The Curse of Charon

Chapter Twelve

In the days leading up to the commencement of term, more and more students returned to Hogwarts, at first in drabbles, escaping family arguments and drunken uncles, and then in a final rush as the Express pulled up at Hogsmeade station and the cold air was filled with expressions of dread and cheery greetings. Among those on the train was Neville Longbottom, his face uncharacteristically smile-less. Normally Neville was willing to join in with a joke and a laugh, even if he rarely was the centre of attention. It was Neville's place in the scheme of things, and no one knew this more than Neville himself. Which was why his glum expression was puzzling to the few other people on the train who were familiar with him.

All being said, it was not as though Neville had much to smile about. His Christmas had been lousy. Worse than lousy, even. He had felt awful the whole time, lost deep down within the depth of himself. The traditional Christmas Day visit to his mother and father had been worse that usual this year, as both had stared blankly out of the window and refused to notice the presence of their only son. Then afterwards, he had been forced to sit through dinner with his grandmother and great uncle, both of whom, in his opinion, were boring as fuck, and both of whom seemed to discount his existence about as much as his parents had. Except they were in full command of their mental faculties.

Then on the train, there had been a group of Gryffindors, all his own year, and as he had tried to go and sit with them, they had said 'Sorry Neville, we're all full.' None of them noticed the look on his face as he slunk off to an empty compartment, or even the fact that he hadn't smiled once. None of them realised he was alive, and he wasn't sure they'd notice if he died.

In fact, he had been wrong about this. One person in the compartment had noticed him, but hadn't said anything. Ginny had been busy thinking, about her holidays, about going back to school, about everything and anything, when Neville had caught her eye as he left the compartment, his own gleaming slightly with what she was now sure were tears. She decided to talk to Ron about it, because he was a prefect, and because he was in the same dormitory as Neville, and because he was her big brother and he knew what to do. She always went to Ron if she needed something. She did have other brothers, but Bill and Charlie had always been too old to have any time for her, and Percy was always too distant, and Fred and George too busy with pranks. Ron had always been the one who had time for her, the one who was willing to protect her, the only Weasley younger than him.

Christmas had been boring. Bill's girlfriend had been boring. The endless parade of friends and family had been boring. Especially since Remus hadn't been among the friends. Ginny was almost annoyed that Remus hadn't been there. He was one of the only people she could stand. It was like he understood everyone, not just people his own age.

Ginny, being fifteen and selfish, had not considered that Remus might prefer to be alone on this, his first Christmas since Sirius' death. Or that it had been a full moon over the holidays.

She could see the castle on the hill, far away, and she looked for the light in Gryffindor tower, completely unaware that inside the room, Draco was scrambling to collect his belonging and kissing Harry hurriedly before any Gryffindor students arrived and caught him in their common room. That one would have taken some explaining.

"I'm off now," he called, as he strode towards the portrait hole.

"Bye!" Harry replied cheerfully, as he watched his classmates wandering up the lawns to the school. It had been nice to spend a few days with just Draco, but it would also be nice to have all his friends back again.

He tried to spot Seamus and Dean, but couldn't see them in the crowd; until it struck him that they had stayed in the castle over the holidays. It was strange, then, that the only time he had seen them had been at Christmas Dinner, over a week ago.

As if by magic, the portrait hole swung open and Dean slunk in, his shoulder bent and hunched, and his hands thrust very firmly into the depths of the pockets of his jeans.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked.

Dean made a movement that was somewhere between a nod and a shrug. Harry tried a different tactic.

"How's Seamus?"

Dean looked up at him, then turned and walked towards the dormitories. Harry sighed and sat in an armchair, and waited for everyone else to arrive.

*

Back in his own common room, Draco was dreading the very same event. He had had two things weighing on his mind for most of the holidays; the fact that he was selling Harry to evil, and the cold attitude of his classmates on the train.

He understood that recently they had not been very close. He also realised that for almost the whole of the school year, Blaise had been his only link with the rest of the Slytherins in his year.

He also understood that the gulf that stood between him and his peers was due to the fact that they had almost nothing in common.

What he did not understand, however, was why they had suddenly turned so very cold? They hadn't spoken to him much all year, but they hadn't been purposely nasty and alienating...had they? Maybe they had been avoiding him on purpose for a long time, and he just hadn't noticed.

That was all right, though, he told himself. He'd just been busy. He hadn't been doing anything specifically against the other Slytherins. Except forming a relationship with their most hated enemy.

Considering this, Draco was forced to admit that the alienation had been almost inevitable.

