Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Thirty-One

The Hogwarts that greeted dawn and the bewildered students shambling down the Great Staircase into the Great Hall was not the Hogwarts that had seen Rebecca into her comfortless bed the night before. Eyes gummy with the desiccated revenants of sleep, they clustered at the bottom of the staircase, their whispers of dismayed astonishment rippling through the frozen bottleneck like creeping tendrils of woodsmoke. Somewhere in the front, a girl gasped softly, and Rebecca, sandwiched between Seamus and George, flinched.

It sounded like a death rattle.

She snorted and rubbed her cold palms over her gritty, scalded eyes. There had been no sleep for her last night. Her mind had refused to close up shop, had clung to nebulous worries and intuitive suppositions with tenacious, unyielding fingers. Scenario after scenario, each bleaker and more desolate than the last, had unspooled in the vibrant theater of her imagination. No matter which way she had turned in her bed, the images followed her, lurid and terrible. Blood in shining pools and wolves with scarlet teeth. At four in the morning, her long-mutinous stomach had rebelled, and she had vomited soundlessly over the edge of her bed.

She'd spent the rest of the night in the tub and then the Common Room, watching the sunrise. The light washed over the land like blood, and she found no comfort in it. She'd wrangled with the encroaching demons of doubt and fear and the terror coiling around her spine until nearly seven, when Seamus had staggered down the boys' dormitory stairs.

He stood beside her now, and though she usually preferred to keep her distance, she was grateful for his presence, for the simple, deceiving solidity of young boy. She closed her eyes and inhaled the clean, crisp scent of shaving cream and laundry soap and scrubbed skin. The heated throb in her head receded.

"Can you see anything?" she asked, and was startled at the raw, jagged rasp in her voice.

He craned his neck and stretched on tiptoes in an attempt to see over the milling mass of bodies. "No. It's too bloody crowded. And Goyle, the git, won't move his blasted head." He said this last loudly enough to carry over the throng.

She frowned and pressed her lips into a tight line, waiting for the unintelligible retort that experience and rules of the eternal duel said must come, but there came nothing, not even a dismissive snort. Her stomach, a sour, rancid ball inside her abdomen, lurched, and she swallowed a gag. She and Seamus exchanged uneasy glances. If Slytherin wasn't rising to freely offered Gryffindor bait, then the world as they knew it had come to an end.

I think it has, girl.

They're here, aren't they? The wolves at the door have gotten in.

Panic seized her. She didn't want to see what awaited her at the end of this road. Not now. Not ever. Her tongue cramped inside her mouth, and her heart thudded against her ribcage. Her hands clenched into tight fists, and a sheen of sticky sweat coated her fingers. She reached out and clutched her joystick in a desperate spasm. She wanted out of here-away-right now.

"I-I need to go," she stammered, sure she was going to faint or throw up. Anxiety attack. Whee. She tittered. Groping blindly, she put the chair in reverse and was shocked when she bumped into something solid.

"Ow. Watch it!"

She twisted in her seat and saw a seventh-year Ravenclaw scowling and massaging his offended shin. His disapproval deepened when he caught her gaze.

"Watch where you're going. Just because you're crippled doesn't give you the right to bash into people. Five points from Gryffindor," he sniffed, and as he turned his head, she saw the conspicuous, pompous gleam of a Prefect badge.

"Sorry," she murmured, an embarrassed flush warming her cheeks. She wasn't, but all things considered, she thought it best to practice a bit of Gryffindor falsity. A harmless verbal spat could easily escalate out of control. The air was thick with barely suppressed tension, an unseen tripwire waiting to be triggered.

He only scoffed and dismissed her with a pointed glance over her head. Dismissed, little toad. She bit the inside of her cheek to quell an enthusiastic invitation for him to go fuck himself and wrenched the hand wrapped around her joystick back to the numb confines of her lap. There was nowhere to go. The stairs were clogged with groggy, confused students, and each time a path through the sea of swirling black revealed itself, it was swallowed as more joined the swelling tide.

She was trapped, trapped like a lamb in the killing chute of the slaughterhouse. She could not retreat, not stay the inevitable, stealthy surge forward. She was moving toward the preordained endpoint. To do otherwise would mean being crushed by the insatiable need to progress, regardless of what each advancement meant. The Ravenclaw she had jostled earlier stumbled into her push handles and swore under his breath. She inched onward, and with each turn of her wheels, she found it more difficult to breathe, and her heart was galloping beneath her breast.

I can't get out, Grandpa. I want to get out.

