as he dragged Harry into his hut. Snape had followed, naturally curious as anyone might be.  

"Better?" Snape asked.  

"Oh, better. Much better," Hagrid said, running his hand over the six-inch, red, healed incision in his side. "Stings, but I’ll be fine. That’s fast work. You have quite a talent for healing, you know. Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?"  

"You should avoid lifting heavy objects for a week or two. You’ll also need to come up with a clever explanation to give Madam Pomfrey before next year’s physical."  

"There’s a squid in the tub," a small voice said.  Hagrid and Snape both jumped. Harry was standing at the bedroom door, holding his shirt up in front of his bare chest. His eyes were glued to the floor.  

"Squiggles? He’s back?" Hagrid laughed, standing up and going towards Harry. Potter darted aside, hiding in the darkness of the bedroom as Hagrid went into the bathroom. Hagrid stopped for a step to ponder why Harry was staying out of arm’s reach. His large furry face crinkled with sorrow.  

"He came out of the overflow when I filled the tub," Harry stammered.  

"I thought he had gone to the lake to stay for sure. It’s January. He shouldn’t be up and about," Hagrid said. Harry slipped back into his shirt and continued to hide in the shadows, careful to keep back from the giant.  

"If you have piranhas in your rain barrel and a squid in your tub, where do you wash up?" Snape asked, cleaning the towel and folding it on the counter.  

"Kitchen sink," Hagrid called. Snape pointed his wand at the apron.  

"That explains a lot," he murmured. He walked to the bathroom to see what Hagrid was fussing about. There was a flash of color in the tub– pinkish tentacles were propelling a small, egg-shaped, gray body. The tiny squid swam lazy circles as Hagrid dropped treats into the water from a jar by the side of the tub.  

"Isn’t he something?" Hagrid chuckled, reaching into the water to tickle the baby squid. "Harry, would you like to see?"  

Harry stood in the far doorway, shaking his head no, eyes on the floor again.  

"Is that at all sanitary, keeping him in your tub?" Severus asked.  

"I don’t keep him in the tub. He comes to visit when the tub is filled."  

"I see. I’m going to take Mr. Potter back to the castle through the Floo, so he can have a bath that doesn’t include a squid. You haven’t got any fire breathing dragons or other dangerous fauna lurking in the fireplace, have you?"  

"No, course not," Hagrid laughed awkwardly.  

"Good. See you at breakfast."  

"Thanks for the healing spell," Hagrid answered.  

"You’re welcome."  

"And for keeping hush about the swords." Hagrid tested Snape covertly.  

"You’re welcome," Snape said through clenched teeth. "The single proviso to my silence is that you will use armor next time."  

"Armor? How clever. Wish I’d thought of that," Hagrid muttered, tossing a sprinkle of water Snape’s direction.  

*Two*  

Black Coffee

Severus awoke with Harry in his arms. A shiny glimmer of purple was moving somewhere behind him just beyond visual range but not beyond his senses. He shifted his stiff back and leaned against the other side of the chair, balancing the boy against his chest. Familiar, slender fingers tightened on his moving arm, clutching right above the elbow. Tired green eyes opened, and searched worriedly for Severus.  

"It’s all right," Snape murmured in a voice husky from sleep. Harry didn’t look convinced. Severus held tighter, cupping his arms against Harry’s hips like a cradle. Potter burrowed his face down into Snape’s opened jacket, and closed his weary eyes again. Snape nosed his way through wild bangs and touched one kiss to the boy’s pale skin. He glanced down at the mismatched socks hanging out from under the afghan, and wished he had thought to remove them for Harry before retiring to the chair. Could he reach the dangling gold and scarlet toes from here? Probably not. There was always his wand, but he didn’t want to disturb Harry any further. It had taken him half an hour to be comfortable enough to climb into Severus’s chair with him.  

Several minutes of quiet passed. Harry’s breathing slowed and his grip on Snape’s arm loosened. Severus wasn’t sure the boy was asleep though. Potter’s stomach rumbled hungrily. Severus petted his back, rubbing in small circles, willing Harry to try and rest.  

It had been a rough first week back to classes, and this was only Wednesday night. Harry was giving it his very best shot, ignoring the whispers and stares, ignoring the rude comments from various Slytherins who were enjoying much humor at his expense. Severus had never been so ashamed of his own students. He was on the verge of removing points from his own house! If matters didn’t improve, they were going to get a dressing-down they’d never forget.  

Draco was doing his worst, of course, but that was only to be expected. He had come back from his brief period of mourning with one mission in mind, that of making Harry’s life as miserable as he possibly could. Young Mr. Malfoy had somehow managed to get his hands on a hair-growing potion, and was sporting waist-length locks in imitation of his late father. Draco was also carrying Lucius’s cane with the snake head. At least Severus had had the chance to take Lucius’s wand out of it.  

Draco had tried several times on Monday to smack at Harry with the cane as they progressed through the halls to their classes. He finally succeeded in giving Harry a nasty whack in Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid had taken Draco and his new toy aside and said a few hushed words to the Slytherin. No one was sure what Hagrid had said, and Malfoy hadn’t confided in Snape about the incident. Draco had meekly handed Hagrid the cane and stayed far away from Harry for the rest of the day. Rumors had later spread around the staff that Hagrid had expressed exactly how far up into Draco’s digestive track the cane was going to be shoved if he didn’t leave Harry be. The very idea of it made Snape smile.  

On Tuesday Malfoy was back to the same routine, pressing his luck in Potions Class no less. Severus played over the scene in his mind, smiling yet. Things had not gone exactly as Draco had hoped, that much was certain. While Snape had been demonstrating a particularly-interesting phosphorescent brew to the enraptured students, Draco had crept over to Harry in the darkness and grabbed him from behind. Potter screamed out in fright. The laughter that followed was cut short by the sounds of a scuffle. Snape had had to put down the volatile ingredients and turn the lights back up before he could act. He was cursing himself for letting even one heartbeat pass. When the lights came up, Draco Malfoy was on the ground under Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who were beating the sense out of him. The entire class gasped as one, not at the physical violence, but at what Harry had been caught doing. Snape had been so busy pulling Weasley and Granger off of Malfoy that he didn’t take notice at first. But when uncovered, Draco called out in alarm. Snape whirled around as Malfoy went down to his knees on the floor, shielding his head with his arms in the face of certain death.  

Potter had drawn his wand, but not for magic. He had transfigured it into a huge mace with deadly silver spikes in its crown. He stood over Malfoy, both arms raised, the mace poised for a direct hit on Draco’s skull. The loathsome snarl on Harry’s face indicated he was half a second from letting swing. The single solitary thing that had saved Draco’s life was the fact that first Ron and Hermione and then Snape were in the path of what would have been a killing stroke. Snape took in the severe menace of the construction of the mace, and knew he had to act fast.  

"Mr. Potter," Snape had said calmly.  

"Sir?" Harry questioned, mace raised.  

"Chapter thirteen, I presume? Pointy Perfection in Three Simple Steps?"  

"Chapter seventeen, sir. How Much Wood Would A Woodchuck Chuck."  

"Yes, yes, I get the idea. You will surrender to me your copy of Blunt Objects: Practical Uses before the end of the day today. I won’t have your ghoulish interest in various and sundry methods of murder taking any more time away from what you need, which is a proper wizard’s education. Is that understood, Mr. Potter?"  

"Of course, sir."  

"We could stand about bludgeoning each other until we’re blue in the face, and any monkey can swing an implement. It takes a true wizard to be able to rise above physical violence and employ magic with his brain and his heart, not with his fist."  

"Mm hm," Harry hummed, his eyes glittering with hate as Draco shuddered.  

"I’m sure Mr. Malfoy is sorry that he accidently startled you."  

Harry glared down at Draco, who hadn’t dared raise his head.  

"Perhaps Mr. Malfoy could offer a word of apology for his rude behavior?" Snape suggested, giving Malfoy a rough, backwards nudge with his heel.  

"Tripped in the dark," Draco spat out the words.  

"You see? He is sorry. Mr. Potter, in light of Mr. Malfoy’s apology, you will lower your weapon, and refrain from splattering the contents of his head all over your fellow students and my classroom floor."  

"Must I, sir?"  

"You must indeed, Mr. Potter. What’s more, you will explain how you managed to produce metal spikes from a wooden wand."  

Harry had begrudgingly lowered the mace, reducing it to his wand and a simple silver ring, not unlike the ring that Professor Volkova was never without. Snape felt a twinge of delight in finally having uncovered one of her secrets, until it occurred to him that Harry was learning how to employ her battle strategies. What was more disturbing was that Mr. Potter was showing himself to be a very apt pupil in the art of murder.  

Ron and Hermione were each given a detention to be served separately with different instructors. Draco had been sent straight to the Headmaster’s office. The Slytherins had immediately muttered about favoritism because Snape had not punished Harry, but Snape didn’t care. They were lucky he hadn’t deducted any points for Draco’s behavior. The damage was done though. It was pretty evident that Harry had been rattled by Lucius’s attack, and that the Slytherins weren’t going to let up for one moment. As much as he had sworn to look after Draco, Snape would not be able to avoid sending the miscreant boy to the Headmaster’s office over this incident. Truth be told, Severus was hoping that Dumbledore might be able to talk sense to Malfoy.  

On Tuesday night, Harry had dutifully surrendered his Blunt Objects book to Snape. It was lying on the coffee table in reach at the moment, in fact. Severus had sealed the book with a locking spell, promising Harry that he could have it back when summer arrived and classes were over for the year. In exchange, he had supplied Harry with a spanking new copy of Civil War: Strategies for Non-Violent Self Defense. Severus would be the first to admit it had not been a fair trade, but it might result in less blood and brains being splattered on the floor in the Potions classroom at least.  

