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The Serpent's Gaze, Book Five: The Lernaean Hydra	By : DictionaryWrites Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and the characters therein belong to JK Rowling; I'm playing in the sandbox, as it were, whilst claiming no ownership and making no money.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
“Harry,” says a soft voice. Harry tries to lean away from it, wants to stay in his bed, but the voice has a hand, and the hand is cold, and it is patting him on the cheek. He lets out a soft grumble of sound, trying to push the hand away, but the hand becomes more insistent, pressing harder against his skin. “Harry.”
Harry blinks open his eyes, and he looks into the eyes of Blaise Zabini. Blaise is very close to him, his dark eyes full of worry, and Harry realizes with a sinking sensation that his own hands are clasped around Blaise’s wrists.
“We’re coming into the village, Harry,” Blaise murmurs. “You need to wake up.” Harry glances around the compartment, which is empty of anybody else, and he sees that all of Theo and Hermione’s books are gone, likely having been packed away into their trunks.
“Oh,” Harry murmurs. “Sorry.” Blaise gives an inclination of his head and then draws away: Harry feels a distinct urge to grab at his wrists and keep him close, pull him closer, even, but he doesn’t. He just stands, taking his cloak out of his trunk and pulling it on over his head. The cloak had been a gift from Augusta Longbottom that year, and Harry knows it will soon become his favourite garment: the cloak is made of a shimmering silver wool with black trimmings, and it is enchanted with a warming charm and another for impermeability. Rain doesn’t so much as splash the thing. Buckling the cloak at his neck and drawing the hood over his head and looking at his reflection in the train window.
He looks ready. He feels himself stiff in front of the makeshift mirror, feels the tension he’d forgotten in sleep flood back to his form. He remembers Cecilia’s prediction, and the dream he’d had last night, and he thinks about the storm above their heads, still pounding on the roof of the train.
Harry sets his jaw, and makes his way off the train.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
“First years, follow Mr Hagrid, please!” Harry calls over the pounding rain and gently nudging the youngest children in the direction of Hagrid’s huge, towering form. Hagrid shoots him a smile that Harry can barely see through the mist of the rain, and Harry returns it. “Don’t wander off, guys! Stick with your prefects and get into the carriages as soon as you can!” Harry flicks his wand into his hand, and he throws a few lantern charms into the air. They hover above the students and lead a simple path toward the carriages, easier to follow in the dark, impenetrable grey of the lashing storm.
“Who died and put you in charge, Potter?” comes the voice of Zachariah Smith, and Harry shoves the other boy away from him.
“I did! Get the Hell away from me, Smith, and be glad I can’t dock points yet!” There’s a rumble of thunder above their heads, and a few of the children, mostly second years, wince and let out noises of shock. Smith disappears into the dark, and Harry looks to the kids.
“Don’t worry, it’s just the storm,” Harry calls to them. “Off you go, into the carriages. You guys stick together!”
It’s slow-going. As well as the rain, there’s a thick fog in the air, and it’s difficult to see a few feet in front of one’s face – every now and then, Harry hears one student colliding with another, followed by sounds of pain and apology. When everyone is off the train, Harry hops on, doing a quick scan of each of the carriages, and he picks up a forgotten Hufflepuff scarf and a copy of Miranda Goshawk’s Book of Spells, Grade III, but nothing else, thankfully, and no students. The Hufflepuff scarf, he notes with a grim satisfaction, is labelled, “Z. Smith.”
He releases Hedwig from her cage, allowing her to settle on Harry’s shoulder (taking advantage of the charm on his cloak, apparently), and he sets his trunk to levitate behind him.
“Professor Flitwick,” Harry says as he steps off the train. He can barely see the old man through the haze of fog, and then there’s a sudden burst of visibility.
“There you are, Potter. You’re the last of the prefects. You can just catch the last carriage there.”
“No, I thought I’d walk up behind the carriages with one of the staff, sir. Picked up some lost things from the train.” The old man smiles at him, looking a little surprised.
