Harry Potter and the Knife of Hephaestus

Damia Slayt sat down heavily on her favorite armchair in her quarters. It had once been in the Slytherin common room, about eighteen or so years ago. It had long since been gone, bought and resting in a Slayt house. On the arm of the chair, a ball of black fuzz shook itself out with an indignant sound. It unfolded itself, and the cat stared directly at its owner.

Damia pulled the animal into her lap and began stroking it. "Hello, Icicle, love." The cat arched its head against her hand, and Damia smiled. Many of those who had met Icicle had asked about her name. Icicle was entirely black; there was nothing to suggest her name. Unless you looked carefully. Most cats had green or yellow eyes, which shone red in the dark. Icicle had eyes of a pale, icy blue, and in the dark, they were a disconcerting purple. "How was your day? Mine was, again, filled with nasty little students trying to fake attention and get on my good side." She snorted. "Do they think I'm Severus? I'd much prefer them to do work over flattery.” Icicle meowed thoughtfully, glancing up at her mistress. Damia nodded. "Of course. Potter never skips his classes. Goody-two-shoes, as Severus would say." Icicle wrinkled her nose. "I know how you feel. I can't stand the type either. But I'll put up with Potter. You know, if things had ended up differently---"

Damia was cut off by her fire suddenly blazing into life across from her, the head of Severus Snape appearing in it. "Damia?"

"Severus," she replied blandly, the mask that she always wore slipping back into place. She rested a hand on Icicle's head. "Something you need?"

"Yes," he said, apparently a touch annoyed that she was using her teacher tone with him. "Powdered bicorn horn, if you have any. Those Weasley twins have raided my stores again."

Damia raised an eyebrow. "I wonder if they'll ever find out about the monitoring charms. Yes, I have the horn, Severus. You can come over here and pick it up."

"Thank you, Damia," Severus said stiffly, and pulled his head out of the fire with a small *pop*.

With a sigh, Damia rose from her armchair and opened up her cabinet. Rummaging through it for a moment, her hand hit something that didn't feel quite like a bottle. Pulling it out, she saw something that she immediately wished she hadn't found.

It was a book, bound in fine leather, the gold lettering faded and peeling. She ran one fingertip gently over the cover, tracing the words that could no longer be seen. Should she open it? She knew how much pain it would bring. Slowly, her hand moved to lift the cover.

"Damia? May I come in?" Severus's voice startled her. Hastily, she opened up a drawer and slipped the book inside.

"Yes, Severus, the door's open," she called out to him, as she slammed the drawer shut. When Severus opened the door, all he saw was Damia at her cabinet, shuffling bottles and boxes aside. "I have the bicorn horn right here," she said, pulling a gray bottle out and setting it on the counter. "It might be a little old, but I think it will work."

He raised his eyebrows. "Bicorn horn doesn't go bad. You should know that, you were excellent at Potions."

"I also spent the last thirteen years living as a Muggle."

He winced. "I have no idea why anyone would want to do that. Care to explain the reasoning to me?" He slid into an armchair, apparently ready to wait as long as it took to hear her explanation.

"Don't you have a potion to get back to?"

Severus waved a hand dismissively. "It can wait. I want to know why you deserted all the friends you had and ignored the world you were born into for several years."

She sat down in the armchair opposite. "Meaning why I ignored all the letters you sent me for the last thirteen years."

"If you want to put it that way."

She glared at him. "I don't see why it's any of your business. You and I ended our friendship when we were seventeen."

"I prefer to think of it as put on hold."

She snorted elegantly. "You would. You always were exceedingly contrary."

"Yes, but you loved it," he said, smiling the smile that so few saw.

"When I was seventeen," she replied. She was immune to the smile that had made her go weak in the knees when she was in her teens. "If I explain my reasoning to you, will you go away?"

"Perhaps."

"If I explain it to you and then threaten to hex you, will you go away?"

"Most likely."

She sighed. "I went to America because I had just suffered a great loss, and wanted to get away from where it had happened. I went into the Muggle world because all the Harry Potter stories were starting up again, and I wanted to get away. I came back because I simply could not stand the Muggle world for any longer. I am a Slayt, magic is in my blood. I came to Hogwarts because I was offered the job and I wanted something to do with my time. Are you happy now?"

"No." He rose and looked her square in the eye. She stared back, with a look that would have made most people run screaming. "I'm not happy. I want my friend back, Damia."

"So do I." The words were filled with such venom that Severus turned away. Damia smiled bitterly. There was not much that could ruffle Severus Snape. "Now leave."

He left.

