Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Six

After four nights of mind-breaking detention with Severus Snape, the last thing Rebecca wanted was to be roused from much-needed slumber at just past eleven o´clock on Sunday morning by an exuberant Fred and George.

"Oi, Rebecca, get up," George called from just outside the girls´ dormitory, "you´ve slept half the day away."

She groaned and rolled onto her side, burying her face in the thick, fluffy Hogwarts pillow. "Go away."

"You promised to help us test new products for our joke shop," came Fred´s voice.

"Yeah," said George.

"Not today," she mumbled, trying to snuggle further beneath the covers. "I need some sleep."

"Yes, today," called George. "You promised, and we´ve been dying to try these things out. No one else will help us, and believe me, we´ve asked everyone."

She rolled onto her back and swiped at her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to get out of her warm and inviting bed and spend the afternoon testing things that were likely to explode in her face, turn her green, or otherwise temporarily maim her, but she had promised. Granted, she hadn´t thought they would take her up on her spur-of-the-moment offer so soon, but that was still no excuse for breaking her word, no matter how tempting doing so might be. She liked Fred and George very much, and she supposed she owed them this much for being so nice. "All right, all right," she grumbled. "Give me a minute."

"That´s the spirit," crowed Fred. "We´ll be waiting for you in the Common Room." Two sets of feet padded away.

"Winky," she croaked, struggling to roll to the edge of the bed, "help me get up, please."

Winky´s bulbous brown eyes appeared at her bedside. "I is thinking you should stay in bed, miss. You needs your rest," she squeaked, eyeing her fretfully.

"I know, Winky, but if I don´t get up, they´ll hound me all afternoon."

"I will get rid of them for you, miss," she said, and started purposefully toward the door.

"No, Winky, don´t. I promised, and I have to go. I swear I´ll be in bed by seven o´clock tonight."

Winky looked uncertainly from the door back to her. "Well..."

"I swear."

"All right," she said dubiously, and set about getting her out of bed.

Twenty minutes later, she rolled, bleary-eyed and semiconscious, into the Common Room. Fred and George were waiting by the unlit hearth, wearing identical expectant expressions. George´s comment about no one else wanting to help out with their experiments echoed in her mind, and she began to wonder precisely what she had gotten herself into. Her finger twitched on the joystick, and she considered bolting back into the safety and warmth of her bedchamber, but before she could do more than consider this option, the twins cheerfully accosted her.

"Hello there, Rebecca," said George, clapping her on the back.

"Ready to go?" asked Fred, beaming at her.

She held up her hands in protest. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. Before I go getting myself turned into who knows what, I want something to eat."

"Of course, m´lady," George said, bowing gallantly. "To the kitchens."

They left the Common Room and headed down the stairs. Most of the students were taking advantage of the cool fall morning and roaming the grounds by the lake, so no one noticed them slip down the corridor and toward the kitchen. They stopped in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit.

"What are we doing here?" she asked. "The Great Hall and lunch is back there."

"We´re not going to lunch," said Fred with a mischievous glitter in his eyes. "That would take too long. We´re going straight to the source." He reached out a finger and tickled the pear in the painting. With a reedy giggle, the portrait swung open to reveal the great, steaming kitchens of Hogwarts Castle.

Through the haze of steam shimmering up from the dozens of gargantuan kettles, she could make out nearly one hundred house elves running to and fro in preparation for lunch. Some carried groaning platters of food-roast meat, steamed vegetables, kidney pies. Others were up to their gangly elbows in flour and bread dough. Still others manned the mammoth cauldrons where soup simmered and frothed, stirring the hearty broths with long wooden spoons. The heat radiating from the room made sweat dampen the back of their robes. The elves never paused in their work, looking up only long enough to register the presence of the three young interlopers.

"Can I help yous? asked an old house elf that emerged from the foggy curtain of steam.

"Oh, hello, Dipply," said George with a broad grin.

"Oh, it´s the Weezy twins," she squeaked happily, clapping her gnarled hands together. "I is sorry! I didn´t recognize you through all this steam. I is not knowing her, either." She gestured in the direction of Rebecca, who sat struggling to breathe the thick, heavy air.

"Oh, this is Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Dipply, the Head Kitchen Elf here."

"Hello." Rebecca offered up a wan smile. She wanted to be kinder, but it was taking all of her effort and concentration just to breathe. Her lungs, ravaged by oxygen deprivation at birth, were underdeveloped and weak, unaccustomed to breathing thick, humid air. She took a shallow, wheezing breath.

"Are you all right?" came Fred´s voice, sharp with concern.

"Hmm? Oh, I´m fine. It´s just the air in here is a bit heavy for me."

"Oh, right. We´ll hurry things along then. Dipply, do you think we could pinch a bit of tucker? Rebecca here hasn´t eaten yet."

Dipply´s green eyes widened, and she gave her a sharp, probing look. "Oh, my, yes! Miss is terribly pale. You is staying right here. Dipply is fixing you right up." The elf bustled off into the concealing steam again.

Rebecca didn´t want to stay right here. She wanted to be out of the room and away from the cloying vapors. But the little elf was trying to be friendly and helpful, and running out after being told to stay put would be most impolite. So she took deep, snuffling breaths through her nose and willed her invalid lungs to cooperate. Just another minute and you´ll be outside, she told herself. Her lungs, heavy as wet sandbags, labored inside her chest, and she leaned back in her chair, trying to extend and relax her cramping diaphragm.

"You all right?" George put an inquisitive comforting hand on her narrow back.

She nodded and took a hearty gulp of air. "Yes. Just takes a little getting used to, is all," she assured him, cursing herself for yet another display of pathetic weakness. He looked wholly unconvinced, and frankly, so was she. She wasn´t sure how much longer she could hold out in this suffocating atmosphere.

Dipply soon returned carrying a platter heaped with breads, pastries, sandwiches, and two pitchers of chilled pumpkin juice. Though it was easily three times her size, she carried it with practiced ease. "Here we is. We´ll fatten you up, miss," she declared, holding the immense platter out to Fred and George.

"Thanks, Dipply. "You´re fantastic," said Fred. Dipply blushed and tittered like a young schoolgirl.