There is no getting out. You're in it now, for good or for ill.

In what? In what?

You know what.

She bowed her head and swallowed a mouthful of hot spittle. She thought she did. Whatever or whoever was responsible for this jarring change of the established order had everything to do with Professor Snape. With what they thought he had done to Potter. This slow, disorganized pilgrimage to breakfast was the beginning of the game, the traitorous flap of a butterfly's ephemeral wings that would send its monstrous, destroying ripples to the far ends of her already ravaged emotional landscape.

Maybe it's the end. Maybe you're going to see the aftermath. A school-wide wake.

That possibility drove a miserable whimper from her throat, and she cast a furtive glance to either side to see if any of her companions had noticed, but they were still craning their necks like curious black herons. The hand not gripping her control stick curled into a protective fist and began to knead her kneecap in short, jerky strokes. All around her, the heart of Hogwarts pulsed in frantic rhythm, and she shrank from it, shoulders rounding in a defensive hunch and shielding her exposed neck.

Stop it. You're jumping at shadows, her grandfather chided, irritation thickening his Irish lilt.

No, I'm not, and you know it.

No, he conceded, you're not, but you don't even know what you're up against, and you're quailing like a spineless Frenchman. You'll be of no use to anyone if you fall apart.

I don't want to be of use.

So that's it, then? You're just going to leave him to whatever fate awaits, leave him to be torn apart by the wolves and the carrion crows until there's naught left but crumbling bones and faded, curdled memory? His name will be reviled, and they will curse him, spit his name like the foulest obscenity. No one will mourn him. No one will know or care about what was lost.

She thought of his eyes, bright and incisive as a scalpel, yet concealing as velvet. In those brief, flitting moments when the curtain of secrecy parted, she saw a wounded dignity, a painful, lacerated hope that squeezed her heart inside her chest with its familiarity. For a single breath, the shuttered windows set inside his pale face were mirrors that reflected true.

If you refuse, he will die, and what you see will never leave you. It will haunt you, crush you beneath its eternal, oppressive weight the same way the Muscular Dystrophy smothered Deidre Clapham, extinguished her struggling, rattling breath like a guttering candle flame.

He's probably dead already.

Last I checked, probably wasn't definitely. And even if he is, then you owe it to him to see that he isn't forgotten. You yell the truth until someone hears you, until they pay attention. You scream and you kick and you beat those stubborn fists of yours on every door within reach until one of them opens. You hear me? You pay what you owe.

I owe him nothing, she countered, but even as the thought came to her, she denied it. She did owe him. He had inadvertently pulverized her secure, anesthetizing shell into powder between his graceful, beautiful, cruel fingers, decimated it with a single, unguarded look. He had made her feel, reawakened emotions she had long ago foresworn as dangerous snares-empathy, sorrow, and timid, starving hope. Without him, she never would have reached beyond her vigilantly cloistered borders to befriend Neville, never would have lapsed into vulnerability long enough to accept his proffered companionship.

She never would have learned to write.

The grueling practice intended to break her spirit, to punish her for the unmitigated bravado to exist, was what decided her. She had understood the esoteric code of letters long before most. At three, she had been reading books designed for those twice her age. By ten, she was fluent in the folksy rhythm of King, the rustic staccato of Hemingway, and the ebullient burble of Eyre. She hadn't always grasped the subtle accompaniment beneath the words, the lofty themes or precepts, but she had possessed the keys to the kingdom, and as her mind grew, so had her knowledge. But until Professor Snape, no one had thought her capable of weaving their magic by her own hand. They had never offered her the choice.

Once the Powers That Be determined that the act of forming letters and words was difficult and time-consuming, she was not permitted either pencil or quill. Each time she reached for them, her hand was shunted aside, deflected to the more convenient Dicta-Quill. Over time, she had come to accept the prohibition, and her awkward, clumsy hands no longer sought their light heft against her palm. The natural conduit of thought from mind to hand to parchment had been severed and left to wither.

Then Professor Snape, with his damnable temper and his callous dismissal of the illusion of fairness, had forced her to conform to his demands, to his world, and her neglected fingers found themselves rubbed raw with gripping and fumbling of the smooth, waxy shaft of a quill. For the first time in their long association with her ramshackle body, they had been compelled to contribute to the weaving and dissemination of her knowledge. They ached and throbbed with the effort, and sometimes they collapsed beneath the weight of their obligation, but despite the doomsaying of her childhood occupational therapists, they had achieved the impossible.