At eight o'clock that evening, the Gryffindor fifth years trudged morosely out to the Quidditch pitch. "What d'you think we're going to be doing out here?" Ron asked no one in particular.

"I heard she's going to be using the Unforgivable curses on us, like last year!" Lavender said shrilly. "Only this year, she'll be using the Cruciatus Curse!"

Parvati gasped. Harry snorted. He remembered only too well what the Cruciatus Curse felt like, and while the Imperius Curse might be tried on students as a teaching method, he was sure that the Cruciatus never would.

As they got closer to the Quidditch pitch, they could make out a small group of figures, all huddled together. Harry couldn't blame them, it was cold for September. As the figures became clearer, Harry could make out a far too familiar silver-blond head.

"Oh no," he moaned. "We're doing this with the Slytherins."

Draco Malfoy didn't seem too happy about it either. "We're with the Gryffindors? Add insult to injury! It's bad enough we're out here, now we have to be out here with Mudbloods too?" His lip curled as he looked at Hermione, and Ron turned red with fury. But before anything could happen, a voice called out from across the pitch.

"Draco Malfoy!" Professor Slayt was striding across the field, eyes blazing, green cloak whipping about her ankles. She looked furious. Malfoy shrank back. Slayt was a truly intimidating sight of justice on the warpath, and Malfoy was terrified. "Detention," she hissed. "For the next week. Twenty points from Slytherin. And to the Headmaster's office, now. Don't let me see you again until it's with an apology to Miss Granger." The Gryffindors were awed. Was this a former Slytherin, sticking up for a Gryffindor? The only explanation was that the world was coming to an end.

The Slytherins were downright furious. "But Professor," stuck in Pansy Parkinson. "He was only-"

Slayt whirled on her. "Only what? Insulting another student? Just today I told you, all of you, that I would not stand for that. There is absolutely no excuse for him, Miss Parkinson. Now be silent." Pansy's eyes narrowed, but she was quiet. Slayt glared at Malfoy, and he slunk away, presumably to the Headmaster's office.

"Now," she said, as soon as the muttering had died down, "We will begin your training. Please take off your robes." Confused the students did so, and in a moment, there were sixteen students all standing around in the Muggle-style clothes they wore under their robes. Only Pansy refused to remove her robes, and, when pressed for a reason why, she whispered something into Slayt's ear that the other student's couldn't hear. So Pansy stood off to the side while the others stood around.

"I want you to run three laps around the Quidditch pitch," Slayt said. The students looked at each other, confused. Surely she couldn't mean all of them?

But she did. "Yes, all of you! Now go!" She blew a whistle that was hanging around her neck, and, slowly, the students set off jogging around the pitch.

"This has to constitute some form of torture," puffed Blaise Zabini as she passed Hermione. Ron nodded fervently, saving his breath. Harry, on the other hand, didn't seem at all unhappy.

"Come on, you two!" he called out happily. "Speed up! This is fun!"

"Do you want to kill him or should I?" growled Ron. Hermione only grunted.

As the students completed the three laps, they collapsed in piles on the grass, ignoring the dew soaking through their clothes. Slayt looked around at the mounds of students scattered over the pitch. "Next running session is the day after tomorrow!" she called out. Seamus groaned. "Wear appropriate clothes and be here at eight P.M.!"

One by one, the students picked themselves up off the ground, grunting and groaning. Slayt watched them with a smile as they made their way inside.

It wasn't until late November that Severus visited Damia in her quarters again.

"Damia? Damia, I know you're there. Let me in."

"Go away, Severus."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I want to talk to you."

"I'm not your friend anymore, Severus."

"That sounded incredibly petty. And you know full well that I don't particularly care."

A snort. "Of course you don't. Why should I expect anything else from you? You never did care about much."

"That was harsh, Damia."

"But well deserved."

"Can you at least let me in? I hate arguing through a door."

She opened the door, and quickly closed it. "I opened the door. Now go away."

"Don't be childish, Damia. It doesn't suit you."

A sigh. "Fine then. It's unlocked. Come in."

He slid through the door, and closed it behind him. "How are the students taking your training?"

"Like students. With a lot of complaining, melodrama, and claims that it's useless. Let's see how useless it is when they're facing a Dark Mage without their wand."

"Some seem to like it."

"Harry Potter." She said the name angrily. "Is there anything that boy can't do?"

"Not in the eyes of the public," Severus said, sitting down in one of her armchairs as she stood at her counter, watching a vial of bubbling solution and making notes on a scrap of parchment. "What is that you're doing?"

"An experiment."

"Obviously. You're far too obstinate, Damia."