"Yeah, Dipply, thanks," agreed George. "We´d love to stay and chat, but the air in here is a bit too much for Rebecca. Hope you don´t mind."

Dipply, who had noticed her raspy, ragged breathing shook her head. "Oh, no, I is understanding. You take miss out into fresh air."

Rebecca leaned forward and offered her hand. "Thanks so much, Dipply. I´m so sorry I can´t stay and chat. Maybe I could come by some other time when the kitchen isn´t quite so busy," she panted.

Dipply nodded enthusiastically, large ears flapping. "Oh, yes. Dipply would like that very much, miss."

With their goodbyes said and a laden platter of delicious food, they left the sweltering kitchens. Once outside in the cooler air, Rebecca took a huge, heaving gasp of sweet, dry air as the tension ebbed from her chest. Christ, but that felt good. Another few minutes and she would have collapsed. She leaned against the cool, damp wall and savored the feeling of air passing freely into her lungs.

"Maybe we shouldn´t do this after all," said George, eyeing her with concern.

"Of course we should," she said, nettled. It was true she didn´t really want to do this, but there was no way she was going to let her lungs or anything else stop her. She had enough limitations as it was, and she hated being patronized. If she had promised to try out the twins´ new gags, then she was damn well going to do it, even if she had to crawl on her hands and knees to do it. "Where are we going?"

The twins only grinned and kept walking. Now that she was no longer turning green, they had regained their eager, furtive swagger. They passed corridor after corridor until she was sure they had traversed every square foot of the castle. George kept the brimming platter tucked closely against his stomach to keep it out of view. To anyone looking, it would have seemed as though he were suffering a bout of violent stomach cramps. She rolled along between them at a brisk clip, praying fervently that they wouldn´t bump into Professor Snape. She´d seen enough of him to last the rest of her life. If he saw them sneaking around with food snicked from the kitchens, they would be in more trouble than anyone could imagine, and she had little doubt that he would take savage glee in crushing her even further beneath his iron heel.

They stopped before a heavily cobwebbed wall at the end of an isolated hallway. Little light reached this ancient alcove, and the magical torches perched in either corner flickered hypnotically from their rusted brackets, trying to beat back the encroaching shadows. Brown spiders, some as big as her hand, scuttled across the sweating stone, spindly legs clittering like dry leaves on shale. It was cool here, very much like the bleak dungeon in which she was forced to sequester herself night after night, and she gave an involuntary shudder.

Fred stepped forward and pulled out his wand, taking a quick look around to be sure they hadn´t been followed. He tapped the tip in the center of the wall three times, prompting a powdery explosion of dust. "Aperio andron!"

The solid stone wall shimmered and wavered, a picture seen through a warped mirror, and then, where the wall had been, there stood revealed a narrow, dusty passageway that led into utter blackness. It was little wider than Rebecca´s hunched shoulders. A sheet of glacial air billowed out at them, and she pulled instinctively away from the opening.

"Erm, well, we hadn´t thought on this," muttered George, glancing from the bloated girth of her chair to the pinched corridor in front of them.

She was one step ahead of them. "No problem," she said, and whipped out her wand. She cleared her throat. "Automus Wingardium Leviosa!" She grinned as she felt her body leaving the seat. It was liberating, this sensation of hovering above the bounds of the confining earth. She felt freer, lighter, unburdened by the myriad aches and pains that pulled at her skin and weighted her bones. She giggled, momentarily intoxicated by her temporary freedom.

"Excellent," said Fred admiringly. Then his brow creased in consternation again. "What about your chair? We can´t just leave it here. Filch will find it."

"Not to worry," she assured him. She pointed her wand at the chair and murmured a Shrinking Charm. In an instant, it was the size of her hand. "Would you mind?" she asked George, gesturing at the chair.

"Not at all." He bent down and scooped it up.

"Um, would you mind if I went between the two of you in case the Levitating Charm wears off?"

"Of course," said George. The two of them parted to allow her to slide between them.

The odd little company set off down the corridor, bumping and jostling one another in the pitch darkness. Rebecca shivered each time the soft, fuzzy fabric of their sweaters brushed against her skin. Being so close to others was not something to which she was accustomed. People usually kept their distance, afraid that they would hurt her with close, intimate contact or be blighted by her infirmity. It was exquisite, this familiarity, and she breathed deeply, savoring the warm, soapy smell of their skin. Fred´s elbow grazed her forehead, and she grinned at the touch.

"Sorry."

"No problem." In spite of everything, in spite of Professor Snape´s constant cruelty, she couldn´t imagine a time in her life when she had felt happier, more content, more at peace. The sound of her dragging feet mingling with their gritty footsteps as they moved through the darkness was harmonious, natural, right. She reached out an exploratory hand, starting when her fingertips discovered the smooth warmth of Fred´s neck.

"Oh, sorry," she said, snatching her hand away.

Fred chuckled. "Don´t worry about it."

The corridor ended abruptly, opening out into a cavernous room cluttered with the most bizarre conglomeration of gadgets and bric-a-brac ever imagined. A three-legged table listed drunkenly against the far wall, piled high with dissembled garden tools and stoppered beakers holding various dried, shriveled, and powdered substances. Directly across from the cramped doorway sat a gape-mouthed fireplace, its grate choked with cold grey embers. Rickety shelves lined all four walls, holding an assortment of jars, bottles, unidentifiable hunks of metal, and tins of various sizes. In the middle of the room, a throw-rug lazed on the hard stone, surrounded by three age-blackened chairs and a tattered, lumpy couch the color of scorched pumpkin.

"It´s chilly in here," she said, her breath pluming in the frigid air.

"We´ll soon set that to rights." Fred put the platter of food down on the leaning table, where it wobbled precariously. Rebecca closed her eyes, anticipating a crash, but it remained where it was in defiance of gravity. Fred crossed the room to the waiting fireplace, pulled out his wand, and mumbled, "Incendio!" A fire erupted in the grate, bathing the room in a sudden rush of warmth and soft light.