“Ah, top thinking!” Flitwick says, and he takes the scarf and book both from Harry’s hands, enchanting them smaller and slipping them into his coat pocket. As they begin to walk, the very last of the carriages starts off ahead of them. “Have you seen a thestral before, Potter?” Flitwick had noticed, it seems, how Harry’s gaze had focused on the strange, skeletal beasts that tow the carriages, and he slowly shakes his head.
“I’ve seen sketches,” he says. “Luna speaks pretty highly of them – uh, Luna L—”
“I know Miss Lovegood very well,” Flitwick says, a touch regretfully, and he glances back over the village as a flash of lightning illuminates the sky. It isn’t grey, Harry realizes in the sudden burst of light, but a deep purple, like a burn salve reducing in a cauldron. “Feeling the chill?”
“Not so much,” Harry says. “I got this cloak for my birthday, and it’s helping. Plus the owl, of course.” Hedwig nips at Harry’s temple, and he chuckles, reaching up to stroke the side of her neck. Even as he walks alongside Flitwick, however, he cannot shake the tension coiled within him, and the knowledge, the certain knowledge, that something is just about to happen.
“Ah, the owl: truly an excellent scarf for the ages.” Flitwick smiles, glancing around them. “I admit, Potter, I didn’t expect to have you as a prefect.”
“You expected Theo Nott?” Harry asks, and Flitwick coughs delicately, hiding the sound behind his hand. Harry laughs. “Yeah, he expected it too, apparently – wrote Professor Snape to say he’d like to be removed from considerations, if he was on the list.” Flitwick’s laugh is soft and low, and although his voice is quite high and positively squeaky, his laugh is a rumbling sound that seems to come from deep within his throat. A silence spans between them for a few long moments, until something snaps between them: as one, Flitwick and Harry whirl on their feet, their wands raised.
The fox, soaked through from the rain, stares at them, horror struck, before shooting off the path and into the woods.
“Nervous, Potter?”
“No more than you, Professor.” Harry stares down into Flitwick’s eyes for a few seconds: the two of them share a stance, both with squared shoulders and their wands ready at their sides. As the two of them turn back to the castle, continuing the climb up to the gates. “I was sure something was going to happen. I felt it in my bones – the rain, the tension in the air.”
“I’m not ashamed to tell you, Potter, I felt exactly the same.” Flitwick sighs, shaking his head slightly. The gates open to let Harry and Flitwick in, and then close behind them with a clunk of iron on iron. “Sometimes in times of war, our instincts are wrong. We get worked up over things that aren’t there, we see clues where there aren’t any. I’m one hundred and twelve years old, Potter, and I still get these things wrong.”
“It’s not that I wanted something to happen,” Harry murmurs. “But I can still feel the tension in my chest, you know? Like I’ve been winding up a spinning top and then put it back in a drawer.”
“An astonishingly apt analogy,” Flitwick says, and he glances up at Harry. “What are you thinking you’ll do when you leave Hogwarts?”
“Uh,” Harry says, the question taking him by surprise. Hedwig shifts upon his shoulder, leaning the pleasant heat of her body against the side of his ear. “Well, I hadn’t given it too much thought. I know a snake sanctuary that’d be glad to hire me, and I— well, I think Mr Ollivander implied he’d offer me an apprenticeship once, but I’m not sure.”
“Oh, don’t listen to Garrick,” Flitwick says dismissively, waving his hand. “Nobody understands a word he says: he’s been that way since school. Listen, Potter, perhaps you should consider a career in writing.”
“Writing?” Harry repeats.
“Yes, yes. You write a lot of letters, don’t you? There’s a positive tornado around you at breakfast every morning – you can’t write that many letters without having a little panache to your style. You could write for the Prophet, of course, but you could be a novelist, a poet, perhaps even a biographer.” On one level, Harry is aware that Flitwick has changed the subject to distract him, but on another, there’s a deep warmth in his chest, a bubble of gratitude. He has never considered that writing may be an actual career path before, and the thought strikes him with all the suddenness of a bolt of lightning. Remus writes children’s stories – Harry could do that, couldn’t he? Write?