Draco had shown up Wednesday morning, this morning, at breakfast. There was a bright gaudy button on his robe. Snape had started to take it away before he read it. "Help Me! I’m FASTing!" it declared in bright green letters. Snape recalled that James Potter had worn one for a month after the whole Werewolf Incident. Severus wasn’t sure the exact properties of the button, except that it had something to do with learning how to control one’s temper. After much whispered discussion at the Slytherin table, Draco explained to friends in earshot that the Headmaster was forcing him to wear the button. It had to do with testing his fortitude and attitude, and if that didn’t work, they’d work their way up to his tolerance for servitude. Draco was glaring sullenly at Harry as the bitter words spilled out of his mouth. Severus wasn’t sure if any mischief had occurred in the morning Transfigurations class that Harry and Draco shared, but Minerva hadn’t seemed out of sorts at lunch, so he imagined things had gone smoothly.  

Harry hadn’t shown up for dinner in the Great Hall. Tonight, Ron and Hermione would be serving their detentions. Severus decided that Harry must have been lying low about the castle somewhere, not wanting to make himself any more a target than he already appeared to be. A fast trip back to his dungeons for a glance at his secret, pirated, and rather-improved copy of Harry’s special map of the Hogwarts revealed to Snape that Harry was at Hagrid’s hut. It was a clear if cold night, and there were several species of hardy winter berries that should be about ready to harvest. Severus had made it to the forest in record time, convincing himself that he wasn’t checking up on Harry so much as he was making himself available and near if the boy should need him. He hadn’t suspected that an evening meant for picking potion ingredients off the forest shrubs would turn into healing a life-threatening stab wound in Hagrid’s side, but at least everyone was calm for the moment.  

Calmness was exactly what Harry needed, along with a lot of rest and several years of sessions with Doctor McGonagall. But most of all, Harry needed his rest. The circles under his eyes were shocking, and his pallor and demeanor were even more so. Severus raised a hand and smoothed one finger over the child’s ear, pushing strands of hair away. When Harry whimpered in his half-sleep, Severus put a second kiss on his forehead.  

"Shhh. Shhhh," Severus soothed, spreading more kisses in Harry’s dark locks. Not going to coddle the boy? The sarcastic portion of his brain was kicking up its heels in rude, mocking laughter. It troubled Snape to ponder how they could exist side by side, the whimpering tot curled up in his arms, the one who had fainted over having spilled some of Hagrid’s blood, and the mace-wielding young man teetering on the edge of hateful murder. Maybe Timma hadn’t been wrong about not encouraging Harry to bundle up his anger and use it as a weapon. Had Severus encouraged behavior that could only lead to Harry’s ruin?  

Sleep claimed Snape in time. Harry must have followed after. Although Severus dreamed of unpleasant things, the memories evaporated like ghosts from his mind when he jumped awake again. An undeterminable amount of time had passed. There was a soft clattering of metal behind the chair where he and Harry were sitting. Snape had his wand in his hand in a flash, but not even that had out-paced Potter, who was on his feet, wand drawn, fully-alert. Severus lowered his wand when the lights came up on Albus Dumbledore, who was carrying a tray of tea cups as the end of his cloak trailed him out of the Floo.  

"Did I startle you?" Albus asked, putting the tray on the table. "Clearly, I did. I do apologize," the Headmaster added. "Please have a seat. We need to talk."  

Potter put away his wand. Dumbledore handed him his glasses off the side table. Severus folded up the afghan they had been using as a blanket. Albus motioned for Harry to have a seat on the divan. Snape sat down in the chair, noticing immediately how much colder it was in the room without Harry sleeping on his chest. He buttoned his jacket closed.  

"How did you know I was here?" Harry whispered, accepting a cup. When Dumbledore tipped up the pot, steaming hot coffee poured out instead of the Headmaster’s usual tea. Potter inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell.  

"Instinct. Now, Professor Volkova assures me this is the finest espresso she has on hand, and if you like it, she will get you more. Severus, you should try some. It’s quite good. It will sharpen your senses."  

"Thank you, I will. A drop or two, perhaps."  

"Gentlemen, we must talk," the Headmaster said seriously. "Are you settled?" he asked Harry. Potter nodded, sipping the hot, bitter java slowly.  

"What’s this about?" Snape asked, hoping that wasn’t a stupid question, considering he had been caught with a student sleeping in his arms in his personal quarters at such a late hour of the day. ‘If you feel you’re innocent, you will be innocent,’ he tried to convince himself. Of course, he didn’t feel very innocent when he glanced at Potter and remembered that after his bath, the boy had borrowed a clean shirt and a resized pair of trousers to wear. Harry’s dirty clothes were in the bathroom on the floor, Severus remembered with anguish. ‘Please don’t let the Headmaster need the facilities’, Severus prayed.  

"I believe we have a lead on what’s become of Miss Tonks, but I need Mr. Potter to help us be certain," Professor Dumbledore grinned. Harry was using a spell on the cup which made the coffee ice-over. The steam vanished at once.  

"Where is she?" Harry gasped, emptying his tiny cup in one gulp.  

"Madam Trelawney said she had a vision, a tiny vision, and it involved making beef patty sandwiches and asking people if they would like salt on their chips."

"Tonks is working at McDonalds?" Harry’s brow furrowed.  

"Yes, I do believe Madam Trelawney did mention a Scottish fellow!" Dumbledore lit up at once. "I want you to see what you think," Dumbledore added, handing Harry a rumbled tee shirt. Harry unfolded it to find ‘Weird Sisters’ plastered across the front. Potter put down his cup and disappeared into the dark, empty bedroom.  

"This isn’t what it looks like," Severus murmured to the Headmaster as Dumbledore sipped at his cup and made a face.  

"It’s not? How disappointing."  

"Sir?"  

"It appeared to me you were giving comfort to someone in need of some. Did I misunderstand?"  

"No, sir."  

"Good. Carry on."  

"I didn’t want you to worry I was taking advantage of Mr. Potter."  

"If I suspected for one moment that you had dishonorable intentions against Mr. Potter’s person, I’d lock you in the Room of Doom and leave you there to rot."  

"At least I’d have time to read," Snape murmured.  

"Anyone who can provide Mr. Potter the reassurance he needs has my full permission. I have no question about your intentions, Severus. If Harry has learned anything from his unfortunate encounter with Lucius Malfoy, it’s a new-found appreciation for self-defense. Anyone trying to take advantage of him from this point forward is likely to find themselves on the receiving end of something pointed and deadly. How is Hagrid, by the way?"  

"I...um...fine, sir."  

"The wound was not too deep?"  

"A simple healing spell, and he was right as rain. How did you know?"  

"I happened to be passing a window when I heard Harry scream. You appeared to have matters under control, and therefore I went back to my rounds. I’m greatly concerned about the school’s wards."  

"I’m not getting anything," Harry said, his voice deeply scored with disappointment. He entered the room wearing Tonks’ shirt, pulling the white shirt he had borrowed from Snape back on over it.  

"Give it time, dear boy. Give it time. Perhaps if you wore it for a few days while you sleep? Give it a week, and see what you can sense," Dumbledore said, putting down his cup. "My oh my, I’m quite alert. How are you two? Hmm? Your eyes are simply bulging from their sockets. I’m afraid espresso at eleven pm might be a bad idea. We’ll keep that in mind next time."  

With a wave of the Headmaster’s wand, the cups and coffee disappeared. Harry sat down on the divan, fingering the front hem of the wild shirt. Severus tried not to stare at how the thin material clung to Harry’s slender body.  

"Shall I walk you back to Gryffindor Tower, or will you spend a few more minutes here?" Dumbledore asked. Harry lifted his eyes and quickly dropped them.

"With your permission, I’d like to stay."  

"Certainly. Professor Snape will see you back to the dorm when you are ready. Good night then," he said, patting Harry on top of the head.  

"Good night, sir," Harry said, watching Dumbledore vanish into the Floo. "You don’t mind if I stay, do you?" he asked Severus, suddenly aghast at his lack of manners. Snape stood and stretched, extended a hand to him.  

"Inside or outside?" he asked.  

"Couldn’t we sleep in the chair?" Harry asked nervously.  

"No. I’ll have a stiff back and you’ll have a stiff neck and neither one of us will get a wink of rest. You’ll be safe. I swear to you."  

Harry took the outstretched hand and followed Severus into the dark bedroom. "I trust you," Harry trembled. "I’m not tired after all that coffee."  

"Neither am I."  

"We could lie a while."  

"Perhaps we could. What shall we lie about?"  

Harry gave a small chortle and climbed onto the covers. His uneasiness was evident in his timid movements. He put his head on one pillow. Severus put a book that was lying on the dresser back in the bookcase, and sat on the edge of the bed. Harry stiffened even more.  

"No reason to worry," Snape soothed, easing down onto the coverlet. Harry’s gulp of apprehension was audible. "You should be on the outside. Let us trade places."  

Harry edged under Severus, closing both eyes tight and breathing erratically.  

"It’s all right," Snape murmured, putting his opposite shoulder to the bed and facing Harry, who was clenched like a rod of iron from head to toe. Severus was certain he would relax slowly. Everything would have been all right, if not for the problem of how to get under the covers with the stiff and anxious boy lying on top of them. Not a problem. Severus aimed his wand for the wardrobe in the corner. The doors clicked, and swung open, and one blanket levitated calmly across the room towards the bed. Like a large moth, it unfolded above the bed, and fluttered easily down into place over Harry.  

"Savior of the Wizarding World," Harry was mumbling sarcastically to himself as Severus tucked the blanket edges in around him.  

"Would you like music, perhaps?" Snape asked. Harry remained mum, and shook his head no. He reached his hand out from under the blanket and searching. Severus took the ice-cold digits into his own. He offered Harry a cautious caress with his thumb.  

"You must be so disappointed in me," Harry whispered.  

"On the contrary," Severus murmured with a tender smile. No, Snape was enjoying Harry’s vulnerable state, and all the more guilty for enjoying it, because he felt needed truly again. The more Harry clung to him, the more he realized he could have happily spent the rest of his life being needed this way. That had been something of an alarming realization for a wizard who for many years had taken great pride in being an island unto himself.

*Three*

Digging Up Bones

"This isn’t exactly my idea of a morning well-spent," Anna Volkova said as she pushed clothes on hangers out of her way.  