She sighed with relief and moved to sit on the couch. It gave a pneumatic wheeze as she settled her slight bulk into a sagging crease. Despite its raggedy appearance, it was exquisitely comfortable, and she sank gratefully into it. The warmth of the fire was quickly permeating the room. The bones of her wrist creaked as she put her wand away, soaking up the much-needed heat. Her stiff muscles began to thaw, and she flexed her hands and fingers experimentally in front of the dancing flames. With the fire crackling merrily, the room didn´t seem quite so dreary and forbidding.

"All right, Rebecca?" asked Fred.

"I´m fine."

"Right, let´s get started, shall we?"

"Well, can we eat first? I´m starving."

"Sure," he said, sounding disappointed.

She giggled. "Don´t worry, Fred, I promise I´ll try out anything you like after I´ve had a bite. Might be dangerous to work on an empty stomach. Suppose I disappear?"

"No one´s disappeared yet," said George, bringing the platter to the couch.

"Well, there was that one bloke two years ago, but they eventually found him again," offered Fred cheerfully, swiping an egg salad sandwich and a pumpkin pasty from the proffered plate. "Granted, it took six months and a cadre of Aurors."

"Oh yeah, I remember. Poor fellow. Still in St. Mungo´s, isn´t he?" George held out the plate to her.

She picked among the selections on the plate, trying to hide her nervousness. Maybe this was a bad idea. She thought they were joking, but she wasn´t sure. They looked serious enough. They were nice fellows-at least she thought they were-but she really didn´t know them that well. What if something did happen down here? No one knew they were here. If something went wrong, it could be hours before someone noticed they were missing and went looking for them. Of course, Fred and George would probably go for help, but what if they didn´t? What if they panicked and left her here? They didn´t seem the sort, but danger often brought out the worst in people, particularly when they had a lot to lose, and expulsion certainly counted as a lot.

Her sudden trepidation must have shown on her face, because George, who had been patiently holding out the platter while she riffled its contents, smirked, his eyes twinkling. Soon the smirk became muffled guffaws, and then the guffaws turned to gales of laughter. The plate shook, sending sandwiches sliding toward the edge. Pumpkin pasties and cauldron cakes tumbled onto her lap, spraying crumbs across her thighs. A pitcher of pumpkin juice tottered frantically on the edge before he reached out a hand to steady it.

"What´s so funny?" she asked, staring at him in amazement.

"Oh, nothing," he managed.

She chanced a glance at Fred, who was sprawled languidly in one of the old chairs. His hand was cupped over his mouth, and his shoulders shook with mirth. It dawned on her then that they were having at her, and she screwed up her face in an expression of mock indignation. It was an expression very reminiscent of Professor Snape, but she was fortunate not to know it. She folded her arms across her thin chest and eyed them balefully. "Hmph! I see why you don´t have many volunteers for your little experiments. Trying to scare them half to death."

"We haven´t told you the best parts yet," said George, setting the plate down beside her on the couch.

She picked up a squashed and beaten throw pillow and hurled it at him. He batted it easily aside, and stuffing oozed from a rip in the side. "Oh, come now," he said, smiling, "we´re not THAT awful. Well, our mum says not. At least most of the time. There was that one time-,"

"Oh shut up," she said, reaching for another throw pillow.

They dissolved into unrestrained laughter, Rebecca resting her head against the back of the sofa. Oh, but this was wonderful! Camaraderie had never been a part of D.A.I.M.S. Everyone was so busy trying to beat their bodies into submission just to get through another class, another day. There was little time for idle conversation when one was worried about making it to the bathroom before bowel or bladder betrayed them. Until now, her days had been filled with the blind need to make it to the finish line, to get from her narrow bed in the morning back to the same bed in the evening without some tragedy befalling her or some humiliation being heaped upon her. That she was lounging on a decrepit couch, worrying about absolutely nothing, was surreal. Well, it was divine.

If she really wanted to be honest with herself, she had to admit that there were other reasons for the self-imposed isolation at D.A.I.M.S., the walling-up of emotions and the masking of true personality. It was a defense mechanism. Death was a constant specter there. Though most of the disabilities suffered by its denizens were not fatal in and of themselves, some, like cystic fibrosis or leukemia, did eventually weaken and ravage their victims beyond hope of survival. Sometimes, even healthy students fell victim to unforeseen complications. Epileptics suffered fatal seizures. Paralyzed students succumbed to deadly lung clots. Everyone was ever-alert for signs of Death´s latest predations. Those who did not learn to disconnect themselves from the horror of such possibilities paid a heavy price, going to see a sick friend in the infirmary only to find the bed empty, clean sheets stretched over the vast white emptiness, and a hard-jawed nurse glaring down at them, the cold bearer of unwanted news. Such unfortunates rarely made the same mistake twice. She hadn´t.

She chewed a piece of ham sandwich slathered in mayonnaise. So lost was she in thought that she didn´t remember picking it up. She was deep within the labyrinth of her own memories now, remembering things she wished to forget, remembering the day she had learned that painful lesson for herself. Walking into the numbingly familiar stale stench of prolonged sickness and seeing that bed, terrible in its emptiness. Seeing that tall, iron-faced nurse and knowing what she would say. Feeling a miserable throb of gratitude even as rage and grief swamped her senses. It was over. For him and for her. At long last, merciful Jesus, it was over.

"Rebecca?" Fred´s voice, far away.

"Huh?" She jerked from her trance, nearly dropping her half-eaten sandwich.

"I asked how things were going with Professor Snape," he said. He sat in one of the chairs with his legs outstretched and his ankles loosely crossed, munching on his third pumpkin pasty.

"You must have been having some daydream," remarked George. "Want to share?"

"No," she said tersely. Then, realizing how it had sounded, "That is, unless you want to hear my hormonal fantasies about some of the boys in my year."

"No, thanks," he said quickly, his ears reddening. She fought to hide a grin.

"I didn´t think so."

"So?" prompted Fred, brushing stray crumbs from his robes.

"So what?" She stuffed the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth.

"How are things with Snape?"

She groaned through a mouthful of bread. "Don´t ask. He´s the most awful man I´ve ever met. "I don´t understand how he keeps his job."