“Thank you, Professor Flitwick,” Harry says, very genuinely. The carriages are beginning to stop now, and let the students out. They each run quickly into the courtyard, many of them holding their cloaks above their heads to keep from getting wet. Harry lingers with Flitwick, unpacking the trunks from the backs of the carriages and setting them aside in a neat pile beneath the eaves of one of the maintenance sheds, where the worst of the rain is kept from them. Hedwig flies off toward the owlery amidst a cloud of other owls (she’d probably been waiting for that), and when they’re finally done, Harry and Flitwick stop in the courtyard. Through the open doors of the entrance hall, he can see the new first years gathered, waiting to go into the Great Hall for their sorting. Looking at them – there are around forty in all, Harry realizes with astonishment, nearly double the number of students in his own year – Harry cannot help a sense of vague pride in his chest. Perhaps it’s silly of him, but the idea he may be looking at some of the new Slytherins for the year delights him.
“We’ll go in with them,” Flitwick murmurs, leading the way into the courtyard. “That way we won’t disrupt the proceedings or distract at all.”
“Makes sense,” Harry says. “Thanks, Professor Flitwick, for letting me help tonight. I guess I needed some way to—” There’s a rumble on the air, much more powerful than thunder, and it shakes the very floor they’re standing on: a few loose tiles come down from the castle roof, shattering on the ground around them, and in the entrance hall the first years all tighten together, letting out yells and screams of shock as the very floor shakes below them.
Harry turns and stares down the hill, where the soft lights of the village are usually visible in the distance. Even through the fog, Harry can see no soft lights: smoke is billowing up and into the sky, and the flames are very high.
Hogsmeade is burning.
“Professor Flitwick,” Harry says, but Flitwick is already moving.
“First Years, into the Great Hall!” Flitwick orders, and Harry follows after him, ushering the children into the next room as Flitwick throws open the doors and makes his way inside. “We need wands in the village, now! Staff, to our even split! Students, stay seated!” Nobody disobeys, but it occurs to Harry that they may not be able to.
“I need another table,” Harry mutters under his breath, and with a pop, two stone tables appear in the space between the long tables and the front wall, with twenty or so spaces on each. Sometimes, Harry thinks slightly deliriously, he loves magic more than he can say. “First Years, sit down!” he says, splitting the children off onto each side.
The staff mobilize in a way Harry is astonished by: while Albus, McGonagall and Snape stand neatly behind the table, the rest of the staff seem to split in a way that’s almost choreographed. Delaney, Sinistra, Burbage and Babbling all come away from the staff table, walking in a march toward Flitwick: Vector, Sprout, Hagrid and Pomfrey all stay seated, although they each look stiff.
“Hogsmeade is under attack,” calls Albus’ voice over the babble of the students, and everybody goes silent as Flitwick and his staff move into the entrance hall. “To keep everybody safe, we will remain here in the Great Hall.” Harry sees Snape murmur something to McGonagall, and immediately she transforms into a cat midleap, streaking from the hall at such a speed Harry would never have guessed it was her.
“What if we want to stand and fight, Professor Dumbledore?” Harry looks to Cedric Diggory, who has stood up at the table. “I’m seventeen, sir. I’ve the right.”
“You do, Mr Diggory,” Albus says, the sound of his voice ringing in the room. He flicks his hand, and then says, “Those of you who are of age, it is your right to go down to the village if you so choose. Those of you who are not, the castle will know. Do not try to leave your tables.” Sure enough, the younger students can’t move: Harry can see Ernie Macmillan doing his best to fight the magic keeping him tethered to the Hufflepuff table.
Twenty or so students stand up from each of the tables – mostly Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, severa; Ravenclaws, and two seventh year Slytherins: Rebekah Amstell and Abraham Hamish, holding hands as they stand from the table, with matching prefect badges upon the robes.
Harry slips from the hall.