*

Remus was back at school himself, having apparated to Hogsmeade the day before term began in order to buy himself some things he needed. He was almost glad to be back at the school, because although it meant working, it also meant other people being there. It meant an end to being alone.

It meant that, although the pain would still be there, it would be lessened somewhat. There would be things for him to do, things to keep him busy from dawn until nightfall, and even the thought of nightfall didn't bother him so much when there was Severus for the Wolfsbane and Poppy for anything else that might help him to sleep.

He wanted to make an effort, as the new year approached, to get on with his life, to try and find some enjoyment in things, to get away from his feelings of loss, and guilt, and to shrug off the inescapable sadness that followed him everywhere like a terrible shadow.

Just when he thought he was all right, he would see something, or read something, or hear something that would remind him of everything, and all of his sadness would come washing back over him, crashing and breaking him like a thousand powerful waves, trying to erode him away.

He walked away from the windowsill, shaking his head slowly, then for some reason that he could not comprehend, turned on his heel and went to the window once more.

It was cold, and coated in a thin film of condensation, his breath made visible by the cold outside. Beyond the mist was the outside world. It was a very rain-streaked world, and all the colours were shades of grey, and all the shades were merging together, like a watercolour painting done by a child. A few splashes of colour were making their way up the path, still in their muggle clothes after the holidays, still young and fresh, still untouched by what the world that they grew up in could do to them, free from the evils of mankind, free from the sorrows of loss, and the pains of watching your childhood friends die around you.

Remus was angry, not with the children he taught, but with the world that was going to ruin them. It was so unfair that they couldn't stay happy and perfect forever. So unfair that for a moment something rose within him, and he thought he was going to punch the window, or shout and scream.

He did shout, but not in the way he had expected. A strange sort of groan, followed by a choke escaped him, followed by a feeling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he had known many years ago, but had not felt since.

Then he realised what it was, when the floodgates open, and tears poured from him.

Not the usual silent, sweet tears, the only ones he had been able to manage. These were strong, and powerful, and, he realised, the sort of tears he had long been afraid of. They took over him completely, and he howled, and convulsed, as the blinding, grief became part of him, and he cried and choked and tried to purge himself of it.

*

Ron and Hermione were in the library, although neither really wanted to be there. Ron was there because he thought it was where Hermione would want to be, and Hermione was there because she thought Ron wanted to be there, and felt that she should be nice to him. Especially after she didn't believe him, and after she betrayed him.

She hadn't spoken to Snape since Ron had showed her what happened after death. It seemed sort of wrong, somehow. More wrong than it had seemed before, when she had thought that Ron didn't care for her any more, and that she no longer meant anything to him.

Hermione had learnt a lot in a small period of time. She had learnt that Ron actually did care for her, so much so that he nearly died after they had a fight.

'Nearly died' sounded so much less serious than 'died', but it wasn't true. She had also learnt just what 'nearly died' meant, in terms of Ron. Although he had left the hospital wing, he still wasn't right. He was quieter, and tired more easily, and grew bored quickly. And he had acquired an un-Ron-like sort of apathy about things in general. The only time he ever seemed to cheer up was when Harry talked to him about Quidditch. It was the only time he ever engaged in anything.

That was partly why she was going to tell him about Snape. Because she felt he ought to know, and because she thought it might snap him out of...well, out of himself really. It wasn't that she thought he should stop wallowing in self-pity, because he wasn't, or that she thought he should get on with things, because he couldn't. She felt that it was unhealthy for him, and that he'd be better off in the knowledge, even if it tore them apart.

"So why are we here, exactly?" Ron asked, after ten minutes had passed and Hermione had still not gotten a book.

Hermione sighed, and realised that she would have to tell him eventually, and that now was as good a time as any.

"I need to tell you something," she said. "Something important."

He looked at her.

"Like what?"

"Well, when you were out in the snow, I did something that I'm not proud of."

He frowned at her.

"What did you do?" he asked.

She looked down at the ground, focusing on her feet, which were shuffling against the thick carpet slightly, making ridges in the pile.

"Come on then, get on with it," said Ron. Impatience was another thing he had picked up in the snow.

He lifted her head, and looked him in the eyes, her cheeks still burning.

"I kissed Snape. I kissed him, and flirted with him."

Hermione saw some of the irritation, the very solid and tangible irritability that had been part of him for a while now, melt away, and for a moment pure panic crossed his face. Then his eyebrows knitted together, in the characteristic frown that had caused him a thousand headaches.

"Was he better than me?" he asked flatly.

Hermione was still looking at her shoe. She had total control over the shoe, which made her feel a little better about having no control over the situation.

Ron was still looking at her, with his blank eyes, devoid of any feeling.