"That´s anyone´s guess," said Fred, reaching for the pitcher of pumpkin juice. "We figure he´s got pictures of Dumbledore at some wild staff party or something."

That was an interesting visual. Staid, placid Headmaster Dumbledore dancing on the tabletops didn´t seem all that likely, but then she´d never seen the man in anything but a professional setting. For all she knew, he could be the sort that could close a bar in a few hours´ time if he so chose. The esteemed headmaster of the most prestigious wizarding school in the world behaving indecorously and escaping public scrutiny seemed most improbable, though, no matter how different the British magical community might be. No, there were other reasons for Snape´s continued tenure. It didn´t really matter anymore. He was here, and that was that.

In truth, her mind wasn´t really following the discussion. It still lingered the pathways of her memories. It was odd that she should think of that-and of him-now, after all this time. When had she last thought of him before today? Three years? At least. More? Probably. The last dream she´d had about it had been at least that long ago. She had awakened weeping into her pillow, in the throes of some anguished, hazy nightmare. She had wept until morning, and that had been the last thought of him until now.

They were looking at her expectantly again. She pushed the thoughts of long ago out of her head and resolved to focus on the present. "I´m sorry. What was that?"

Fred rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Goodness, woman, is that all you ever think about?"

She looked at him, nonplussed. "Hmm?"

"Which boy is it now?"

Comprehension dawned as she remembered her glib attempt to deflect their curiosity, and she flushed a deep crimson. "It´s no one."

The two boys exchanged devilish grins. "You don´t suppose it´s one of us, do you, Fred?" asked George.

"It certainly is possible. I mean, we are crushingly handsome," came the reply.

"It is not! Not that you´re not handsome, but, I just mean, oh, shut up!" She buried her face behind a dusty throw pillow.

"Maybe it´s Snape. She has been spending an awful lot of time with him," speculated George. Rebecca groaned behind her pillow.

"Please, George. I think our Rebecca here has more taste and better intelligence than that."

"Thank you, Fred," she muttered.

"Not at all. Besides, George, she´s quite the vixen. Surely she could do better than old Snape."

George got up and went to stand in front of Rebecca, fingers caressing his chin as though he were pondering grave philosophical matters. After a moment he said, "I believe you´re right. Quite fetching. Tell me, Rebecca, do the wheels hinder the hunt?"

She lowered the pillow. "Wouldn´t you like to know," she said saucily, wiggling her eyebrows.

Now it was George´s turn to squirm and stammer. "Well, that is, I never thought...may I have another pumpkin pasty?" He held out his hand.

She put one in his hand, and he retreated to the safety of his chair. She plucked an egg sandwich from the platter and took a generous bite, bemused by his sudden discomfort. Why was it that males found the idea of possibly wanting to date her so scandalous? She was ugly, yes, perhaps even monstrous to some, but she was still a girl with the same feelings, desires, and curiosities as everyone else. On the rare occasion that the spirit took them, she and some of the other girls at D.A.I.M.S. had whiled away hours discussing and debating the various merits and drawbacks of every Muggle musician and movie star of which they could think. Who had the cutest eyes, the best hair, the nicest butt? Perennial favorites like Tom Cruise got equal consideration alongside relative newcomers like Josh Hartnett or Elijah Wood. Sometimes, the chatter grew heated, but it was comforting to know that the same thing was going on in the living rooms and bedrooms of "normal" girls all over the world, that in this, at least, they were not different.

It suddenly occurred to her then that in all their talk about secret crushes and hormonally driven fantasy, they had never once admitted to liking a boy at the school. Not one of them, and that was odd. With the majority of students at D.A.I.M.S. being female, it would have been only logical that one of the girls might have taken at least a passing shine to one of the eligible boys there. And yet, in all of their conversations about dreamboats and hunks, the names of their male classmates had never come up. Why was that?

You wouldn´t like the answer. No, she had a feeling she wouldn´t. It would say something about herself, about all of the D.A.I.M.S. girls, that she didn´t want to hear. Maybe they were just as selfish as all those people they so smugly and self-righteously condemned as narrow-minded. Maybe their vanity even exceeded them; after all, they of all people should have known that looks and expectations were deceiving, but like all the rest of the shallow young girls who dreamed of romance and perfection, they had concentrated only on the beautiful things.

What´s wrong with wanting beautiful things, what everyone else wants? she thought petulantly. Nothing. Except that wasn´t the point and she knew it. She and the others had shunned the boys in the school for the same heartless, petty reasons as all the pristine, privileged people outside the respectable dungeon walls tacitly negated the hopeful, dreaming girls. The boys were ugly. They were not polished and flawless; they fell well short of the ideal. Lips that drooled because they could not control the tongue they had been made to house ruined fanciful visions of moonlit kisses. They marred the perfect fairy tale that was every little girl´s right.

Why shouldn´t they, the young women cursed with healthy hearts and even healthier libidos inside wracked and sickly bodies, have something fine and sound? Why should they have to settle for the broken, cast-off dregs left by others simply because that was what was expected of them? They had the right to reach for and attain the dream if they could. If they could find something more than the twisted, hunch-backed, harelipped Romeos on offer to them, then why was it wrong of them to take it?

She was appalled with herself for thinking this way, fully aware of the perversity of her line of reasoning, given her position in life and the countless private heartaches she had suffered precisely because of such thoughts. Yet she could not change it. The desire for the best, the most perfect, was primal, a biological imperative infused into every cell, even in those creatures who had not achieved it. In the old days and in the ancient order of the world, the aberrations, the imperfects would have died out, victims of natural selection. Human compassion had changed all that, and for that she was grateful. Unfortunately, it had forgotten to change basic human nature, and thus this secret shame.

She was very relieved when Fred interrupted her thoughts. "Rebecca, are you ready?"

"Yes." She dusted off her hands and sat up as straight as she could.

"Splendid!" His face lit up with excitement. "Would you like to stay there, or would you be more comfortable in your chair?"