He takes a corridor to the left – it leads to a passageway out onto the grounds, closer to the gates – and he feels a hand tight on the back of his robes, flinging him against a wall. Snape is not a tall man, but in this moment Harry feels Snape towers over him, and he squares his shoulders, looking defiant.
“The castle didn’t stop me,” Harry says immediately. “You can’t—”
“The castle didn’t stop you because you weren’t sat down,” Snape growls.
“You can’t stop me from going!”
“I believe you will find that I can.”
“But you can’t, sir, I need to be down there, I need to—”
“You need to be safe. You could be killed, Potter, do you—”
“I’ve already been killed! What does it matter?”
“Potter!”
“Sir!” Silence reigns between them, and Harry feels himself breathing heavily as he stares into the eyes of his Head of House. He feels desperate to go out and into the village, cannot bare to think of sitting up in the castle with everybody else. “Sir, you don’t understand. If I stay here, and somebody dies, and I might have—”
“There are much more competent wizards than you in the village, Potter,” Snape snaps, fury radiating from him. “You arrogant little child – and what do you think will happen, Potter, if you are killed? What will happen, when the entire country views you as a figurehead?” Harry hesitates. But he isn’t a figure head, he isn’t – he’s an actual person, a person who can fight. “And to take your ridiculous exercise to its extreme, what if the castle is attacked, and—”
“They won’t attack the castle,” Harry says.
“And how, pray, do you know that?” Snape asks.
“I feel it in your gut.”
“Oh, well, if Harry Potter’s famous gut has such tremendous Divining powers, we—”
“I’m going.”
“Do you think you’re special, Potter? Do you truly think—”
“Yes!” Harry nearly yells. “Yes, I do think I’m special, okay? And sure, I’m arrogant and a figurehead and whatever else! I’m all of those things, and I’m a terrible person, and I’m going.” Harry begins to walk down the corridor, his stride fast, and to his surprise, he doesn’t hear Snape yell after him, or grab him by the back of his robes, or hex him.
He begins running down toward the Hogwarts gates, and he doesn’t look back.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
“I’m going,” the boy says again, and Severus wishes he could just knock the idiot child out and be done with it. Does he not understand? Does he not truly understand the gravity of this situation, understand how much he means to the Order of the Phoenix? Severus remembers the frustration and desperation he had felt two years ago when the Dementors had descended upon Hogwarts and, once more, the boy had thrown himself out into the fray – for a Slytherin, the boy lacks entirely the most basic sense of self-preservation. Severus is about to say, “I cannot let you go, Potter. Come, speak with the Headmaster,” because Albus, Albus, he knows, could convince him!
And then he sees Gibbon out of the corner of his eye. Gibbon stands at the end of the corridor, leaning in from the wall to hide himself, and Severus must make his decision in a heartbeat. Either Potter runs down this corridor, alone, and out into the potential death of whatever horror the Dark Lord has wrought upon Hogsmeade… Or he remains here, in an isolated hall, between no one but Severus and Gibbon himself.
“Do you think you’re special, Potter?” Severus demands, and he lets venom drip from his every word. “Do you truly think—”
The levee breaks.
Even as Potter retorts his desperate bile, he is making his way down the corridor, and Severus watches him go, watches him until he disappears from sight and he is alone – or so Gibbon thinks. Immediately, the gravity of his split-second decision hits Severus hard, and he does his best to fold away the suspicion that his decision is the wrong one, and that Potter will return to Hogwarts tonight cold and stiff on a stretcher.
Severus remains facing the end of the corridor, carefully schooling his expression into a smug one, his lips quirked at the very edges, his eyes dark; turning on his heel, he begins to return to the entrance hall.
“Severus,” Gibbon says, and Severus lets his eyes widen slightly, surprise showing on his features. The true tell that Severus is surprised, of course, is when his features betray nothing at all – unless he isn’t. He treads a dangerous line in what he can and cannot show, and he wonders if he will ever be able to act on emotion without it betraying him.
“Gideon,” Severus says mildly. “You were present…?”