Hers was not a pretty script, and it never would be. It was wavering and spidery, and more often than not, it slanted to the right, but it was legible. Professor Snape still scowled and snorted and deducted points whenever he received her homework, but amid the acerbic barbs about her atrocious penmanship and the contemptuous red slashes of his quill, he had begun to leave comments on the actual content of her work. Terse concessions when the answers were correct and scathing derision when they failed to meet expectations. She was inexplicably proud of them, the small tokens of his acknowledgement of her intellect, and unlike her classmates, she kept all her returned assignments.

Truthfully, she had hated him for his cold insistence that she write, and on the nights when fatigue sank its hot, piercing tines into her wrist and cramped her agonized fingers, and she still had six inches of parchments to fill, she still did. She despised him with the bright, ravenous hatred of the unjustly persecuted and wished a thousand painful, indecent hexes upon his tyrannical head. But when the work was done, and the last t crossed, the anger vanished, replaced by a sense of accomplishment and deeply rooted satisfaction. In those moments, she almost loved him. He, the miserable, despotic bastard who measured everyone by the same immutable standard had done something none of the well-meaning doctors, therapists, and wardens ever had. He had judged her worthy of the opportunity to pass or fail as she would with no safety net to catch her should she stumble, no crutch upon which to lean. Just like everyone else.

She laughed, a strangled, unsteady sound amid the shuffling scrape of advancing feet, and Seamus tore his gaze from whatever awaited them and eyed her thoughtfully.

"You all right?"

She opened her mouth to tell him that she was, but instead, she heard herself say, "No. But I will be." Startled by her own candor, she tittered and clapped a hand over her mouth.

Seamus peered at her face. "You look terrible," he said, and one of his hands rested on her shoulder.

The sudden warmth surprised her, and she bit her lip against another outburst of unseemly tittering. There was nothing suggestive in the weight of his hand, no insinuation of attraction, but the touch was so intimate that it sent a slowly spreading warmth into the pit of her stomach. She was afraid to move, lest he think her offended. She counted the seconds his hand remained there, amazed when he did not retreat in unconscious revulsion.

"You know how to make a girl feel pretty," she quipped, hiding her gleeful bewilderment behind the dependable shield of sarcasm.

"Er, well, that is, it's not that. It's just that..." The hand on her shoulder came up to rub at the rapidly reddening nape of his neck, and she felt a prickle of disappointment. "You look sick," he blurted out at last, and his voice carried over the crowd, prompting several nearby faces to turn in their direction.

"Really? How very astute of you," she shot back, careful to keep her voice cool and disapproving.

"Oh, bugger," Seamus moaned, throwing up his hands, and the desperate exasperation on his face crumbled her façade of offended indignation. She cackled and swatted him on the arm.

"I'm kidding," she snorted. "I know what you meant. I didn't sleep well last night. No big deal. I get that way when things...aren't right." Aren't right was woefully inadequate to describe what was happening here, but fucked up beyond belief and teetering on the brink of chaos, true as it was, smacked of McGonagall-esque histrionics, and saying such a thing aloud would earn her more than her share of odd looks.

From the grim, wary look on his face, she needn't have worried. His gaze had returned to the task of vying for a glimpse over the heads of those in front of them, and after a few moments of futile craning and squinting, his jaw stiffened. Beside her, George whistled.

"What is it?" she asked through a throat that suddenly felt much smaller and drier than it should.

"I don't know," George answered. "It looks like some woman is checking wands."

This is it. Grandpa, what do I do?

What you've always done. Watch and wait and hold the course until it's run. No matter what, see it through.

The surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins dizzied her, and she closed her eyes and adjusted her position in the chair with trembling arms. Now that her path had been settled upon, she was caught between relief and terror. She didn't know what to do, or how to begin, or where this dark and wending path would lead. She suspected obstacles, some of them well-nigh insurmountable, but if she backed away, neither her grandfather nor her conscience would grant her any peace. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her wand.

What am I going to see?

One thing was certain. If she rolled into the Great Hall and saw Professor Snape lying on a bier before the High Table, or worse still, slumped and dribbling in a chair, she was going to turn tail and run. She would not remember him as a lifeless, breathing husk, would not look upon him drained of his vigor. She would flee, and it didn't matter who saw her or what they thought.

As her group drew closer, she saw the woman at the door, and her lip curled in instinctive mistrust and dislike. She was short and squat, with pale, drooping jowls and thin lips that looked as though two strips of anemic liver had been stitched over her teeth. One stubby-fingered hand gripped a clipboard; the other fisted around her wand. At present, she was questioning a trembling first-year.