"I´ll stay here, thanks. It´s nice to sit in something else for a while." It was, too. She had to confess, though, that it was a bit of an out-of-body experience. She spent so much time in it that the sleek, utilitarian, titanium frame had become her de facto body, the substitute skeleton that supported and moved her badly-realized soul. She had come to depend upon it, almost love it. She hated it, too; it was a rigid, intractable jailer, refusing to relax its immutable rules in the slightest, not even to spare her a moment of unease or indignity. They were locked, she and the machine, in an endless and unendable battle of wills, each claiming ownership over the other. As yet, there was no clear winner.

Fred bustled around the room, taking things from the table and shelves, humming happily. George sat in his chair with a quill and a roll of blank parchment, preparing, she guessed, to record the results of the experiments. A flutter of nervousness tickled her belly. If she was going to bow out, now was the time.

"Erm, Fred, all kidding aside, is this safe?"

Fred looked up at her while he rearranged various tins and jars into safer positions in his arms. "Rebecca, we´re silly, not stupid," he said gravely. "We´d never do anything to hurt you."

"Of course not," she said, speaking through the lump in her throat. Their obvious concern for her was touching.

He arranged the various containers on the oval rug, making sure that they were just beyond the range of her randomly kicking feet. It was such a small gesture, one that would go unnoticed by most, but it spoke volumes about the character of both boys. It took a lifetime for some people to develop the care, consideration, and sensitivity to her odd idiosyncrasies; some never developed them at all. That Fred and George could intuitively adapt things to her needs in just six days was a miracle. For a few minutes at least, the predominantly dim view she held of humanity lightened.

"Here you are," Fred said, opening a tin and handing her something.

She looked down at the thing he had placed in her hand. It was small and round and chocolate. It was...a bon bon? She looked at Fred. "Is this what I think it is?"

"A bon bon. Bon apetit."

She started to pop it into her mouth, but then she hesitated, hand wavering above her upturned mouth. "What does it taste like?"

He grinned. "Don´t know. You are the first to test them, remember?"

It was decidedly stale. It was her first thought when she shoved it into her mouth. Especially the nuts, which resisted her teeth´s most fervent efforts to grind them down. She hoped they were nuts. They had been here for Merlin knew how long. "A bit stale," she told him, scraping a piece of petrified nut from between her teeth with her tongue.

He said nothing. He was staring at her intently, waiting for a reaction. Aside from being ancient and nearly inedible, it had tasted just like a walnut bon bon. She felt the same as she did before she ate it. Her stomach rumbled quietly, but that was all. They looked at each other for several long minutes. The twins´ initial enthusiasm faded with each unproductive second. George, who had been holding quill to parchment attentively, let it droop forlornly in his hand.

"Well," Fred said with a dispirited shake of the head, "guess that one is a dud." He reached for another tin.

Just then Rebecca opened her mouth and gave voice to a low, rumbling, vibrato belch. It went on and on, a rolling, guttural roar that filled the room. It went on for so long that she began to wonder if she might not suffocate from lack of air. The more she tried to stifle it, the more vigorous it became. Finally, she gave up trying to quell it and sat back, letting her mouth hang open.

Fred was instantly ecstatic. "It works!! It must´ve taken a while to get going since they´ve been down here for so long." He motioned frantically at George to take notes. The sound of excited scribbling soon joined the uncouth din of her ceaseless belching.

She thought about asking just how long these strange confections had been here exactly, then decided against it. It wasn´t important, and besides, she needed all the air she could get. If she had the opportunity to speak, better to use it for more pressing questions, like, "How long is this going to last?" She managed the query between great, gagging belches and wheezing gasps for air. She wondered if she had turned purple yet.

"Theoretically, they´re only supposed to last five minutes," said George, offering what he probably thought was a comforting smile.

Theoretically. As in maybe. As in they weren´t sure. Wonderful. She rolled her eyes as another volley of thunderous burping barreled up from the pit of her stomach. What if she had to serve detention with Professor Snape like this? Or worse, yet, what if she had to attend class in such a state? That would be a joyous occasion. Snape would be livid. He would probably think she was doing it on purpose to sabotage his lesson. And even if he miraculously managed to restrain himself from tearing her apart with his poison wit, Malfoy would not let such a golden chance for her public disgrace pass him by. He had not forgotten about their little encounter on the train.

The thought of taciturn Professor Snape glowering at her while she helplessly bellowed "Moonlight Sonata" in a low, triumphant belch flitted through her mind, and she bent double on a sudden clot of laughter. Trying to laugh while belching was a horrendous idea, she soon found out. What little air she was thieving between long exhalations was cut off as neatly as though someone had pinched her windpipe between their fingers. The steady belch ceased, and her eyes bulged.

Fred, thinking the trick had spent itself, reached over and clapped her on the back. "Good show."

The sharp jolt to her back kickstarted her breathing, and she took a whooping gulp of oxygen, promptly releasing it again in the form of a monstrous, jaw-popping burp.

"Encore!" shouted George gleefully, his duties as impartial recorder of events forgotten. She groaned.

"Only a minute or so more," called Fred, mistaking the noise for a sign of impatience.

Eventually, it did taper off, and when it did she sagged into the ragged cushions. She was wrung out from the constant expulsion of air. Her chest ached dully. It was nice to be able to breathe again.

"What did you think?" asked Fred earnestly.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, using her knobby elbow to push herself into a sitting position, "I don´t suppose many people would have a problem with it if I didn´t, but you might want to put a warning label on it for people who have asthma."

"What´s that?" asked George.

"It´s a Muggle condition that affects breathing. People who have it sometimes have trouble breathing. The tubes and sacs that carry air to their lungs become inflamed and swell. Usually, it´s mild, but sometimes it´s deadly."

"Oh. Oh my," said Fred, and she could see all sorts of hideous possibilities playing themselves out behind his eyes. Grieving parents coming to their shop to berate them for their carelessness. "Yes, I think that would be wise," he said slowly. "Make a note of that, George."

"Of course, I doubt you´ll have many Muggles coming to your shop," she pointed out, hoping to lift his spirits. "And I´ve never met an asthmatic wizard."

"Until I met you, I´d never met a disabled wizard, either," he said somberly.