“Oh, yes,” Gibbon says, bouncing upon his heels. His rounded cheeks are pink with excitement, and his thick lips are parted to show his grinning smile. “Artfully done, Severus, artfully!”
“Gideon,” Severus murmurs, “we might easily be overheard.” Severus leans in, lowering his voice slightly, and adds, “The boy didn’t need much of a push. I merely needed to seem as if I was offering some token protest – in case he survives.” Severus lets out a short chuckle, hiding it behind his hand, and turns to the Great Hall. “Shall we?”
Gibbon’s expression is admiring, and Severus feels his skin crawl as he steps into the Great Hall once again, Gibbon at his side. But a moment after, Minerva returns to the Hall, now in her human form once more, with Georgina Howlett (Howlett is their new accountant, as of that July), Argus Filch and Sybil Trelawney rounded up with her. While Howlett and Filch immediately move toward the staff table of their own accord, Howlett sitting with Pomona and Filch taking a seat on his own, his cat clutched to his breast, Trelawney hesitates. She all but clings to Minerva, her arms wrapped soundly around Minerva’s right, and Severus suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. The woman predicts death at every opportunity, but as soon as it seems to actually loom, she panics.
With all of their staff accounted for, however, Severus performs a quick headcount of his Slytherins, and then of Filius’ Ravenclaws. He is missing three – Amstell, Hamish and Potter – and Ravenclaw is a half-dozen or so down.
“Everybody accounted for?” Minerva asks crisply. Trelawney is gone from her side, now seated between Rolanda and Poppy at the top table, and Severus gives a nod of his head. Gibbon is speaking animatedly to a group of Ravenclaws, but at least he is far away from Severus himself. “Where’s Potter?” Severus turns his head, feigning a count of the first years so that his face is turned away from the majority of the room.
“He’s taken the passageway behind the portrait of the Silver Priestess, down toward the gate.”
“And you didn’t stop him?”
“I tried,” Severus says, and he lets a little of the genuine misery he is feeling bleed into his words; enough so that Minerva relents.
“He’s a capable lad: he can protect himself,” Minerva says, obviously intending to reassure Severus on some level, and it irritates him more than it ought. He moves slowly away, looking to the doors. As he and Minerva shut the doors of the Great Hall and set about weaving protective spells through the wood, Severus has the fleeting thought that if he had spelled Gibbon fast enough, he might have passed it off as the work of Potter… But no, why should Potter suspect Gibbon of anything?
And what if Gibbon had done nothing? What if Gibbon had merely walked the two of them back to the Great Hall, and Severus has allowed Potter to enter the fray in Hogsmeade – whatever it might entail – for no reason at all beyond foolishness?
It serves him not to dwell on the thought.
“Children, you may now move freely about the Hall,” Albus calls over the room. “We have gently pushed the castle to temporarily swap the armoury with a rather lovely set of bathrooms, so take to your left if you have need of the washroom.” Albus speaks cheerfully, warmth shining in his features and in the gentle movements of his hands, and when he smiles at the children it seems truly genuine. Most of the children move to stand, and Albus spells the tables to separate into individual ones, chairs replacing the long stone benches and more chairs appearing around the four fireplaces in the room.
Were this an ordinary year, by now the children would recently have returned to their dormitories, and Severus would be listening in the entrance of the Slytherin common area as one of the Fifth Year prefects – likely Potter – delivers a welcoming speech to the new Slytherins. The thought strikes Severus with a force quite unexpected: he doesn’t feel an especial emotional attachment to the idea, but the break in this routine, one that he has been so used to for nearly twenty years, is strange and disorienting.
“Professor Snape.” Severus turns his head, looking at Nott. Over the summer, the boy has grown like a beanpole, and Severus is abruptly struck at the fact that he must look up into Nott’s face rather than down into it. They grow up so fast, a voice chimes in the back of his head, sounding suspiciously like Albus, and Severus must work to suppress a grimace.
“Yes, Mr Nott?”