"You're far too annoying, Severus."

"I would think I was far too sarcastic as well."

"That also. At the moment, merely annoying."

"Are you going to tell me what that experiment is?"

She laid down the quill she was using on the table and put out the tiny fire heating the vial with a flick of her wand. Turning to face him, she said with a sigh, "If it works, this potion will be part of a ritual also involving a charm."

"And what will this ritual do?"

"If it works, it will act as a more precise form of the magic in the Knife of Hephaestus."

Severus sat up as though he had been shot; his face went pale. "The Knife of Hephaestus?" he asked, astonished.

"I wouldn't think you'd be so surprised," she snapped irritatedly. "You know what my work is."

"Yes, but I never thought you'd manage this!" he said, then calmed down. "It seems that, once again, I've underestimated you, Damia."

"A bad habit, Severus. You should fix that."

He snorted. "I would, had I the time. And speaking of time, it seems I've run out of it. I must get back to my potion. This one may explode if left unattended for too long."

"Goodbye then, Severus," she said blandly. He stood, and Damia picked up her quill again, ready to resume her work. But she stopped as he took hold of her wrist.

She looked up, and he was far too close for her comfort. She felt his breath move her hair when he spoke. "I'm not giving up on you, Damia," he said. Then he turned and swept out of the room, leaving Damia leaning against the counter, composure rattled and experiment completely forgotten.

Slayt was waiting for them when the fifth year Gryffindors arrived at their class that Thursday morning. "Take out your textbooks," she ordered as soon as they were all settled. "Page one hundred and twelve."

Harry pulled out his book and opened it up to the correct page. At the very top was a photograph; a single object lying against a background of red velvet. It was a knife. Not a very fancy knife; in fact, it wasn't remarkable in any way. A simple steel blade attached to a polished wooden handle. He looked at the caption at the bottom, but it wasn't very helpful. The only thing it said was "The Knife of Hephaestus".

"The Knife of Hephaestus," Slayt said, startling Harry, and bringing him back to reality. "It is a tool that was once used by Merlin himself, or so it is rumored. The reason we are studying the Knife is because of the unique magic it possesses: the Knife has the power to cut through the barriers between worlds." A murmur rose up among the class: most had never heard of the Knife of Hephaestus. "Naturally, the Ministry has hold of it, and keeps it under very---" she sneered "---close watch." She moved around to the front of her desk, as she liked to do when beginning a lecture.

"The Knife is said to have been created by the Greek god Hephaestus, the god of smithing and crafts. The Knife has powers other than simply creating doorways between universes. The Knife's power is to cut those things that do not exist in physical form: barriers between worlds, thoughts, emotions. One Dark Mage who held the Knife during the Dark Ages created for himself an entire army of zombies: he cut away their free will with the Knife. A witch who was spurned by the man she loved used the Knife to cut away his love for another woman."

"Jealous much?" Ron whispered. No one laughed, and Slayt threw him a frosty look.

"But, in the physical world," Slayt continued, "the Knife is useless. It will not cut anything of matter, not even something so soft as butter."

Hermione, pausing her frantic scribbling of notes for a moment, raised her hand. "Professor, when was the Knife created?"

Slayt seemed to look past Hermione. "Nobody is quite sure. The Knife resists all magical testing, and due to prejudice at the Ministry, no one is willing to use Muggle methods. All that is known is that it is at least as old as King Arthur and the city of Camelot, which, for those of you who did not know, did exist."

The bell rang. The Gryffindors grabbed their bags and leapt for the door, but Slayt called out; "Potter, a word."

Listlessly, Harry grabbed his bag and stepped through the door to Slayt's office. She motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs facing her desk, and she sat behind it, pulling a paper out of a drawer.

"Now, Potter," she began. "I wanted to talk to you about your essay on bidimensional doorways. You had some interesting theories, and I wanted to ask you about how you explain yourself. This point here, about getting the right world. Explain it to me."

Harry opened his mouth to begin to speak, when a fire roared to life next to him, and Snape's head popped through. "Damia, I need your help," Snape said. "Some fool Hufflepuff mixed his potion wrong and poisoned his classmates. I can't leave them, will you be so kind as to ask Madam Pomfrey for her all-purpose antidote?"

Slayt rose. "Certainly, Severus." She turned to Harry. "Wait right here," she told him. "I will be back in just a moment." Snape's head disappeared from the fire, and Slayt swept out of the room. Harry was left sitting in the empty office.