Rebecca recoiled, the taste of ash rising in her mouth. She had never seen the woman before, did not know her name, and had never spoken a word to her, and yet she disliked her. The feeling was so strong that she slowed her advance, reluctant to get any closer. The Ravenclaw Prefect stumbled into her again and swore.

"Out of the way, you imbecile," he hissed, and swept around her with a self-important flourish of his robes.

Rebecca did not hear him. The whole of her attention was fixed on the woman. The unaccountable disdain washed over her again in a nauseating tide. I don't like her, not one bit. Her teeth began to grind, a muffled scrape, like die in a burlap bag. Don't like her.

There was no reason she should feel such antipathy. The woman was not rude or demanding to the students passing before her scrutinizing gaze. Indeed, she was smiling sweetly and patting the younger ones on the head as if they were amusing pets. A misguided and unknowingly demeaning gesture, perhaps, but not a menacing one by any measure. Still, the feeling persisted.

Maybe it's because of why she is here, her grandfather suggested. Guilt by association.

Maybe, but she doubted it. At D.A.I.M.S., the doctors in their white coats had come with their needles and their choking nostrums and their agonizing, impotent, experimental procedures, and she had resented them, but she had never hated them, never feared them. Not like this. They had never dried the spittle in her mouth and made her flesh pucker into hard pink knots of gooseflesh, as if it were trying to escape her.

She is bad. I don't care how sweet she acts. Something isn't right.

George, who had heard the Ravenclaw Prefect, called after him, "Sod off, you bum-sniffing tosser," and forked his forefinger and second finger at his retreating back.

The woman turned her head in their direction, and when she did, Rebecca knew that her first instinct was right. The woman was still smiling, but the smile did not reach her eyes. They were hard as rusted rivets, cold and ruthless as a shark's. Below her piggish nose, the supercilious grin stretched wider, a shark opening its jaws.

The sharks are circling. They've come for the blood.

She wanted to laugh and scream at the same time, but she did neither, unwilling to draw unnecessary attention to herself. If she was really going to help Professor Snape, it wouldn't do to stand out. From this moment forward, she was a fieldmouse amongst foxes. Nothing and no one was to be trusted. Head down, eyes and ears open, all loyalties and sentimentality forgotten. She was dancing to beat the devil, and there could be no missteps if she wanted even half a chance.

How ironic. A cripple dancing for someone's life.

She snorted. The woman was coming toward her, and Rebecca forced her jaw to relax and her eyes to lose their focus. She let a stringer of saliva dribble down her chin. Please, God. Let it work.

"Is everything all right over here?" she asked, the deceptively sanguine smile never leaving her face.

She puts on her makeup with a garden trowel, Rebecca mused to herself, and slowly shook her head with an exaggerated wobble. "No, ma'am," she slurred. "Just a misunderstanding." She gave a lopsided, twitching grin.

"Er, yes, I'm sure," the woman said, and her smile faltered. "What is your name, dear?" She looked at her clipboard.

Rebecca frowned ponderously and let several seconds pass before she said, "Rebecca Stanhope."

"What, dear? I'm afraid I didn't catch that." The woman leaned closer.

"Rebecca Stanhope," she repeated, garbling the name even further.

"One more time, child," she said, and beneath the benign falsetto, Rebecca heard the first traces of irritation. The woman drew closer still, her heavily powdered jowl nearly grazing her lips.

"Rebecca Stanhope!" she shouted, spittle flecking the woman's cheek, and the woman recoiled with a breathless huff. The clipboard slipped from her pudgy fingers and clattered to the floor.

"Thank you," the woman said, and bent down to pick up the clipboard.

"You're welcome, ma'am," she said cheerfully.

She allowed herself a brief, sardonic smile before the woman straightened. She had seen what she needed to see. Not much, but just enough. The momentary flash of disgust on the battleaxe's face when her, Rebecca's, warm saliva had speckled her cheek had held more than just the natural repugnance of another's spit. It had been a look of sincere, undisguised loathing, contempt mixed with fear of contamination. Behind the woman's serene mask of middle-aged mediocrity lurked a reptilian face.

The woman smoothed her hair with fluttering fingers as she scanned the parchment fastened to her clipboard. "Yes, I see. You're the American transfer?" There was a definite coolness in her tone now.

Rebecca nodded, and drool dripped onto her robes.

The woman scowled. "You've a bit of saliva on your chin."

Rebecca feigned surprise. "I do?" She brought a splay-fingered hand to swipe ineffectually at her chin. She made sure to coat each digit with spit.