"No?" Harry’s voice held snide amusement and vague warmth. He ducked around the matching jackets and trousers, noting there wasn’t a dress in the bunch, except for one shocking-white dress that had been packaged in dry cleaner plastic and pushed further back into the closet than any of the other clothes.  

"Not that I don’t enjoy spending time with you, dear child, but not while locked in my bedroom closet."  

"Have you any idea what’s gotten into Malchik?"  

"What do you mean?" Volkova asked, pushing boxes of boots aside in order to slither behind and over a trunk that blocked nearly the entire space.  

"Why would she push me in here, lock the doors, and then leave your rooms altogether?"  

"How do you know she left the rooms?"  

"I was watching her through the keyhole. She ran like hell."  

"I have no idea what’s going on."  

"Is she prone to fits of madness?"  

"You’re joking, right? My Malchik?"  

"She is the only Malchik I know."  

"No. She’s loyal to the core. She’s beyond loyal. You look up ‘loyal’ in any dictionary, and it will show a tiny tiny picture of my Malchik."  

"That leaves us with only one logical conclusion."  

"Which is?"  

"She’s either under an Imperius spell or she’s been Polyjuiced."  

"That’s two conclusions," Volkova felt obligated to point out. She stopped in her tracks and turned to face Harry, which proved difficult until he popped his head up over the top of the trunk, following her path through the closet.  

"Hello," he smiled.  

"You do know that Poly-juicing into house-elves can be exceptionally risky, don’t you?" she asked. Harry blinked at her. "Apparently you didn’t know," Volkova mused, lifting her wand and peering up at Harry with a Lumos spell. "If a human tries to Polyjuice into a house-elf, they run the risk of turning themselves into a house-elf permanently, unless there’s a skillful Potions Master about who can brew a vial of antidote for them."  

"If you take the Polyjuice and the antidote together, is it safe?" Harry asked. His question caught her off-guard, and she dodged it.  

"Potter, do hurry. If I will fit through that space, you will fit through there," Volkova declared with a huff of sound.  

"What’s in the trunk?"  

"Mummy."  

"Your mother’s in the trunk?" Harry squeaked, clinging to the ceiling above the trunk for half a second.  

"No," Anna murmured. "My mother is dead. She was cremated in Prague with my father, who is also dead."  

"Sorry," Harry commented, feeling rather stupid.  

"It’s a mummy. A memento mori from an assignment in Egypt."  

"You didn’t want a sneak-o-scope?"  

"I promised I would keep the mummy. I didn’t have the heart to part with him. He was very lonely. Are you stuck?"  Anna asked.  

"Yes, I believe I am. Could you shrink the trunk?"  

"No. I cannot shrink the trunk. The mummy could be damaged. You must work yourself free. I could shrink you," she suggested.  

"No, no, no, no, no," Harry said, putting up a hand. "I’ll get free. Have you reached the hinges yet to open the doors?"  

"The doors were refinished in November, and I don’t want to break them. There were several nail marks and scratches on them. Malchik said they were embarrassing and needed touching up. She worked day and night on them for a week. I’m not going to wreck them. She worked very hard on them."  

"All right," Harry said, shifting to his left side and pausing to take a deep breath. He inhaled the smell of cedar and incense. "Why are we headed deeper into the closet? Maybe that’s what I should have asked."  

"There’s a secret door at the far end of the closet. You must realize I’ll have to obliviate that knowledge from you once we’re out of here," Anna said.  

"You have a secret passage in your bedroom closet?" Harry played casual. Of course he knew about several hidden passageways throughout Hogwarts because of his map. He merely hadn’t followed them all to their every exit point. "How’d you find out about it? I can’t imagine you’ve spent a lot of time lurking around in the back of your own closet," he said out loud.  

"One morning first term, I caught Draco Malfoy in here fondling my clothes and touching himself."  

Harry cackled softly, bumping his head on the ceiling. "That’s just....weird," he said.  

"My bedroom was locked, had been for many hours, so I naturally deduced that he had to have had an alternative route into my closet. I studied the walls of my room and the dimensions of the closet, walked around the outside of the tower on the ground floor to determine the arc of the circle, and discovered there was an extra angle of space that remained unassigned," she continued. "It’s not weird for a boy his age to fancy a teacher. It’s misguided, that’s all."  

"You’ve had students do that kind of thing before?"  

"You wouldn’t believe what I’ve had students do to get my attention," she confided. Harry rolled carefully onto his stomach and began to move forward again.  

"What happened?" Harry hated himself for asking.  

"I gave Draco the choice between telling me how he got in or going to the Headmaster about what he’d been doing in my closet, and he wisely chose to show me the hidden passageway," Anna said. Harry deduced this was probably also the way they had come to an arrangement about the necessary ingredients for her Gallahad Elixir, but decided it would be in poor taste to bring that up at this junction. She was doing her best to break her addiction for the potion, and he had to believe she would succeed.  

"If this is one end of the passage, where does it originate?" Harry asked, knowing that he would have to check out the Marauders Map to see if there was a hidden path to this spot.  

"It joins a very elaborate series of hidden passageways. If you keep doing that, you’re going to get yourself stuck even further. Oh, here, goddamn it."  

Harry heard a wooden clank, as if she were holding her wand with her teeth. Her fingers came up and slid under his arms. Volkova planted herself and pulled hard. Harry scraped his knees, turning around as he came free. He landed ungracefully on top of his Dark Arts professor, both sprawling to the ground. To Harry’s utter dismay, in the fraction of a second it took his brain to realize their current positions, he realized he was already half-hard and ever so aware of her being nothing but female. Paralyzed with embarrassment and fear, he froze. Volkova growled at him in a menacing manner.  

"Potter, get off," she frowned.  

"Sorry," Harry blurted, snapping away from her and standing up. He nearly skewered himself on the handle of the trunk. "Now what?" he asked as she stared at the wall of bricks in front of her with a dim light spell.  

"Trouble, I’m afraid."  

"Yes."  

"Draco has blocked the hidden passageway. That’s what I get for giving him a collection of Poe stories for Christmas."  

"What did he give you?" Harry queried, being careful not to look in her face, ever so grateful for the dark conditions.  

"A charming manual on the intricate construction of poisoned darts."  

"Hmm," Harry commented, coming forward and putting his hands on the bricks. "We could distort them out of the way."  

"He’ll have guessed we would try that, don’t you think? What if the wall is booby-trapped? Have a seat. I’ve got to think this out."  

"A bombardment spell should do the trick," Harry said, pulling out his wand. Anna quickly covered his hand with her own.  

"You could make the entire closet fall off the side of the tower if your bombardment spell damages the structural support. Worse, you could destroy my mummy."  

"He means a lot to you."  

"Yes, he does. We’re very close."  

"You have a better idea how to get out of here? It’s the outside wall, the passageway, or the doors."  

"Gryffindors. Such impatience," she chided. "Put away your wand. Sit down. Put your mind to the task."  

"Got anything comfortable to sit on?" he asked, slowly lowering himself down. "Stay here. Don’t blow anything up," she commanded.  

"What’s your ceiling made of?" Harry pointed up.  

"More than enough rock to crush you to tiny bits. Don’t be stupid," she chided, slithering around the trunk again.  

"I wasn’t being stupid. That’s no way to talk to the person who came here to rescue you."  

"Rescue me?" Anna questioned from the other side of the trunk, her voice reverberating mirthfully.  

"Malchik came streaking into the Great Hall during breakfast and dragged me here, telling me you were in great danger, that I had to come right away."  

"Possibly Malchik," Volkova countered.  

"Possibly Malchik. I guess we can assume it’s Draco Malfoy Polyjuiced into Malchik."  

"I hope so. I’d like to see him trapped as a house-elf for a few weeks. What a pity the Headmaster is so against corporal punishment. What I wouldn’t give to have half an hour alone with that boy in one hand and a cat in the other."  

"A cat?"  

"Yes, one with nine tails. So possibly Malchik found you at breakfast, and you left your marmalade and eggs and dashed to my rescue. How kind of you. Such a hero."  

"You could show an ounce of gratitude. How was I to know it was a trick?"  

"Mr. Potter, I’m not accustomed to being rescued. I must say, I don’t enjoy being rescued, however well-meaning you might be. I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the proper etiquette required. Do I have to marry you now or something? Don’t these situations usually involve fire-breathing dragons or giant water monsters?"  

"Not always," Harry mumbled.  

"Usually, I’m the one doing the rescuing. In the future, if anyone ever rushes to you and insists that I need to be rescued, you may safely assume they are deceiving you, or that I’d rather find my own way out."  

"I was trying to help."  

"I don’t need any help."  

"You could say ‘thank you’."  

"Thank you," she gruffed.  

Harry felt a soft pillow slam into his head. He put up both hands and felt the dimensions. It was heavy, round, and soft, and it immediately made him think of a large breast. Another three pillows flew over the trunk at him, and he picked them all up. Each was shaped differently but they were made of the same soft material. Harry wondered if they were decorative bed pillows, and where the heck they had come from. He didn’t think Volkova was given much to decoration, especially the fluffy sort. He straightened his glasses and hugged the pillows. Then he drew out his wand and lit it with a lumos spell. The pillows were pink. Pink? If there was ever a color so not Volkova, it was pink.  

Moments later, Volkova reappeared. She situated herself on the ground with her back against the bedroom wall instead of the bricks. Harry gave her a pink pillow cautiously. She snatched it from him and put it behind the small of her back.  

"You’re not a morning person," he said.  

"I’m more social once I’ve had my coffee."  

"Your espresso was very good. Professor Dumbledore let me try it."  

"When next I am in Venice, I will bring you more," she promised.  

"What shall we talk about?"  

"We shall not talk. I’m trying to think of a way out of here."  

The silence lasted all of five minutes.  

"Sorry," Harry said. "We have to talk about something. We can think and talk, can’t we?" he babbled nervously. "We can’t sit here and stare at each other!"  

"Are you claustrophobic?" she asked, raising one brow. Harry noxed his wand and put it away.  