Touche. That had been an incredibly stupid thing to say. If there were disabled wizards, then there had to be asthmatic wizards. Just because she hadn´t seen one at D.A.I.M.S. did not mean they didn´t exist. Hell, most wizards didn´t know she existed, though she most certainly did, and she considered them uniformed, presumptuous fools. Which was what she had just been. "Yeah, I guess you´re right," she said. Then, "What´s next?" She wanted to get rid of the sudden seriousness that had fallen over them.

"Ah," said Fred, reaching into a jar. "Try this."

"What does it do?" She wasn´t going to eat it if it involved the secretion or expulsion of any bodily fluid, friends or not.

"You´ll see. No more belches, I promise."

"I´m not going to pass gas, am I?"

He snorted. "Nothing of the sort. That´s still in development."

"You´ll help us test it when it comes to it, won´t you?" pleaded George, fixing her with his best hang-dog look.

"Don´t count on it," she muttered, and crammed the cracker Fred held out to her into her mouth. It, too, was stale. This time no one was worried when nothing happened at first. They sat in amiable silence, George pulling absently on the feather at the end of his quill.

"Looks like this one works, too," Fred said suddenly, gazing raptly at the top of her head. George wrote something on the parchment he balanced on his knee.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously, reaching up to feel her hair. She fully expected to find her scalp disturbed by the protuberance of a pair of horns, or perhaps a grotesque third eye goggling from the middle of her forehead. There was nothing of the sort, however; her forehead and scalp were just as smooth as they always had been.

"Here, have a look," said Fred. He left his chair and rummaged about on one of the sagging, dust-covered shelves, returning with a tarnished handmirror.

She took it from him and held it up to her face. In its warped and cracked surface, she saw herself and smiled. Her hair, her one physical vanity, was cycling through a variety of neon colors, running from supernova red to electric blue in the blink of an eye. It was outrageously bizarre and fabulously wonderful. She laughed, her hand spasming around the blackened pewter handgrip. She felt like she had slipped through a crack in the glass wall of reality and fallen into a secret wonderland, a land of freedom and joy and unbridled experimentation. She pitied her old friends stuck back at D.A.I.M.S., toiling beneath the burden of tightly controlled, sanitized magic. They didn´t understand what they were missing. It would be tragic if they did. "This is terrific." There were no words in the English language to describe what it was; "terrific" was woefully inadequate, but it was as close as human speech was going to get.

George smiled, obviously pleased by her reaction. "We´re just getting started, duck."

Indeed they were. For hours uncounted they plied her with frothing liquids, stale crackers, old bonbons, and tasteless granulated powders. Each one brought about a different change in her appearance. A blue Bertie Bott bean made her enormously fat. A bubbling drink that tasted of dirty sweatsocks covered her in downy purple fur. A chocolate éclair made her sing like an opera soprano every time she tried to speak. With each success, the twins grew more and more jubilant, and for her part, Rebecca had never been happier. Her sides and jaw ached from constant laughter, and for the first time in many years, she never once stopped to consider her disability. She was just Rebecca Stanhope, average student at Hogwarts, having the time of her life with two friends.

That something would go wrong was inevitable. The innocuous cookie that was supposed to turn her navy blue had tasted no staler than any of the other fare she had sampled. When the color had not faded after five minutes, there were nervous titters of amusement. When it was still there ten minutes later, the amusement was replaced by consternation and murmured conferences about what to do. After fifteen minutes with no change, consternation gave way to genuine concern. "Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey," said Fred at last.

The thought of putting herself at the mercy of Madam Pomfrey made her uneasy. No doubt Madam Pomfrey was still upset about their first meeting. Most doctors and nurses bristled any time their credentials were called into question, and she had done just that. In front of the Headmaster, no less. Definitely not the wisest move she had ever made. The Mediwitch wasn´t going to be thrilled to see her, and an angry person coming at you with something sharp and likely painful was never a welcome sight. "It won´t go away on its own?" she asked hopefully.

"Maybe, but if it hasn´t by now, it´s probably not going to, and you don´t want to go to class like that," said George.

She grimaced. He had a point. A blue classmate would be hard to ignore. Even McGonagall, who seemed to go out of her way to make things easier for her, would take exception, and if she took umbrage, then Snape would slowly but surely work himself into a vitriolic frenzy. By the end of the lesson, he would have her reduced to a shell-shocked blue puddle and have stripped enough points from Gryffindor to send McGonagall into a fit of weeping, despairing melancholy for months. To Madam Pomfrey it was, then. "All right, but I´d prefer you didn´t go with me. Wouldn´t want to draw attention."

"Don´t think you´ll be able to help that, Rebecca," Fred said gaily," but I´ll walk you to the door at least."

He let her out of the secret entrance, waiting until she had enlarged her chair and sat down before disappearing into the darkness again. Night had fallen while she and the twins had been at their secret work. It was just after supper, and though most of the students had already gone back to their Common Rooms, some still straggled through the halls, and they spared her startled stares as she passed. A second-year Slytherin guffawed as she moved by.

"Never seen a shape-shifter before?" she snarled, prompting a dubious silence. She wasn´t a shape-shifter, but the little lie had been worth it to cause that little miscreant a moment of doubt.

Well, at least you´ve given them another reason to stare at you, pointed out her grandfather pragmatically. Yes, she had. She sat up a little straighter and began to hum. She didn´t care if they looked now. At least this little accident had given them a legitimate reason to ogle her passing shadow. Now they could preoccupy themselves with her blue hue rather than her gnarled, twisted limbs. She had been granted a temporary shield.

Madam Pomfrey´s infirmary was in an alcove on the third floor. Parallel rows of crisply starched beds lined the walls, and a dozen windows let the cool starlight filter in and tattoo the floor with ghostly, shifting patterns. The sheer white curtains fluttered in the breeze, trailing softly over the gleaming bone-white metal bedframes. This early in the year, all the beds were empty, but she knew that as the year wore on, more and more of them would fill. Potions accidents, Transfiguration errors, Quidditch injuries, and general malaise would all take their toll. None of the injuries would be serious or life-threatening, of course. Not here.