The woman grimaced. "Your wand, please." She held out her hand.

"Yes, ma'am." She gripped her wand between wet fingers and handed it over, her face a mask of gormless gaiety.

The woman pinched Rebecca's wand between her thumb and forefinger, her expression one of scarcely controlled neutrality. She touched its tip with the end of her own and muttered, "Consequi Semper scholasticus!"

A Tracking Charm, Rebecca thought, and resisted the urge to narrow her eyes. Have to get rid of that.

"There you are, dear," the woman cooed, and thrust her wand at her.

"Thank you, ma'am." She took the proffered wand and offered a syrupy smile in return. She blinked, as if she were formulating her next thought. "May I go in now?" She jabbed a bony finger at the Great Hall, narrowly missing the woman's beefy upper arm. She was not surprised to see her flinch.

"Of course."

Rebecca inclined her head and rolled toward the opened door, exhaling silently through her nose. Behind her, the twins, Neville, and Seamus were undergoing the same interrogation. No doubt they were wondering what in the hell had come over her. The twins would probably suggest she visit Madam Pomfrey. Seamus had been watching her from the corner of his eye, and when she had held out her spittle-caked wand, his jaw had unhinged with a brittle creak. She braced herself for the barrage of questions to come.

She was going to have to be careful that her friends didn't trip her up. They knew better, and if she kept up the pretense of soft-headed fecklessness for long, they were going to demand answers, and not in the most opportune of times or places, most likely. She supposed they would believe her if she told them she was only having fun, but that explanation would wear thin quickly. Even the twins let go of a joke after a week or two, and this could take months. Years.

I'll think of something.

You'd better. There will be hell to pay if she catches on. She'll never let you out of her sight, and she'll never believe a word you say, even if the proof of it is right in front of her. She won't believe it just to spite you.

I could just tell them the truth.

Not until you have to. It's too dangerous. Word might get out, especially among your Housemates, and while Fred and George and that lot might be trustworthy, I wouldn't trust those twits Lavender and Parvati with my dirty skivvies. Not to mention do-gooding Granger. She stands for Truth, Justice, and Meddling in the Name of the Common Good. If she decides you're being led astray by misguided impulses or the diabolical mind control of your Potions Master, nothing short of murder will keep her from turning you in. For your own good, naturally.

Naturally. Since their row over House Elf rights, Hermione had been civil but cool, and each time she saw Winky bustling about the girls' dormitory, she favored her with a long-suffering, sympathetic glance that made Rebecca's hands itch to slap her. They had never discussed the matter again, but from time to time, she felt the weight of Hermione's stare on the back of her neck while she toiled over her Potions homework, an inquisitive, measuring pressure that made the downy hairs on her nape prickle to attention.

Tight-kneed prig would turn me in and call it divine retribution, she thought savagely, and rolled into the Great Hall.

Had she been on her feet, she would have reeled, but she could only sag into her chair and bring her hands to her mouth in a dreamy, dazed gesture of astonishment. This was beyond any wild imagining and infinitely more terrible. She closed her eyes and tried to banish it, but when she opened them, everything was as it had been, and a hollow sigh escaped her.

Aurors lined the walls. They cut imposing figures in their impeccable blue robes as they stood with their hands clasped behind their backs and their feet touching, soldiers standing at attention. Their faces were unmoving as wax, but their eyes were bright, alive, and searching. They watched the students filtering to their respective tables with studied apathy, but Rebecca noted with miserable acuity that most of them followed the path of the Slytherins as they trudged to their places without a word.

Much as she hated him, she couldn't help but feel a stab of admiration for Draco Malfoy. He walked at the head of the Slytherin line, his head held high and his haughty, knowing smirk on proud display. His languid, unhurried stride never faltered, never slowed, and his grey eyes never dropped. He behaved as though nothing whatsoever were amiss. He was a vicious, petty bastard, and nothing would erase that certainty from her bones, but he was also stubborn, and he would be damned if he would permit these lowly, grotty Aurors to change one iota of the life to which he had grown accustomed.

"Blimey," Fred murmured as he came up, and he gazed around the room in pensive disbelief. "There must be sixty of them."

"Jesus," she moaned.

The magnitude of the task set before her was now clear, and if it had been possible for her to fade into the simple black fabric and cool metal of her wheelchair, she would have done so without a whimper. Sixty members of Magical Law Enforcement, and she had to fool them all. It was a joke, a blatant impossibility. Surely one of them would be smart enough to see through her ruse, and one was all it would take.