"No," he replied. "I’m used to being locked in closets. I spent eleven years in the cupboard under the stairs in my aunt and uncle’s house."  

"Nine years, actually. You were a year old when your parents were murdered. You were eleven when you came to Hogwarts. That leaves nine years, give or take a few months. I’ve read your biography."  

"I have a biography?"  

"You have fifteen, each more fantastical than you could imagine."  

" ‘You can’t believe everything you read.’ Gilderoy Lockhart told me that. They may be the only truthful words he ever spoke, aside from ‘arg’ and ‘huh’."  

"You aren’t comfortable talking about yourself, are you?" she asked.  

"Why bother? You’ve already read my biography," Harry responded darkly. Volkova reached for another pillow, folding her arms tight around it. "Why don’t we talk about you?" he asked.  

"You haven’t read my biography?" she feigned hurt.  

"I read the books about the Deusredeti, but they were far from illuminating. They discussed philosophy and paths to inner peace. May I say that if you are representative of the cult, you seem to have forgotten various fundamental laws, particularly the ones about murder being a sin and forgiveness being basic to human society. You don’t have an authorized biography. I checked."  

"No, I don’t have one. Do you know why?"  

"Why?"  

"Because I’ve killed everyone who knows anything personal about me. There’s no one left who will talk. Do you still want to ask stupid questions about myself?"  

"Yes."  

"Really? Why?"  

"Because you aren’t going to kill me."  

Volkova could almost hear Potter grinning at her.  

"No, I’m afraid that would be counter-productive," she agreed.  

"What if I swear not to write your biography?"  

"On the contrary. I want you to promise me that someday, in between saving the world and finding new ways to give Professor McGonagall gray hair, you will write an in-depth, juicy, racy, scandalous biography about me."  

"Why should I promise to do that?"  

"I’d like to be remembered that way. A scandal would make me happy."  

"You want to be remembered as a complete fiction? You’re the least scandalous person I know."  

"Ah, how easy you are to deceive," she grinned.  

"Well, if you’re expecting it to be scandalous, you’d better give me something to write about. Why don’t you start at the beginning?"  

"We’re missing first class," she said quietly after a two-minute pause.  

"You’re avoiding my question," Harry prodded her. "Here. I’ll help. ‘My name is Anna Volkova. I was born in Russia’."  

"I wasn’t born in Russia."  

"Professor Snape said you’re from Archangel on the White Sea. Those books about your family– he read them cover to cover. He was entranced, fascinated even."  

"Did you try to read them with your clairvoyance?"  

"Yes."  

"You didn’t find anything out, did you?"  

"No. Nasty, sharp blocking spells."  

"That’s the point, dear. They discourage intrusion."  

"I could use my clairvoyance on you now."  

"I could break your arm in seven places with one well-placed kick," she replied.  

"You aren’t good at sharing, are you?" Harry laughed, scooting an inch or two away. "Okay. Let me talk then. I can’t take the silence."  

"Have we had any silence?"  

"You may not have been born in Russia, but your family, your clan, is from Archangel. You taught there briefly. Is that fair enough to assume?"  

"Yes. My parents are from Archangel."  

"You send Malchik to Venice on a regular basis, presumably to make reports to the cult you used to work for. I wonder if formerly working for the Deusredeti is anything like being a former vampire hunter."  

"Haven’t you anything better to wonder about, with all the fantastic mysteries in the world, Mr. Potter?"  

"You don’t want to elaborate on my assumption?"  

"No. You appear to have the elaborate assumptions well covered."  

"Hermione found a book on learning Russian in the library."  

"Hermione found a book in the library on learning Russian."  

"Don’t nitpick about my grammar."  

"I’m not. Go on."  

"She was trying to learn to speak Russian, but with classes resuming, she’ll have to put it aside for the time being. "  

"Why would she want to learn Russian?"  

"She’s a know-it-all. It’s what she does for fun. That’s all right though. We love her anyway. Maybe you could teach her some Russian and save her some time."  

"Doubtful, pet."  

"Why is that?"  

"I know but a few words of Russian myself. Mostly foul language."  

"But you’re Russian. You taught in Russia."  

"Sitting in a hen house will not make you a chicken. My Russian Dark Arts classes were taught in Latin. Actually, when I first arrived at Hogwarts, I had assumed my Dark Arts classes here would be in Latin as well."  

"Why don’t you know Russian?"  

"When I was about ten, I asked my grandfather to teach me to speak our native tongue. He refused. He said, ‘No, Vasili Volkov’s granddaughter will be an educated woman. She will be no man’s slave. She will be Mistress of her own Affairs. What does an educated woman need with Russian?’ I was shocked. I was horrified. ‘But I want to learn the language of my people,’ I told him."  

"Why did he say that?" Harry asked, amused at how her voice changed in imitation of her grandfather.  

"He saw his language as a severe impediment. ‘It is the language of peasants’, he scowled at me from his desk," she said sadly. " ‘Your ancestors left Russia so you wouldn’t have to bow down to and obey another man’s whims merely because he is educated and you are not. Learn Latin. Learn Greek. Learn Arabic. Learn French. Forget Russian,' he scoffed at me."  

"What did you say?"  

"I’ll tell you what happened," she laughed dimly at the memory. "Hell opened its mouth, a demon possessed my body, and I heard this little voice say, ‘But, Papa, Latin itself began as the language of farmers long before it was the language of senators and soldiers.’ He stared at me for five minutes. You could hear the blood throbbing in his temples."  

"What did he say?"  

"Nothing. He turned and walked away. He didn’t speak to me for a week. I was crushed. I worshipped him, you know."  

"So you didn’t learn Russian?"  

"I learned a word here, a word there, listening to him curse at his prey, listening to him argue with my Nonni. But no, I didn’t learn the language per se."  

"But you studied other languages?"  

"I travelled with him, and learned fragments of the languages in the countries he frequented, at least until Rubrica decided that I needed more specialized, more civilized training than my grandfather could offer me."  

"Who is Rubrica?"  

"She is the one who cares for the children."  

"In the Deusredeti? How many children are there?"  

"No more than 250 at a time. I should say she oversees the care of the children. She does not mind them all by herself. But I will guarantee you that they all mind her," Volkova said ruefully.  

"So you never learned Russian?" he said. "That’s pretty sad."  

"I understand why Papa was so insistent. If that’s all I knew how to speak, people would judge me by my language, and treat me as an immigrant. Whereas if I spoke Italian, they would see me as a native."  

"If you were born in Italy you are a native," Harry pointed out. "How come you have an accent if you weren’t raised by your parents but in groups with other children?"  

"I spent a lot of time with my grandparents after my parents were killed. My grandfather told me who he was to me, against the rules. Besides, the language teacher during my formative years was..." Her voice failed her, and she stared at Harry as if he had tricked her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It took her some time to gulp back her words and bolster her courage. "He was an intelligent, kind young man. He also hailed from Archangel– he’d been born there but joined the Deusredeti in his late teens. We may have been distantly related, actually. All of us who took his lessons wound up speaking with his accent, I’m afraid. Those who teach languages now continue to pass on his accent."  

"Why didn’t he teach you Russian?"  

"My grandfather threatened Sergei with violence if he even considered it. That’s the sort of threat you take seriously from a vampire-killer, especially if your secret ambition is that he will take you on as his apprentice."  

"I guess so. Did he?"  

"Did who what?"  

"Did your language teacher become a vampire-killer?"  

Volkova glared at Harry. He had crossed a line. She didn’t want to discuss this any further. In response, she ignored his question, which was in effect worse than having answered him in the first place. Harry decided for himself that yes, the language teacher had become a vampire-killer, and what’s more, his life had probably ended in a very sticky, ugly, messy horrible way that Volkova was nursing wounds about to this very day.  

"Whether I’m a native Italian or not, you’d be surprised how much difference the tiniest of accents makes in how people see you. Besides, many of the aristocratic Russians didn’t speak a word of the language either. They spoke French. They spoke German too. Tell Hermione to learn Latin. She’ll get more mileage from that," Volkova rambled.  

"Hermione’s got her heart set on Russian at the moment. I suppose Bulgarian is next. She’s already studied Latin. She knew that your name means ‘wolf’. Did your family ever raise wolves? Or were you raised by wolves?"  

"A potter is a maker of clay bowls. Have you ever thrown clay?"  

"No. But we probably did in the past. One of my Potter ancestors must have. Remember last semester? The ancestor that Malfoy and I have in common? She married a Potter, and he was a maker of clay bowls."  

"Well, as far as I know, my family did not raise wolves. I believe it’s an acquired name, a nickname, one of comparison as opposed to occupation. Peter the Great. John the Terrible. William the Bastard."  

"Anna the Wolf-Like."  

"More or less. Language is a fluid concept, always in motion, always evolving, often misinterpreted."  

"Did they mean it as a compliment?"  

"Probably not. We were the terror of the region before we were pushed into hunting vampires for a living."  

Harry put one hand forward and touched her nose.  

"What are you doing?" Volkova asked, unhappily allowing the intrusion into her personal space.  

"You don’t have a snout like a wolf."  

"A compliment. Thank you."  

She took his hands into hers, and seemed to be studying their dimensions. Harry was so surprised that he didn’t even consider using his clairvoyance on her until she had already released his hands.  

"You have nice hands," she said. "Skillful hands. It’s not out the question that you could learn to throw clay."  

There was an awkward pause. Harry wasn’t sure what to say.  

"I believe I’d prefer to learn how to throw claymores," he joked.  

"There’s a lot to be admired in a fine Scottish blade," Volkova purred. "It could also mean that my family once belonged to a lord named Volkov," she added. "My name, that is."  

"Did your grandfather agree to take you both on as his apprentices?"  

"Yes," Volkova answered distantly, dangerously. A wall went up, and Harry backed off from the topic. Even from three feet away in the darkness, he could sense her getting violently angry deep inside.  

"Hermione found out something else. ‘Malchik’ means boy," Harry said, wanting to change the subject.  

"Yes, it does."  

"She’s a girl, isn’t she?"  

"No, pet, she’s a house-elf."  