He began to whistle, to pass the time. Unfortunately, he couldn't whistle, and so, after a few minutes, gave up. He began looking around the room, and, to his surprise, saw a bowl he knew very well. Standing up, he looked closer. Yes, it was a Pensieve, filled with silvery thoughts. Without thinking about what he was doing, Harry stuck a finger into the bowl and was instantly sucked into a memory.

September 1st, 1971
**********

He seemed to be standing among a large group of people. Looking around him, he realized where they were. They were all standing in front of the Sorting Hat, in the Great Hall. With a jolt, he realized he must be in the memory of Professor Slayt's sorting. He looked around and, sure enough, standing just an inch to his right, was Professor Slayt, only eleven years old. Her face was set, and she seemed to be watching two redheads a short distance away from her. One was tall, with flaming hair and a face covered in freckles. The other was shorter, her hair a darker shade of red, and she had bright green eyes. With a shock, he realized he was looking at his mother, when she was only eleven years old. He wished desperately that Slayt would go and talk to her.

The sorting started. Sirius was the first of the people he knew, and the hat instantly proclaimed him a Gryffindor. Sirius played to the crowd of students, blowing them kisses and grinning cheekily until McGonagall dragged him away. Next was his mother, with the last name Evans.

Funny, he thought. I never knew what her maiden name was. The hat took longer to decide with her, but she was a Gryffindor, along with Lupin, his father, and Pettigrew. He snarled as Pettigrew put on the hat, who laughed merrily as it announced him a Gryffindor. The boy grinning so happily looked nothing like a person who would one day come to kill his best friend.

Then the name, "Slayt, Armina!"

Armina? Who is Armina? Professor Slayt's first name is Damia, isn't it? The tall redheaded girl who had been chatting so casually with his mother stepped up to the hat, and turned to smile at the black-haired girl next to Harry, the one who would someday be his Defense teacher, giving her a quick thumbs up. The girl sat on the stool, and the hat covered her flaming hair.

The hat took a few minutes with the redheaded girl, who seemed to become worried, more so with each passing moment. Finally, it made its decision. "GRYFFINDOR!" it called out. To his right, Slayt's face fell. The redheaded girl, Armina, stood up with a grin as the Gryffindors applauded. Then, she met her sister's eyes. Armina looked away, ashamed, before sitting at the Gryffindor table.

"Slayt, Damia!" The black haired girl stepped up to the stool. Her face showed nothing, but Harry saw her hands were shaking. Suddenly, as she pulled the hat onto her head, it was as if he was underneath the hat with her.

"Well, well," the hat whispered into Slayt's ear. Harry heard it perfectly, although he was not quite sure how. "Another one? Your sister was quite hard to place, you know. Who she was, fighting against who she felt like she had to be."

"Will she be happy?" Slayt whispered. Harry was surprised to hear her ask the hat out loud. Most students preferred to think at the hat rather than talk to it.

"Oh, yes, quite so, I believe. But it's not your twin that we are working on right now, it's you, my dear. Now, where to put you? Not Hufflepuff, certainly. You'd die of boredom there. Not Gryffindor. You're much too secretive, and although you know the right thing, it's not often that you choose it. Ravenclaw, perhaps? No, that's not right. Slytherin, then. Yes, Slytherin would be excellent for you."

"I am a Slayt," she whispered back.

"Yes, yes, but I never like taking blood into account. Slytherin then? Yes, the perfect house for you. SLYTHERIN!"

Slayt rose, with a small smile. The Slytherins clapped, while the other houses glared at the new Slytherin. Harry followed Slayt as she sat down at the Slytherin table. A moment later, she was joined by a boy, with long, lank black hair and glittering dark eyes.

"Hello, Damia," he said.

"Severus," she replied. "Glad of your company."

"Since Armina's in Gryffindor." Slayt winced, and opened her mouth to speak, when the world around Harry turned blurry, and slowly went black.

December 4th, 1995
**********

When the world returned to focus, Harry saw, standing over him, Professor Slayt. She looked more emotional than he had ever seen her. Her eyes were blazing, her mouth was twisted into an expression of terror, and even her normally pale skin had flushed. His shoulder hurt where she gripped it.

"What did you see?" she hissed. Harry looked at her in shock, and she shook him roughly. "What did you see?"

"N-nothing," he stammered. "A memory of your Sorting, when you were in Hogwarts, nothing else!"

Slowly, her skin returned to its normal color, and she blinked. He rubbed his shoulder, sure there would be a bruise there come morning. "It's incredibly rude to pry into someone else's life, Potter," she said emptily. "Thirty points from Gryffindor." Harry winced. "Now get out."

Harry grabbed his bag and ran.