“May I have permission to use my wand, sir? Magic in the Great Hall, I am aware, is prohibited during meal times, but under extenuating circumstances…”
“You may, Mr Nott,” Severus says. Nott’s focus upon the rules is an interesting one, and Severus puts out his hand. Nott’s smile is soft as he places his book in Severus’ hand and sets about very neatly rolling up his sleeves and buttoning them at his elbow. Severus scans the book: Severus cannot speak much Hebrew, but he can parse out the word Kabbalah. “Prescribed reading by your rabbi?”
“By my mother,” Nott answers, taking the book back and folding it under his arm now that his sleeves are quite bare. Severus takes a neat step back and watches Nott weave his spellwork. For a Fifth Year – and particularly a Fifth Year at the beginning of his schooling – Nott’s Transfiguration is truly without par. Severus would be inclined to call the boy a prodigy if he didn’t know how much study Nott devoted time to. The rug he Conjures is wide and formed of a wine-red material: it settles to the corner of the room in a perfect circle, silver threads running through its edges and forming a spider’s web upon its surface.
Even from his place several feet away, Severus can feel the Warming Charm Nott embeds in the carpet’s fibres, and he watches as Nott gathers each of the new First Years, none of them yet awarded a house, and gets them to gather on the carpet. They sit cross-legged, and Severus is reminded of a day where he snuck down into Cokeworth Town and peeked in the window of one of Lily’s classes, listening attentively to her literacy teacher from her place upon the floor.
“Aren’t we a bit old for stories?” asks a boy with thick, auburn curls and watery eyes.
“No, never,” Nott says, smiling at the boy. He has a natural air with children. Severus does not envy him. “For what are stories but lessons wrapped in words?”
Severus turns away, leaving Nott to his story-telling in the corner of the room; already members of the other houses are showing interest and walking closer to Nott, hovering on the edge of the rug or dragging over chairs to listen and watch as he speaks.
Dear Professor Snape, the boy had written him last summer.
I am aware that during the summer of Fourth Year, Heads of Houses take into consideration what students they might like to take up the prefect roles. I am writing this letter to request that, if I am in consideration for the role of Slytherin prefect, that I be removed; my O.W.L.s are very important to me, and I don’t believe I would be entirely happy juggling both the duties of my studies and my prefect ones.
My apologies for any inconvenience caused: I assure you I would not pen this letter if I did not think it necessary on my part.
Many thanks,
Theodore Nott.
When Severus had received the letter, he had laughed. That had been in May – things had seemed so much easier then.
“Professor,” says a small voice, and Severus looks to the small, round form of Elizabeth Wei. As ever, she is flanked by by Edward Buttress and Artemis Henderson: never in the past year has Severus seen one without the other two in tow. Hufflepuffs.
“Ms Wei?” Severus asks, arching an eyebrow. He stands very straight, his hands neatly folded behind his back; Wei looks to Buttress, who looks to Henderson. Henderson looks to Wei before meeting Severus’ eyes herself.
“Do you think anybody is going to die tonight, sir?”
“I can no more predict such a thing as that than Professor Trelawney could, Henderson.” Severus’ tone is sharper than he had intended, but a few of the older Hufflepuffs let out shocked laughs at hearing one teacher so soundly criticize another. “Professor Flitwick is perfectly capable.”
“He killed Death Eaters during the war, didn’t he?” asks Buttress.
“Many people did,” Severus says, and gives an inclination of his head.
“Is it Death Eaters this time?” Wei asks, her eyes wide behind her glasses. She has the same glasses as Potter, Severus thinks: thin-rimmed, circular lenses.
“I don’t know,” he says. It is Death Eaters, he cannot say.
“What do you think?” Wei presses, and Severus curls his lip.
“I think it rather stupid to ask a man standing before you what precisely is happening three miles away.” More laughter from the Hufflepuffs assembled, but this time Wei recoils slightly away from him: it makes him angry. Anger flares in his chest, and he wishes he could dock points from her for flinching so, but where would the sense be in that? For the barest moment, Severus wishes he was Minerva, or Albus, or Lucius – someone better with people than Severus himself, and then he hates that thought, and hates himself for thinking it.