"She’s a female house-elf named ‘boy’?"  

Volkova’s wand came on dim. She stared at Harry, slowly raising a brow. She appeared to be waiting. She was slowly smiling, but the smile faded away.  

"It’s a joke," she said finally, shutting the light off again.  

"I don’t get it," Harry said blandly.  

"My grandfather wanted a boy to help him with his work. My grandmother’s house-elf gave birth to a girl. Nonni named her ‘Malchik’– boy. Grandfather said he would only accept a boy to help him with his work, that he had a signed, written contract with Nonni, and that was his final word. What he got was Malchik, who may not be a boy, but is named ‘boy’ and is therefore acceptable under the terms of their agreement."  

"It’s not a funny joke," Harry said.  

"Nonsense. I myself have been amused for years by the whole idea of it. I guess it helps if you knew my grandmother though. Most people who knew her get it right away."  

"It’s not that funny," Harry repeated.  

"My grandmother was prone to finding ways to trick my grandfather. He thought himself a very clever man. Nonni liked outsmarting him. It’s the best way to survive a long marriage, I suppose, especially an arranged marriage."  

"Did they often use signed contracts between themselves?"  

"Yes. That was agreed on both sides before the marriage was performed. Everything would be in black and white and in print. Neither was very trusting of the other, and having things in print seemed to help them feel more secure. Vampire-hunters are notoriously paranoid."  

"You said it was an arranged marriage?"  

"Yes."  

"What about your parents? Did they have an arranged marriage too? Does the Deusredeti tell you who you can marry?"  

"The elders don’t always decide on unions– it depends," Volkova hedged.  

"Did these elders tell you you couldn’t marry?" Harry pondered. "Is that why you’re single?"  

"My parents had no choice but to marry. My mother was a week away from delivering me. As for me, I have not yet found an appropriate mate. Besides, marriage for someone in my profession can often be more of a hindrance than anything else. One might not choose to risk one’s life if they have someone waiting at home for them."  

"Oh," Harry said, brows rising. "But your parents....married...?"  

"Against the wishes of the elders."  

Another awkward pause lingered. Had the elders not wanted her to marry? Had they felt there was something wrong with her, that she should not have children? He sensed a deep sadness without even touching her to get a reading.  

"Everyone tells me I look like my father. Who do you take after the most?" Harry wondered.  

"I have my father’s face and build, my grandmother’s hands, my grandfather’s brains, and my mother’s magic, none of which is the best of any of them."  

"Did you ever meet your parents?"  

"Once."  

Stone silence. Harry waited, knowing given a chance, hoping given a chance, she would go on. He did not go unrewarded.  

"The children are usually kept separate from the adults, precisely to avoid being overly influenced, showing rank favoritism for one’s own. But I ran into my parents in the courtyard at our school, on my way between classes. I don’t believe it was coincidental. In fact, I’m sure they had been loitering around for some time in the hopes I would walk by them."  

"What were they like?"  

"To a little girl, they were gods," she laughed hoarsely. Sadness radiated off of her like heat from a fire.  

"What were they like?" Harry asked again.  

"My father was grinning like a big blond wolf. He had blond hair, with touches of gray in his moustache and beard. He must have been eight feet tall. He seemed so huge to me. He patted me on the head as I approached them. The other girls in my den fled like skittish rabbits. I stopped, waited, hoping he would say something to me. He kept grinning. My mother was staring at the ground and toying with the end of her red braid. She was a plump, plain-faced woman with timid brown eyes. She was scared to see me, as if she were afraid I wouldn’t approve of her. She spoke German to my father. ‘We have to go now, Vasili’."  

"Did you know who they were?"  

"I sensed, I believe, yes. It’s hard not to speculate when you see your face and features on another person. I’m careful where I walk when I am home."  

"Why?" Harry asked. Was there someone she didn’t want to see her face, lest it should remind them of their own?  

"My earliest memories are of Malchik. She was my companion before I learned my own name," Volkova rambled on ahead, ignoring Harry’s question.  

"Do all the children have house elves there?"  

"Not all of them."  

"Malchik has never locked you in a closet before, has she?"  

"She locked me in a trunk and shipped me to Honolulu once."  

"Didn’t that hurt?" Harry winced.  

"A little," Anna confessed. "If Draco has done anything to hurt Malchik, he’ll live only long enough to regret it."  

"Thought of a way out of this yet?"  

"No. I can’t think with all the noise."  

"Can I keep talking?"  

"Nothing short of a gag is going to stop you, apparently." There was a jagged, awkward pause. "Sorry," she said in a small, small voice. Harry felt her reach a hand towards him. She patted him gingerly once on the forearm. "Sorry," she said again.  

"Why did Malchik send you to Honolulu?" he mumbled, shrugging. The question was as good a question as any to fill the anxious silence. Talking kept the emotional wolves at bay for Harry. The sound of someone else’s voice helped– anything that would dampen the mocking laughter of Lucius Malfoy and Lord Voldemort which echoed in his head when he was alone. Falling into someone else’s voice, or into someone else’s pain, was all that seemed to help Harry go on.  

The mortification flooded over him again though, the queasy horror he felt at the knowledge that his Dark Arts Professor had seen him entirely naked. More than that– she had covered wounds on his body with her hands to stop the flow of his precious blood. She had helped wash his wounds with special potions as he lay dazed and exhausted. She had helped perform white magic spells that had healed him, crawling around on the hospital wing floor tracing patterns and runes in heavy white chalk lines. Even now, the protective and undeniably motherly aura Harry had felt from Volkova on many occasions wove across the space between them. She wanted to take his hand and reassure him, but hesitated, not wanting to cross unspoken lines for the worry of offending him. ‘Boys of his age are so very easily annoyed,’ she was thinking. ‘Mustn’t mother too much.’  

It was strange how Harry didn’t feel queasy or mortified that Severus had seen him naked and vulnerable. Maybe it was different because Volkova was a woman, and even the most fundamental part of his social upbringing made him ashamed of being undressed in front of a strange woman not his mother. Or maybe it was different because Harry was comfortable with Severus seeing him naked. It had everything to do with those surprising, gentle baths that Snape had given him. He would have never considered Snape could be so gentle, and wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t happened before his very eyes. Severus had done all of the things to heal him and for his benefit that Volkova had done, but the idea of that didn’t raise the nagging notion in Harry that he should remain penitent and ashamed in his presence because he had acted improperly. Harry could not stop feeling embarrassed around Volkova.  

It flooded over him again– the certainty that Volkova was fighting the instinct to pet him, to mother him, to brutalize anyone who meant to do him harm. Well certainly she didn’t feel he had acted improperly. So why did he feel so very embarrassed in her presence?  

"I needed a vacation but I refused to take one. She was helping me out in her own special way," Volkova said.  

"Did you have a nice vacation?" Harry asked.  

"No. I got sunburned. The local cuisine did not agree with me. I had morning sickness for weeks on end. I didn’t want a vacation. Everyone there was very friendly and eager to make me happy, which made me more miserable and grumpy."  

"It could have been worse."  

"Could it?"  

"Certainly somehow," Harry assured her, trying to make light. "Seafood allergies. Itchy grass skirts. A terrible phobia for pineapples. You know there are actually people who can go to Hawaii and have a perfectly lovely time. It wouldn’t be thought of as rude if you had a bit of fun along the way in life. What about the floor? What’s below the closet?"  

"The Dark Arts storeroom."  

"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed, jumping up and raising his wand.  

"No."  

"Why not?"  

"That door is spell-locked from the outside and is rigged to Petrificus anyone who breaks in."  

"What’s a little Petrificus between friends? At least we’ll be out of here," Harry said, aiming at the floor. Volkova took his wand away from him.  

"Potter, if you remove the floor, wasn’t going to happen?"  

"We’ll get out of here," he said blandly.  

"We, and the entire contents of my closet, will land in the Dark Arts storeroom."  

"This isn’t about that mummy again, is it?"  

"Have you seen the Dark Arts storeroom lately?"  

"Not since Remy was the teacher."  

"I’ve made a few adjustments to the shelves and contents."  

"What kind of adjustments?"  

"Nothing I want broken into thousands of pieces. Sit down, if you please. We’ll find a way out of here."  

"Let’s continue with your biography then. Where were you born?" He threw himself on the floor and leaned back.  

"In a bed," she answered crossly. "In Venice," she added after a pained sigh.  

"Your parents were in the Deusredeti too?"  

"Yes."  

"Voluntarily?"  

"Yes," she barked. "Peculiar question," she added quietly a moment later.  

"What about your grandparents?"  

"Yes. Voluntarily. No one is in by force. We all decide at our majority whether to stay or to leave. Most agree to stay. It’s an extended family. It is not a cult. I resent that term. We aren’t all religious weirdos. We’re not all even religious. We’re an extended family, a commune of like-thinkers."  

"Vampire-killers, the lot of them?"  

"No, not everyone in the Deusredeti is a vampire-killer. We have specialized tasks as directed by our talents. Every Volkovi has been a vampire-hunter, yes. Well, every male Volkovi plus me. My choice of vocation was not greeted with terrific enthusiasm, except by Nonni. I would have been disallowed if it weren’t for the fact I was already practicing the job and making a name for myself. Strangely enough, most people tend to prefer that their exorcists or vampire-killers be male."  

"Those were the fields that interested you most? Kinda morbid of you," he said, hoping a gentle tease wasn’t going to get him kicked in the face. To his surprise, Volkova gave a self-deprecating laugh.  

"I wasn’t good enough to be a transfigurationist. I had no desire to devote myself to a life of brewing potions, although I have some minor talent with it– my grandmother’s influence."  

"You do have a talent for mayhem and pointy things," Harry said.  

"You wouldn’t be the first to say I took a strange path. I had strange experiences which led me to believe either field would prove an interesting career."  

"What kind of strange experiences?"  

"Ask me again in ten years."  

"We both know I might not be around in ten years."  

"Neither tale is fit for delicate ears."  

"Do I strike you as being the least bit delicate?" Harry clucked. There it was, that protective burst of energy from her. She raised her hand and patted his arm with her fingertips.  