"Well," she replied slowly, her intonation nervous but otherwise perfect. "I mean, he is a lot older than you."

Ron's face crumpled, and, seeing the hurt in his eyes, Hermione decided to give it to him straight.

"He's a man of the world, Ron. Older, more experienced."

"Yes," said Ron, his voice wobbling, scarily close to tears. "But was he better than me?"

"Yes."

He did not wait. He did not wait for further humiliation, or for the world to see his pain. He was not going to treat half the school to a hissy fit in the library. He would walk, or run if his legs could carry him, away.

Once he was outside the library, and several corridors away, he sank to the floor in an attempt to clear his spinning head and think properly. Except he couldn't. All he could see was an image of Hermione kissing Snape, a horrible, horrible image that stayed in his mind no matter what he did. Eventually he gave up on thinking clearly, and then on thinking at all. He was very tempted to go out running again, but the memories of last time were still fresh, so he slunk back to the common room instead.

*

Blaise had decided to embrace her life, despite the new and strange things she had learnt about it in the last few weeks. It didn't really matter, she supposed, as along as she was living with people who loved her. It was a bit strange, though, that at the same time as adopting her, her parents changed their name to that of her birth mother and father.

Then again, none of that really mattered. Nothing mattered very much, just as long as she had a home to go to.

*

Seamus was sitting by the lake, as he had done every day for a week or so. It was so calm down there, and the crisp coldness of everything made him feel a lot better. Everything was so tangible, so defined, so unlike the turbulence inside himself.

The things he felt weren't helped by the huge guilt he felt. He loved Dean, he really did, and all he had ever wanted was to be with him. To be with him in every possible way, to give him everything he had.

Only, he was partly afraid that if he gave someone everything that they'd see the parts of Seamus that he didn't want them to see, the parts he didn't like. The quiet and contemplative parts, the shy parts, and the part of himself that he felt most like now, the part that was nervous and slightly afraid.

He wanted to be like the Seamus that everyone else saw, the party animal, the outgoing, confident one. But he wasn't. He couldn't help it, but it just wasn't how he was. And he had gotten so good at hiding it from people that for a while he had managed to hide it from himself, and now that doubts were creeping back into his mind, he was scared. He was scared of both who he was and who he wasn't.

Then there was the problem of Dean, who hadn't spoken to him since the evening that they shared a few days ago. It tore at him, really it did. Dean was the person he loved most in the world, and he didn't want him to be angry with him. But he was, apparently. He was angry, and what's more, he was hurt.

The last thing was what made Seamus himself hurt most. He didn't want Dean to be hurt, and he definitely didn't want to hurt to be his own fault.

He couldn't help how he had felt after the afternoon in the room of requirement, how it felt like Dean had become something else when they had lain together. Dean had been almost animal in his lust, barely sparing a thought for Seamus' sensitivity and virginity.

Not that he was supposed to, nor had he had any reason to. It was just...it was just that Seamus had thought he understood a little more, and when faced with the cold hard truth of Dean's passion, he had found himself unable to take it.

Now everything was so wrong, when only days ago it had been so right, and Seamus knew it was his fault.

*

Snape was sat at his desk, marking some essays that he wanted to return to his fifth years the next lesson, and generally enjoying the peace and quiet of the last evening he had before returning to the noise and bother of teaching ignorant students about his precise science. He had been sucking on a quill when he heard footsteps. Loud ones. It was strange, because his classroom and office were set a little way away from the rest of the dungeon rooms, and the only place the corridor that the footsteps obviously came from led to was...the room he was in. And he didn't have any appointments, nor was there any reason why anyone would want to see him particularly, unless Granger had tired of her idiot boyfriend again...but the footsteps were too loud and brash to be hers.

In fact, he only knew a few people who sounded like that when they walked. And one of them was the angry boy who had just flung open his door.

Snape stood up.

"What on earth do you think you're doing bursting in here, Weasley? Didn't your parents ever teach you any manners?"

Ron did not reply. Instead he walked down the aisle between them empty desks, towards the large one at the front, behind which stood the object of his anger. Without a thought for what he was about to do, he grabbed his teacher by the lapels and pulled his face in towards his own. His face and ears burnt, almost as red as his blazing hair, and there was no denying the fact that this boy was very, very angry.

"You creep," Ron said, his voice low and seething. "You absolute creep. Find someone your own age next time, and leave my girlfriend alone."

Snape tried to protest, but Ron, who was several inches taller, and whose anger made up for a comparative lack of strength, pushed him away, and the dignified Potions master fell to the floor of his own classroom.

Ron stalked off, with an immense sense of satisfaction, and very little idea of where his act would eventually lead him.