Though the atmosphere in here was less astringent, less cloyingly antiseptic than D.A.I.M.S., there could be no mistaking its purpose. The white, bloodless beds made it abundantly clear that this was a place of sickness and sorrow. They were coffins without lids, sheeted morgue slabs. There were other signs, too, more subtle but no less unnerving to those who had learned to understand their portents, to pore over them like mystic shamans deciphering prophecy runes. Metal bedpans gleamed dully from beneath murky beds, awaiting anointment. A wardrobe squatting in the far corner held fresh towels. Maybe they would remain there the duration of the year, comfortably idle, but more likely they would be pressed into service to mop up blood or vomit or feces, the dark offerings of the ailing human body. Another cabinet in the opposite corner was probably home to the plethora of potions, nostrums, and poultices brewed and crafted by the desperate to ward off Death, to squeeze that one last day, one last hour, from the cup of life. It was a joke. Death always came for you, always won in the end. It hardly ever came when you were ready and waiting for it. It came slinking like a dirty thief, stealing that which was most precious before anyone could raise the alarm. Sometimes it came quickly, but just as often it toyed with you, made you suffer before the end. She had learned this early. Learned it and never forgot it.

Maybe it was the line of thought that drew her eyes to the bed in the darkest, loneliest corner, or maybe it was because it was where it was, but whatever the reason, they strayed there and froze. She knew it wasn´t the same bed. That bed was a continent away; for all she knew they burned it after everything was over. It could have been its twin, though-it had the same, wan, bleached sheets, the same gouge in the steel bedframe, the same lost look. The same diseased air hung over it in a greasy pall. It was the deathbed, the place reserved for those without hope. She wondered how many it had consumed there in its dark corner.

Memories swelled in her mind and she moved toward it in a trance, free hand extended to brush its surface. She remembered the deathbed well. For the better part of a year, she had watched it consume her best friend, eating away at his vitality. The white-frocked nurses all thought it was the leukemia that was eroding his mind and wilting his spirit, but she had known better. She knew it was the bed that was killing him, growing brighter even as he grew weaker and duller. Near the end, the sheets had been impossibly bright. It had hurt her eyes to look at them. By contrast, her friend was little more than a dark smudge against the linen, a spirit clinging to life by the palest of threads. The bed had thrived on his sickness, growing more pristine with each worsening of his condition.

Her shaking fingertips brushed the coverlet, and she was immersed in a moment of total recall. Madam Pomfrey´s quiet, dark infirmary was replaced by the nauseatingly white walls of the hospital wing at D.A.I.M.S., and she was standing at the end of that long aisle between the beds trying to ignore the stink of infirmity that stained the walls and permeated the linoleum floor. The bed that she had visited so often was empty, its linens glaringly white, even at this distance. It was victorious. It had eaten him in the night.

A nurse moved to intercept her, but she might as well have been trying to stop the revolution of the Earth around the sun. She swerved around her, ducking past the outstretched, impeding arm. She had to see, to know for absolute certain. The bed sat, cold and brilliant, leering at her. She rolled to its side, the taste of dried talc in her mouth like ash. A hand reached out to pull back the sheet. She knew what she was looking for-strands of brilliant mahogany hair interwoven into the mattress, assimilated. The sheet felt dusty beneath her touch. Shivering fingers closed around the sheets that still held the stink of his death in their pores. The nurse, far away, calling, "Miss Stanhope? Miss Stanhope, please-,"

She came back to herself to find that she was clutching the coverlet in cold hands. Someone was calling her name. She dropped the crumpled sheets on the bed and turned around to see Madam Pomfrey staring at her with a puzzled expression. When the plump witch got a good look at her, her gaze sharpened with clinical concern.

"What happened, Miss Stanhope? What are you doing with that bedsheet?"

"I...I was...just-," she stammered. Just what? Losing her mind? That´s what it had felt like. Like she had been uprooted from the firm bedrock of rationality and hurtled headlong into madness. After all these years phantoms she had thought long-buried were springing from their tombs to roam the febrile landscape of her thoughts. She fought to return them to the cast-iron vault into which she had cast them and slammed it shut, praying that this time, it would hold.

"Well, never mind," Pomfrey said when no answer was forthcoming, "just come over here."

She retreated from the deathbed, casting a last befuddled glance in its direction before following the Mediwitch to her examination area. The woman pulled the privacy curtain around them and turned to gaze sternly down at her. "Now, what happened?"

"Well, some friends and I were fooling around with magic, and-,"

"Fred and George Weasley, I´ll wager," she sniffed. When Rebecca looked at her in guilty astonishment, she said, "What? It´s not that much of a mystery, really. Anytime the phrase, `friends and I´ and `fooling with magic´ come up, it´s a good bet those two are involved. Let me guess, more wares for the fabled `Weasleys Wizard Wheezes´ Joke Shop?"

"Yes, ma´am."

"They´ve been on about setting up that shop for years. You´re not the first person they´ve sent up here, not by a long chalk." She moved her wand deftly along Rebecca´s body, clucking softly. "I think I´ve got just the thing. Wait here."

She bustled off, leaving Rebecca behind the partition. She could hear her moving around outside, the clink of jars as she gathered something from the cupboard. Being in her presence, it was clear that Madam Pomfrey was an efficient, highly capable Mediwitch. She owed her an apology. She´d wait until after the medicine had been given, otherwise the apology would seem like brown-nosing in an attempt to avoid being poisoned in vengeance.

Madam Pomfrey returned with an unlabeled bottle of amber liquid. She uncorked it and poured a generous dollop. "Here. Drink up. It´s going to taste awful."

She sniffed it. "What is it?"

"Afraid I´ll poison you?"

Ah, you do remember. "No, ma´am. I just like to know what I´m getting."

"It´s Delia´s Dermableach. Your friends used a bit too much Blue Welsh Pixie shavings in whatever it is they gave you. This should clear it up," she said tersely.

Rebecca tipped back the cup and swallowed it in a single quaff. The nurse was right. It was horrible. It was slimy and tasted like rotten asparagus. She grimaced and gagged as it went down.

"Try not to retch, please. It won´t do you any good if it comes back up."