"No, not at all," she lied. She dropped the hand fast and cleared her throat. "But the tales are not appropriate ones," she stood her ground. "When you are older, I will tell you. The point is that Rubrica didn’t want me to do either job. She kept trying to make me more feminine."  

"How?" Harry wondered. He had mental images of her being forced to wear pink bows in her hair, and those frilly dresses that make little girls look like dolls.  

"It’s a long story," Volkova sighed. "There were no laws that said I had to be male to go into those fields, but there remain certain prejudices. They are both male-dominated fields, enough said. I believe it has more to do with the Holy Church being extremely anti-female than anything else. Woman is the garden in which many an evil grows. No, the church doesn’t like women unless we’re mothers and virgins. The Deusredeti doesn’t care much for women either, especially women like me. Rubrica said I should be a healer. A HEALER!? Can you believe that? She said if I were made to be a healer, I might learn a bit of compassion. The elders would have swayed her direction but for the fact that only a week before the choosing ceremony, Sergei and I had managed to root out a nest of four vampires in an abandoned church in Sofia all on our own. I was made a vampire killer, and he was made my aide-de-camp. I don’t think he found much humor in that. Fifteen years my senior, and he was my aide. It chaffed his masculine pride on more than one occasion. It made him reckless to prove himself my better."  

Her voice limped away and hid in the darkness, and she breathed unevenly. Harry feared she was fighting tears. He put a hand forward, touching her arm.  

"Something terrible happened to him, didn’t it? Do you want to talk about it? It might help."  

"No," she snapped, yanking her arm away.  

"Okay," Harry said meekly. He was sensing he was not the only person at Hogwarts with pent-up hostility. "Let’s talk about your parents again."  

"My father was a vampire killer. My mother was his aide-de-camp."  

"Like a nurse to a doctor?"  

"More like a moth to the flame. Nonni always knew he’d be the death of her."  

"She travelled with your father like you travelled with your grandfather. Is that why you became a vampire killer? Because you were following in your grandfather’s footsteps?"  

"Are you meddling with the floor?"  

"Avoiding the question won’t make it go away."  

"Give me your wand."  

"You already have my wand. AHH! What was that?" Harry asked, climbing to his feet.  

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" Volkova screamed loudly, pounding on the floor.  

"The floor is moving," Harry said anxiously.  

"Yes, I KNOW IT IS!" Volkova screamed, taking hold of Harry and putting his back against the wall. Potter tried to protest but couldn’t move. She must have used a spell to stick him there. A sickening shudder went through the stones. Harry looked away, and carefully back as the sound of breaking glass and shifting metal filled the air with dust from the crushed stones. The entire floor of the closet had crumbled to dust and dropped out from under them. Volkova was dangling by one hand from the clothes rod. She swung forward to catch herself against the outer wall with a climbing spell, and glared down into the remains of her once-tidy storeroom. Severus Snape was staring back at them.

*Four*

I Fall To Pieces

"Of all the ignorant stunts I’ve seen in my life," Volkova was muttering. Harry sat on the hospital bed, swinging his feet as he leaned back on his arms, trying so very hard not to crack up in laughter.  

"I was trying to help you and Mr. Potter," Snape said. He avoided answering the question on Volkova’s face– how had Severus known Harry was in trouble? If she had asked, Snape would have found himself unable to offer a reasonable explanation. He had had an uncomfortable prickle of annoyance along his spine, and a creeping sensation along his scalp. He had gone directly to the Dark Arts classroom, and into the storeroom, and from there, he had heard their voices above him, Volkova exclaiming her indignation about a healer, or about being taken for a healer. Snape couldn’t be sure she wasn’t hollering for a healer, and took the first action that sprung to mind.  

"You’d better hope Madam Pomfrey can put my mummy back together, or you’re going to become his substitute," Anna snipped.  

"Why, pray tell, did you have a mummy in your closet in your bedroom?" Severus asked. He reached over and covered Harry’s ears with both hands. "Are you a necrophiliac?"  

"No, you idiot. The mummy is a memento mori, of sorts, basically, roughly."  

Severus pulled his hands away when Harry cackled and ducked down.  

"Couldn’t you shrink it? It would be a lot easier to carry around or to store safely in one of the school basements," Snape murmured.  

"The mummy must stay close to me," Anna explained.  

"Fine. It’s your closet. You can stuff it full of whatever you like."  

"Sure I can, after you put the damned floor back in place."  

"The house elves are already at work."  

"Fine," Volkova growled.  

"You’re welcome."  

"We were working on how to get out when you came along. We’d’ve stumbled onto something eventually, I’m sure."  

"It’s apparent I’m going to have to ask the obvious question. How did you and Mr. Potter come to find yourselves locked in your bedroom closet?"  

"Malchik," Harry said. "No, probably not Malchik. Probably Draco Malfoy."  

"Oh, look. Potter finally came out of the closet."  

Amid gales of wicked laughter, Draco Malfoy came striding into the hospital wing. He was carrying ancient scroll, smirking for all he was worth. Harry wondered if he even smirked while sleeping.  

"Mr. Malfoy. I told you to wait in the Dark Arts classroom," Snape said. "Can you not follow even simple instructions?"  

"The house elves refused to pick this up--"  

Malfoy didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Volkova was on her feet one second, and Draco was down on his knees the next.  

"Do you find it diverting, Draco, pushing people into closets and locking them inside?" Anna whispered, curling her fingers together tightly around into a fist. Draco gasped for breath and let go of the scroll. At least he wasn’t smirking any more, Harry thought. Anna snatched the scroll off the floor and considered bashing Draco in the head with it. Harry couldn’t help but notice that the ribbon dangling from the scroll had a golden scarab swinging back and forth on the end.  

"Sorry...." Draco fought for breath.  

"Not sorry enough," she replied venomously.  

"I can’t....breathe, please," he gasped.  

"Where is Malchik?" Anna demanded, tightening her fist until Harry was sure her fingers would snap.  

"I don’t have her...."  

"Do you know what I did to the last person who hurt Malchik to get to me?" Volkova menaced.  

"I don’t....know where she is."  

"He’s turning blue," Snape cautioned.  

"Where is she?" Anna hissed.  

"If he dies, he won’t be able to tell you where she is," Severus said. "Be civil, Professor Volkova. The Headmaster frowns on this sort of behavior."  

"Pansy," Draco gasped. Harry cackled, and Draco glared at him before gasping again.  

"Release my student, if you please," Snape said. Volkova begrudgingly allowed Draco to take a breath. He rolled to his backside and scuttled crab-like away from her in sheer terror. She raised the scroll at him and it lengthened it a staff of solid wood. Draco crawled backwards out of her reach.  

"What about Pansy??" Volkova growled, aiming the staff at him.  

"I left Malchik with Pansy!" Draco exclaimed.  

"Mr. Malfoy, on your feet. Let us find Miss Parkinson and ask her the whereabouts of Professor Volkova’s house elf. Come along, before she loses her temper with you," Snape interjected himself between Draco and Volkova.  

"Bye. Do come again," Harry waved from the bed. Draco shot Potter a blood-curdling glare as Snape was dragging him away. Once Draco was gone, Harry turned to Volkova. She shrank the staff to a scroll again, and jammed it into an inside pocket, cursing to herself. The scarab dangled outside until she plucked it up and tucked it in as well. The scroll must have fallen out of her mummy’s trunk. Harry was burning with curiosity. If he could touch it, hold it, get a sense of it, for only a few minutes......  

"I’m going to beat him black and blue someday," she muttered aloud when she was done muttering under her breath.  

"I’m not so sure he wouldn’t enjoy it," Harry murmured with a careful smile. Volkova raised a brow at him, and he shrank back from her an inch. "Will you be able to put your storeroom back together?" Harry asked, wondering at the shaky breath that Volkova inhaled, exhaled, inhaled again.  

"The storeroom, certainly. The shelves, perhaps. The boxes of blown-glass jars filled with priceless and irreplaceable potion ingredients, doubtfully."  

"Don’t worry. I’m sure Malchik is fine," Harry said, wanting to be supportive.  

"We have a Dark Arts class," Volkova said, neutrality covering her face.

*Five*

Cock of the Walk

"Oh, look. Potter finally came out of the closet," Millicent Bulstrode snickered when Harry sprinted into the Dark Arts classroom with Professor Volkova at his heels.  

Without a word, Volkova pointed her wand at Bulstrode. Everyone in the near vicinity ducked down at their desks. In the background of the classroom, house elves could be heard hard at work repairing the floor to Volkova’s closet. The door to the storeroom was open. Bits and pieces of dark arts components were strewn about the floor inside and out. It smelled like several greenhouses had exploded in there as well. The intense smell must have come from the potion ingredients Volkova had mentioned.  

"How charming, Miss Bulstrode. Do you and Mr. Malfoy always plan your insults in tandem?" Professor Volkova asked Millicent.  

"No, ma’am."  

"It’s evident you all know about the unfortunate incident with my closet and storeroom this morning," Volkova continued, keeping her wand pointed at Millicent. Volkova situated herself on the front edge of her desk and stared out over the students assembled as Harry took his seat next to Hermione.  

"Professor, was Madam Pomfrey able to put your mummy back together?" Hermione asked, raising her hand.  

"She’s working on him presently. Now, I feel it’s best we get right to work, because you’ve all got a busy semester ahead of you, especially you, Miss Bulstrode."  

"Yes, ma’am." Millicent hadn’t moved a millimeter.  

"What happened this morning was a direct result of this juvenile in-house fighting that goes on here at Hogwarts. I want you all to know from this millisecond forward that I will no longer tolerate it in this classroom. What you do outside this classroom, that’s for the Headmaster and your other professors to tolerate or not. Inside this classroom, however, you belong to me. Having said that, as corporal punishment is not allowed on school grounds, and smashing you to bloody pulps is regrettably not an option, I have alternative plans. Miss Bulstrode has volunteered to be part of my first demonstration. Step forward, please."  