“All of you are safe,” he says, sharply: he barks the assurance like an order. “You are always safe within these walls.” The ornate clock on the wall reaches nine o’clock, and chimes the hour. Severus turns away from the children, meets Gibbon’s delighted gaze at the staff table, and wonders if he is lying about their safety, or not.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
Sitting on the edge of the raised platform the staff table stands on, Severus surveys the room.
The lights are dimmed, the candles and partially extinguished fires bathing the room in a soporific, orange glow, and arranged in neat rows, on silver frames, are dozens upon dozens of little beds. Most of the children are fast asleep now, but some are still holding on. A few of the prefects are doing rounds between beds, speaking quietly to children. Nott, at this very moment, is speaking quietly to a second year with tear-streaked cheeks.
If Potter dies, perhaps Nott will be convinced to take up his mantle.
Trelawney has a conjured moon above her head, and seems to be using it to lull a group of Ravenclaw Divination students to sleep; even from here, Trelawney’s tones seem hypnotizing. Seated upon a bed that creaks beneath his immense weight, Hagrid speaks quietly to the Weasley girl, who is tucked up in the bed next to him. Across the room, spread over Ronald Weasley’s lap like a second blanket is Hagrid’s Great Dane. It is impossible to decide which of the two are snoring louder.
“Argus,” Severus says lowly. The shadow beside him freezes. “Where are you going?”
“There’s a passage out from the armoury,” Filch says, uncertainly standing in his place. Mrs Norris winds continuously around his legs, showing his nerves even more than Filch does himself, and Severus presses his lips together. “I thought—”
“You thought wrong.”
“There’s no sense me bein’ here, cooped up with you and the kiddies!” Filch dislikes people. Filch dislikes crowds. Filch dislikes most things, actually – he and Severus usually get on rather well.
“There is every sense in it,” Severus points out, not especially patiently. “As you lack the capability to defend yourself if we come under attack. Take a bed, Argus. Sleep.” It is the order in Severus’ tone that turns the tide: Filch has always respected Severus, despite his youth amongst the staff, and he stands down immediately. Severus watches as Filch takes a cot aside from the others, letting Mrs Norris curl upon his chest.
He thinks of Fantôme down in the dungeons – what is she doing at this time of night, Severus wonders? Victimizing some rat or mouse? A toad, perhaps?
“Severus, Poppy,” Minerva whispers as she moves past, and Severus stands from his seat on the stage to follow her. The doors of the Great Hall slowly open, allowing them past, and Severus allows Poppy to take his hand, if only to squeeze it tightly between her own. Albus comes in from the courtyard with Pomona at his side, and Severus carefully pulls the door shut behind him.
“It’s over, then?” Poppy asks, anxiously. Her grip is so tight on Severus’ hand that he feels one or two of his bones will break at any moment, but that’s hardly of the most immediate concern.
“Yes,” Albus says. Severus reads the pale lines of his face as easily as he might read a passage in a book.
“Somebody died.” he says quietly, voicing what Albus either cannot, or does not wish to. Minerva looks wide-eyed from Severus to Albus, her hand rising to her mouth.
“Albus—”
“Severus is quite correct, Minerva,” Albus murmurs quietly. “Poppy, if you will go to the infirmary and prepare to take some of our own – the majority of patients will be directed to St Mungo’s, of course, but our students and staff will be Portkeyed directly here. Minerva, if you will accompany me down to the gates; Pomona and Severus will take command here in the Great Hall. The children can sleep here tonight.”
“Who died, Albus?” Poppy demands, and Albus sighs. His eyes are shining, Severus notices, and he stares as a tear forms at the edge of Albus’ eye, sliding down the side of his crooked, pointed nose.
“Who died?” Severus repeats, and the question feels like frost on his tongue.
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The Serpent's Gaze, Book Five: The Lernaean Hydra