"Yes, ma´am. Madam Pomfrey? I´m sorry about the things I said in the Headmaster´s office. I was wrong."

"And well you should be," she said stiffly.

"It´s just that I´ve had a lot of bad experiences with doctors, and sometimes I speak without thinking."

Pomfrey drew herself up. "I should think that you of all people should recognize the stupidity of judging all by the actions of a few," she said sharply.

Trumped by the second person in one day, she could think of no response. Her odd flashback to a time long past had rattled her deeply. Had she been less tired, she might have resented the insinuation that since she was a member of an oppressed and ignored group, she should never make an error in judgment. But she was too tired, and so she only said, "All the same, I´m sorry, ma´am."

"Well, you can´t take it back," she said, and though her voice was cold, the hard line of her mouth softened the slightest bit.

"No, ma´am, I can´t."

"Off you go. You´ll be all right in the morning."

"Goodnight, Madam Pomfrey."

"Goodnight."

At the same time that Rebecca was making her way back to the Gryffindor Common Room, Severus Snape was sitting in Albus Dumbledore´s office. The Headmaster was watching him gravely, sipping a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea.

"You look tired, Severus," he said, eyeing him with concern.

"I am tired. I´ve had Stanhope in detention every night; the girl is a disaster." He rubbed his eyes and reached for his own cup.

"Oh? How so? I was under the impression that she was more than capable of doing the work with the right materials. Is this not the case?"

"I have not yet procured those materials," he said stiffly, setting his cup down in its saucer.

"Are they hard to find? I can send for them if need be."

"No, Headmaster, it isn´t that. I´m not entirely certain providing special equipment for her is prudent."

"Oh? Why not?" The Headmaster leaned forward on his desk.

"No other student has been given these materials. They have to work with what they are given, regardless of their skill. Why should she be any different? No one offers Longbottom special equipment, and he is as crippled as she is when it comes to the mastery of Potions."

"Ah, but Neville has not been burdened with such crushing physical infirmity," he pointed out, folding his hands.

"No, but he is limited by his mind, and that is so much the worse. Shall I give him the answers to the homework, then? After all, he can´t help that he is a complete dunderhead."

"Point taken," conceded Dumbledore, pouring himself another cup of tea. "The question remains, then. Is there any reason to think that, given a body like the rest of us, she could not do the work? In other words, is her mind affected?"

He pondered the question carefully. Based on what he had seen, her mind was quite acute; indeed, he had been privately impressed by her solution to the rosehip problem. It had shown a remarkable propensity for thinking quickly and beyond the pale of normal logic. It pained him to think this about a student, especially one who irritated him as much as she did, but it was the unfortunate truth. He could lie, say she was a thick-skulled idiot beyond hope, but Dumbledore would know he was being untruthful. The man knew everything. Exactly how he knew so much, he couldn´t say. Even if he were the doddering old fool some took him for, he would never deceive him. He owed him too much.

"I think, sir," he said slowly, resting his chin on his hands, "that despite that appalling wreck of a body, her mind is most astute. However, the limitations of her body are too great for her to overcome. She shouldn´t be here."

"If you truly believe that, Severus, then why spend such an inordinate amount of time with her in detention? Why not just let her fail?" he asked sagely.

Because I want to see her break. I want her to know beyond doubt that she was not good enough. I want to prove my will is stronger. "I´ll not have her poor performance reflect on my reputation as a teacher," he said haughtily, straightening his robes with a flourish.

"Indeed," muttered Dumbledore with a barely suppressed smirk.

"If I may, Headmaster, why her? Hogwarts has had thousands of requests for transfer. Why her?"

"Ah, Severus, I thought you would have guessed."

"No, Headmaster, I haven´t. Especially not with things as they are. War is coming. If war breaks out, she will be vulnerable, a liability."

"Precisely, Severus. We both know war is imminent, even if the Ministry doesn´t want to see it. Everything will change. We must be prepared for both the war and what comes after. We were lucky last time. We will not be so lucky this time."

The exact realization of why he had brought her here slammed into him like a sharp blow to the chest, and he sat back in his chair. "I see."

"Has there been any word from Voldemort?" Dumbledore asked, changing the subject.

"Nothing." Unconsciously, his hand strayed to the mark on his forearm, and he traced his fingers delicately over its design. His brand. He had spent half his life wishing it would never burn again, and now he prayed to feel its gnawing agony racing up his arm. But it lay still and silent on his arm.

"Most distressing. Has there been any clue from Lucius Malfoy?"

"No. He has made absolutely no mention of any initiation ceremony, which leads me to believe it has not yet taken place, but it may be that he is assuming knowledge I don´t have."

Dumbledore took off his spectacles and began to polish them on the hem of his robes. "If you are summoned, perhaps you shouldn´t go."

"Out of the question."

"It´s too dangerous for you now."

"It has always been dangerous. I was well aware of the risks when I came to you. You need the information I can provide, now more than ever."

"Were you? I wonder. Much was different then. You were young, and I was naïve. I wonder if I haven´t doomed us both."

"Headmaster..." Snape did not know what to say. He had never seen the older man so depressed.

"Oh, don´t mind me. I´m just an old man who thinks far too much, far too late."

"You underestimate yourself, Headmaster."

"You place far too much faith in me, dear boy," he said wearily.

"You are far more guilty of that than I," he countered drily.

"I don´t think so. I don´t think so at all." He smiled softly at the younger man, and then he stood abruptly. "Will there be anything else?"

Snape stood. "Shall I order the special equipment for Stanhope, sir?" he asked, pained.

"No. I shall leave that to your discretion. So long as it doesn´t adversely affect the young lady´s health, I´ll allow you to proceed as you see fit. I´ll trust you not to be excessive."

"I wouldn´t dream of it," he purred, prompting a sharp look from the Headmaster. He turned to go.

"Severus?"

"Yes?" he turned back, the door ajar.

"Be careful.

He nodded once. "Goodnight, Headmaster." He closed the door softly behind him.

Albus Dumbledore stood looking at the door for a very long time, thinking on the decisions he had made to bring them to this. Then he turned and started up the stairs, age weighing on his bones more heavily than it had in a very long time.