Millicent gulped, stood up, and meekly came forward. Any of the Gryffindors that thought about snickering thought a second time when they saw the fury that was taking over Volkova’s usually-reserved face. The Dark Arts instructor pointed to a spot on the floor right in front of herself, and Bulstrode stood on that spot and waited.  

"Do you have a heart condition?" Volkova asked.  

"Ummm."  

"Do you have a heart condition?" Anna continued. Millicent continued to wait, her mouth hanging open. "Please repeat for us what you said when Mr. Potter entered the room."  

"What?"  

"It’s a simple request. Please repeat what you said."  

" ‘Oh, look. Potter finally came out of the closet’," Millicent said quietly.  

"I take this comment to be a remark not only encompassing the incident with my closet and storeroom this morning, but a verbal slight at Mr. Potter’s sexuality, and also a jab about the recent incident that passed between Mr. Potter and Mr. Lucius Malfoy. How exciting. Three nasty remarks in eight short words. Any further thoughts on this you’d like to express, Miss Bulstrode?"  

"No, ma’am."  

"Do you feel it’s appropriate to make light of possible suffocation, the destruction of personal property, the inconvenience of missing my first class this morning, to say nothing of missing my first cup of coffee, to which you owe the present tirade?"  

"No, ma’am."  

"Do you feel it’s appropriate to make light of another person’s sexual preferences?" Volkova demanded.  Snickers crossed the room, and Millicent thought it safe to smile. Bad move.  "It matters to you that Harry might feel attracted to men?" Volkova asked her.  

"No," Millicent denied and snickered.    

"This is a Dark Arts classroom, my dear, and whether Mr. Potter is attracted to women or men or sea squids is of no difference whatsoever to his ability to learn what I am teaching him. All I care about is that each and every one of you learns what I am teaching you. Do you think Harry cares if you sleep with a stuffed rabbit and masturbate with carrots you filch from the school kitchen? I doubt seriously it causes him a moment of worry. Shall we ask him? Shall we ask the other students their views on your sexual practices?"  

Millicent covered her face with both hands. Harry could foresee a lot of anonymous vegetables being left in her bed in the future, and not just by pervy Gryffindors. Volkova went on as if she hadn’t revealed probably the darkest secret of Bulstrode’s young life.  

"No, we shall not," Volkova decided. "That is sex, and this is Dark Arts. Most people prefer to keep Dark Arts out of their sex life. I prefer to keep people’s sex lives out of my Dark Arts classroom. As far as my teaching is concerned, you are all sexless, and should remain so. Do you understand?"  

"Yes, Professor," Millicent mumbled.  

"As for the third target of your tasteless innuendo, do you somehow feel it’s appropriate to make light of Mr. Potter being physically assaulted to within an inch of his life? Are you an ignorant savage with no sympathy for a fellow human being?"  

This brought a faint smirk to many a Slytherin face, including Millicent’s. Harry wanted to sink down into his chair and vanish from sight.  

"Ah, so that’s it," Volkova said, standing to her feet. Harry felt the protectiveness well off of her, and felt her temper rise like a tangible thickening of the room’s environment. "You find Mr. Potter’s experience amusing. Perhaps the circumstances of the attack amuse you, because it was your friend’s father, because you take a vicarious thrill from the idea of a Slytherin getting the best of a Gryffindor."  

"No, ma’am."  

"How well do you feel you would fare trying to physically protect yourself against someone more than twice your age and two times your body mass, to say nothing of the illegal potions Mr. Malfoy forced Mr. Potter to ingest, which dampened his ability to defend himself?"  

"Not well, ma’am," Millicent smirked.  

"If I were a Slytherin, I’d be mortified that a sorcerer in his forties, a cub of my den, was afraid to face a boy of sixteen unless the boy was drugged and unable to fight back. Aren’t you embarrassed by such cowardice?"  

"Mr. Malfoy wasn’t a coward," Millicent defended as a chorus of angry gasps went through the Slytherins. Volkova knew she had struck a nerve, and she dove in for a second shot at the sore spot.  

"Wasn’t he?" Volkova smirked. "What a strange point of view you have, Miss Bulstrode. It’s clear Mr. Malfoy didn’t feel he could take Mr. Potter without first rendering the boy practically unconscious. That does more than suggest cowardice. To my mind, Lucius’s actions reek of fear."  

"Mr. Malfoy was never afraid of him." Millicent pointed at Harry and laughed.  

"Do you believe somehow that Mr. Potter was deserving of such an attack?"  

"Everyone knows he’s a poof now," Millicent muttered.  

Harry thought for sure that his heart was going to stop and that he would die. Right there. Ron muttered foul language from his seat, going black with rage. Volkova had heard Ron. Harry waited in fear that she was whirl their direction. The professor was otherwise occupied however. Hermione took out her wand when Crabbe and Goyle started chortling. Volkova was one step ahead of her. With a flick of Anna’s wrist, the two bulky Slytherins began to baa like sheep. She hadn’t even looked away from the captive Bulstrode.  

"If I were to rape you, would it make you desire women?" Volkova asked Bulstrode. Crabbe and Goyle continued to baa, in worry, not amusement.  

"No," Millicent frowned in disgust. "Besides, you couldn’t."  

"I don’t have to have a penis to rape you. I’m creative if not skilled with transfigurations magic. We could find out, couldn’t we?"  

Bulstrode took a step backwards as Volkova took one forwards. Anna was leering at her, chuckling darkly again.  

"I assure you, all rape takes is one willing person and one unwilling person. It’s brute force against helplessness. I could rape you here and now, and I doubt there’d be a person in this room who would be able to stop me."  

Harry felt his jaw drop. Hermione gasped out loud. It was as if every restrained emotion and dark thought Volkova might have had for the last year was surfacing in a bubbling brew of nasty evil. This was a glimpse at the unrepentant, highly-decorated vampire-killer, staring down at Bulstrode like delicious prey. She was doing this to protect Harry, to defend his honor, in a manner of speaking, and part of Harry was grateful to her. But none of the other students were ready to handle the idea of what a sharp, angry, nasty individual Volkova kept so skillfully buried away most of the time. In fact, Harry was sure Ron would never again have another blissful daydream about Volkova being all soft and pliable on the inside, emotionally speaking.  

"It’s not allowed," Millicent whimpered.  

"What did you say, you stupid cow? Even in your limited experiences, you must have noticed that many things happen in this world that are not allowed," Volkova mimicked the student’s mincing tone. " ‘It’s not allowed’. What nonsense is this? Do you know what would happen if I struck you dead right here?"  

"You’d be punished," Millicent whimpered when Volkova jabbed her wand against the student’s throat.  

"Yes, eventually, maybe, but you’d still be dead, wouldn’t you?" Volkova snapped, narrowing the gap between them. "Once you’re dead, what happens to me is rather irrelevant. There’s no bringing you back. You’re dead. Death is permanent. Forever. I might get sent to Azkaban, if the authorities catch me. But you would still be dead."  

"You don’t have a right to talk to me that way," Bulstrode sounded as if she might cry. "I’ll tell the Headmaster. I’ll tell my parents."  

"Yes, let’s summon the Headmaster at once," Volkova agreed. She made as if to walk to the fireplace as Millicent gibbered where she stood.  

"No, really, that’s all right."  

"No? He’s a simple floo-call away."  

"No. Everyone knows how much Dumbledore favors Potter."  

"How about your parents then? Hmm? I’m sure they could explain to me why you’re entertained by the manner in which Mr. Potter was injured. Perhaps I could have a long talk with your mother and father about how your sociopathic amusement with someone else’s pain is a reflection of their less-than-adequate parenting skills. What kind of home life must you have where pain is a form of amusement? Are your parents as sick and twisted as you are? Mentally-malformed? Psychologically incapable of compassion? Perhaps you shouldn’t be raised by such monsters."  

"You don’t have any right to say that about my parents!" Millicent screeched.  

"Do you have a right to find amusement with what happened to Mr. Potter?"  

"I’m not amused!" Bulstrode screamed.  

"Your tasteless verbal expression reveals otherwise."  

"My father said it serves him right!" Millicent yelled, anger coloring her face. "Potter needed taken down a notch. He needed to be shown he’s not the biggest cock of the walk."  

"And that’s how your father measures every man? By the size of his cock?" Volkova asked, smirking.  

"It’s an expression," Bulstrode frowned.  

"Yes, an expression of your unending stupidity and your father’s common vulgarity. Miss Bulstrode, give me your hand," Volkova hissed.  

"What?"  

"Which word puzzles you? Give. me. your. hand."  

"I don’t think...."  

"I didn’t ask you to think! Give me your hand! Your non-dominant one."  

The room went deathly quiet. Those words had been added purely for their terror quality. Millicent wiped her left palm on her robe and slid her fishy-cold hand into Volkova’s.  

"Mr. Potter, please come forward," Volkova said.  

Harry briefly entertained the thought of refusing, but decided Volkova wasn’t going to rip out his internal organs, and frankly anything painful after Lucius was going to be somewhat anti-climatic. He walked up to Volkova, and gave him her hand, refusing to look at Millicent or even acknowledge her presence. Did other wizards feel like she did? Like her father had said? Did they feel he was in need of a reckoning to learn his place? Harry Potter needed to be humbled to learn he wasn’t all-powerful?  

Volkova looked intently at Harry, and he knew she wasn’t going to hurt him. She merely needed to see into his mind, he believed. But he didn’t feel her in his mind at all. Anna turned from Harry and focused her gaze on Millicent. Bulstrode dropped to the floor on her knees, screaming in terror and pain. Volkova let go of her hand as if dropping an unclean object. Harry dodged back from Anna and Millicent, stunned by Volkova’s coldness in the face of physical brutality, particularly because she was the one inflicting the brutality with such casualness.  

"Get up, Miss Bulstrode, stop your sniveling, and tell the class what you felt," Volkova said. The sobbing Millicent got to her feet. She wiped a hand across her face, and stared dumbly at the other Slytherins. Most of them were having a hard time meeting her face.  

"I...." Millicent stammered.  

"Tell the class what you felt," Volkova repeated.  

"I don’t know," she cried, one hand moving down towards her skirt unconsciously, and the other touching her shirt to make sure her buttons were closed.  

"Take your place, Miss Bulstrode. If you trouble me again this semester, I’ll display your head on a pike next to the blackboard and unstring your entrails for sausage casing."  

Bulstrode fled for her chair and shrank down in her seat. She put her head on her arms on her desk and continued to cry.  

"For your information, you wretched, odious snots, what Miss Bulstrode felt is called a Sympatico spell. Would you like another demonstration?"  

"Not really," Ron mumbled fearfully.  

Volkova centered a glance on Weasley that made his hair part down the middle, and he ducked downward out of reflex. Volkova took Harry’s hand again, much more gently than the first time. The feeling was light at first, and grew slowly. Harry felt giddy, happy, silly even. The room blurred around the edges. There was a tickle at his nose, a glass at his lips, a sweet bubbly froth going down his throat. He swallowed even though he knew he wasn’t actually drinking, but the sensation was so strong that he couldn’t be sure he shouldn’t, and so he had swallowed, twice, and again. The giddiness increased. He was sitting on the edge of a mattress, and outside the rough, square window to his left, the moon shone down on a desert city and arid landscape. The wind was drifting into the window, and he smelled spices and flowers, perfume and sweat. From behind, a door opened, light washed over the bed, and a figure moved. The bed dipped, and someone kissed him gingerly on the back of the neck. Alarmed, Harry let go of Volkova’s hand. Apparently she had been alarmed too. He wasn’t supposed to have gotten that far into the memory. The sensation of being giddy fell away, as did the mental images. Harry cocked his head at Volkova in puzzlement.  

"The Sympatico spell allows you to feel what someone else has felt, physical sensations or emotions. It can work between two people, between three people with one acting as a conduit, between a single person and a room full of people. A very powerful wizard, after many years of practice, would be able to transfer their thoughts to you as well. It’s related to the Legilimency and Occlumency spells. Some have even theorized that a wizard’s ability to do a successful Sympatico is based on his or her clairvoyant abilities, or their personal charisma, or their strength of character. The Sympatico is much more elementary than Legilimency or Occlumency. It operates on a more-animal, less-developed level," Volkova was explaining.  

Everyone in the class looked at the crying Miss Bulstrode, who was gaping at Volkova with wide, wet eyes.  

"Please take your seat, Mr. Potter," Volkova instructed. Harry wove back to his place beside Hermione, his mind filled with one question– who had been kissing Volkova on the neck? Had all the talk about sex and Dark Arts been for show? Volkova linked them together mentally on some low level herself. He remembered the blond man he had seen in Volkova’s mind over Christmas, and wondered if that man was the mysterious language instructor turned vampire-killer that she had spoken of in cryptic bits and pieces earlier that morning. Had she been remembering him kissing her on the neck?  

"What did you feel, Harry?" Hermione asked. "You were smiling."  

"What was it?" Ron asked. Harry shrugged that he wasn’t sure.  

"What you felt, Miss Bulstrode, was a mere second and a half of the terror and physical pain that Mr. Potter endured for an hour and a half before he managed to accidently kill Lucius Malfoy. Now, tell me how you felt, Miss Bulstrode. Was it at all pleasant or amusing?" Anna pressed.  

"No, ma’am."  

"Do you have a sudden desire to sleep with women?"  

"No!" Millicent howled at her, furious.  

"No, certainly not," Volkova growled. "Tell me, Miss Bulstrode, for all the lovely diversion provided by Mr. Malfoy’s exploits, where is he?"  

"I don’t know."  

"Lucius is dead, you turnip. He’s rotting to dust and bones in that very expensive sepulcher at Malfoy Manor. He is staining ancient oak and mounds of gold with body fluids and decomposing body parts as he vanishes into nothingness."  

House elves were peering out of the storeroom at them all, whispering among themselves. Volkova wanted to say more, clenching her teeth together. She bit herself back, fighting a smile that straightened her face.  

"Are you all paying attention to me? I’m not going to repeat myself. You may find your in-house competitions diverting, entertaining, necessary, whatever, but the lot of you sniveling, pampered, over-bred, over-privileged wretches are going to straighten up and learn to work together in this classroom, or one by one, you will be killed."  

Faces went blank with fear around the room. Although it didn’t seem possible, Volkova became even more livid with annoyance.  

"Oh, for God’s sake, I’M not going to kill you! Not that the immense satisfaction I get from that very thought hasn’t kept my heart pumping and blood flowing through my veins for months. No. What I’m telling you is that you will surely perish at the hands of the dark forces of Voldemort if you can’t put aside these petty trivial rivalries. Your only hope for survival is learning to depend on each other, regardless of the colors on your neckties. If not, I’m afraid you will all meet your fates, most of them unpleasant. What’s worse, the world will go on without you. A darker world, perhaps. Who is to decide? Not you. You’ll be dead. You will mean nothing. You will have struggled for nothing. You will have died for nothing. Nothing. Is that what you want your lives to have meant?"  

There were mumbles in the silence that followed Volkova’s clipped, furious words. The house elves were all watching now.  

"When I ask a question, I want an ANSWER!" Volkova made her voice echo from every corner of the room.  

"No, ma’am," the class chorused, drawing back in their seats. It was hard for Harry not to smile when he heard Crabbe and Goyle continue to bleat. The house elves vanished back into the storeroom and began to work more furiously than before. "I will not waste another minute of my time in this classroom if you are not here to learn. There will be no more of this in-house rivalry nonsense distracting you from your work. Do I make myself clear?"  

"Yes, ma’am."  

"You are here to learn. I am here to teach. My time, your time, is too valuable to waste. There isn’t enough time. Do you understand what I’m telling you? There simply isn’t enough time."  

"Yes, ma’am."  

"Good. Very good. If only you all meant it. No matter. Those who do not understand me now will hopefully come around before the end. To start with, you will all remove your ties, and place them in your pockets. Now. Immediately. I want no more of them. None of these colors, these houses, these petty petty things. Take them off. Now. Off. Off. Off. From now on, any student wearing a house tie in this classroom is going to spend the day hung above my desk. By your thumbs. If you’re damned lucky."  

There was a rustle of movement all around the room as students did as they were ordered, casting glances at each other about whether or not this was against protocol.  

Volkova opened one drawer on her desk. Out of it she drew a small glass globe the size of the palm of her hand. It generated a cold blue light as she held it up for them to see.  

"Our first assignment of the new term," she whispered softly. "I trust you have read chapter seventeen in your books as I requested when last we met?"  

There was a mad scrambling for texts and parchment.

*Six*

Dearly Departed

"It was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like someone took Snape and crammed him in Volkova’s skin. It was really scary," Ron whispered at the dinner table.

"She didn’t get her morning coffee," Hermione said, laughing softly as she turned a page in her book.  

"Her head spun all the way around," Ron told Luna, who was currently occupying Harry’s space, hiding from the students at her own table.  

"It did not," Hermione sighed.  

"It did too," Neville interjected. Hermione tossed a roll at him.  

"Have Crabbe and Goyle stopped bleating?" Dean asked, casting a glance over to the Slytherin table.  

"What caused all this?" Luna wanted to know.  

"Draco and Pansy knocked Malchik unconscious. Pansy locked her in a trunk in the Slytherin Common Room. Pansy polyjuiced into Malchik, and lured Harry away from breakfast," Hermione detailed. "Pansy locked Harry and Volkova in Volkova’s bedroom closet, which Draco had walled up to prevent exit. Snape got them out by dropping the bottom off the closet, the contents of which smashed nearly everything in the Dark Arts storeroom."  

"Everything except our assignments," Ron said, taking out his glass orb and holding it up to show. "Anybody made any progress with that yet?"  

"We got those too. All you have to do is break them," Luna said.  

"We haven’t been able to," Hermione said.  

"Have you?" Ron asked Luna.  

"No," she frowned, her eyes shifting left and right dodgily.  

"Volkova had every right to be angry," Hermione added.  

"She split us into pairs," Ron moaned. "One Slytherin and one Gryffindor at each table. Anyone who wears a house tie in her classroom will be hung above her desk, or sent back to the dorms with a failing grade for that day. All wands are to be left at the front of the classroom on entrance and will be returned upon exit. There will be no talking except that related to work. There will be no nothing except that related to our assignments."  

"And there will definitely be no sex in Dark Arts," Neville said helpfully.  

"Ron’s mad he has to sit with Millicent Bulstrode," Hermione snickered.  

"She whimpered any time Volkova came near her," Ron wailed.  

"You’d whimper too if she had threatened to rape you," Neville said.  

"No, I dare say he wouldn’t," Hermione put in ruefully. Ron glared at her, his nostrils flaring like a snubnose dragon's.  

"Snape had a long talk with Volkova about what she threatened to do to Bulstrode," Neville commented. Luna nodded quickly.  

"I’d like to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation," Hermione laughed.  

"Wouldn’t we all?" Neville replied.  

"Snape said he’d be glad to write up a formal complaint on her behalf," Luna said casually.  

"You heard them?" Hermione gasped.  

"Yeah. It was a big shock to hear Volkova and Snape agreeing for a change. I nearly fell out of my stall."  

"Snape followed her into the girls’ restroom??" Ron’s eyes went wide.  

"Snape is writing up a complaint on Volkova’s behalf? Hermione worried.  

"Yeah," Luna nodded. "In her defense."  

"He’s shedding his skin again," Hermione laughed, mostly to herself.  

"He even promised to have a long talk with the Bulstrodes if they pressed the issue. Who is Harry stuck sitting with in Dark Arts?" Luna asked.  

"Malfoy, naturally, right in front of Volkova’s desk," Ron whispered. "Poor bugger. Harry’s taking it like a Gryffindor though. Draco didn’t get there until half the class was over, but Harry made the most of the time left."  

"Where is he anyway?"  

"Headmaster’s Office," Ron grinned.  

"What for?" Luna asked. Ron grinned even wider. Neville laughed through his pumpkin juice. Even Hermione was smirking.

***