I wouldn't count on it. Most people believe what they see and don't bother to look any further. You are only what meets the eye.

Yes, but most people don't have a reason to look below the surface, and they sure as hell do. They'll peel away the layers of my life one by one. I can't fool them all. Sooner or later, either through carelessness or weariness, I'm going to slip. A tight knot of apprehension formed in her chest, and her hands began to tingle. Her head felt as though she had just taken a whiff of nitrous oxide, and the world began to swim.

STOP IT! her grandfather roared inside her head, and the world returned to focus with an unceremonious jolt. You're putting the cart before the blasted horse. Everything and every journey is only a series of interconnected steps. Just take it one step at a time.

What if I make a mistake? A man's life is at stake.

You can't worry about that, or you will. Just wait, and if you do bugger it, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

James Bond I'm not, she thought, and from the depths of her muddled brain came the tinny, faraway strains of the James Bond theme. She would have laughed had not the realization that it was precisely what events demanded she become settled on her shoulders like a wet and rotten mantle.

She rolled to her space at the Gryffindor table and concentrated on her empty plate, fisted hands settled on either side of it like twin retaining walls. If she looked at the Aurors, she was going to crumble, bury her face in her hands and gibber until soothing hands led her to the antiseptic sanctuary of St. Mungo's. She could feel her heartbeat in her temples, a low vibrato pulse the made the flesh there jump imperceptibly.

"Rebecca, what was that all about?" Seamus seated himself across from her, an uncertain smile on his face.

"What was what about?" she asked.

"Out there with Madam Toad." He jerked his head in the direction of the woman.

"Is that her name?"

"No," he sniggered, "but that's who she reminds me of, Mr. Toad, from The Wind in the Willows."

"You read that book?"

"My mam read it to me when I was little. My dad insisted. One of his childhood favorites or something sentimental like that." His shoulders rose in a dismissive shrug. "Anyway, what was all that about?"

"Oh, just having some fun."

"And splendid fun it was," Fred crowed, and clapped her on the back. He sat beside her with a jovial smile. "Quite the show. Did you see her face when you handed her the spittle-caked wand. Really first rate."

She nodded, but made no answer. She wished he would keep his voice down. Madam Toad was still stationed outside the entrance to the Great Hall, armed with wand and clipboard and her disarming, shark-tooth smile, but there were sixty pairs of ears that would find the fact that a student was misleading them most interesting. They might wonder what else she was hiding, and they might begin to dig, and she could not allow that. Her thoughts and her sins were her own, and none but God would see them until she chose it.

"Smashing rib, Rebecca." George slid onto the bench beside his brother.

She gritted her teeth, and the hard, white crescents of her nails bit into the flesh of her palms. Her only defense and only hope would collapse before sunset if this continued. "My ribs are perfectly fine, thank you. I rolled out of bed," she said pleasantly, and prayed he would grasp the hint.

His effervescent smile dimmed. "What?"

"Thanks for asking." She smiled.

His own smile evaporated, and he was regarding her in a sober, thoughtful manner. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. His fingers drummed a nervous, jittering staccato on the tabletop. Beneath the heavy wool of his winter robes, his chest rose as though here were drawing a deep breath. His mouth opened again, but nothing emerged. Whatever he wanted to say was lodged in his throat, sticky and bitter as infectious phlegm.

She waited. He thinks I've cracked. I can see it in the deliberate set of his face, that schooled blankness. He's choosing his words carefully, oh, you bet. Wouldn't want to set off the madwoman. When he gathers the courage, he's going to ask if I'm all right and if there is anything on my mind. And there is. Too much, maybe. But I can't tell him. Not a single shred of it.

The seconds spun into a full minute, and Fred and Seamus shifted uneasily, their eyes darting to and fro between them, watching the silent chess match. Neville, who had been detained longer than the rest, trotted up and stopped short, the heel of one foot hovering over the floor, cheerful salutation forgotten.

"Yes, George?" she prompted. She was still smiling, but it was frozen and pitifully fragile.

George scratched his cheek and drummed on the table. "Is everything all right?"

She stared at the bridge of his nose, and the rigid smile widened. Cracks formed in the taut flesh of her cheeks, and if she had to hold it much longer, the grin would become a scream. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?" Her eyes burned with the treacherous desire to turn in the direction of the Aurors, but she willed them to remain focused on the lightly freckled slope of his nose.

"Well, you seem a bit out of sorts," he murmured.

God bless Weasley diplomacy. "Can't imagine why," she muttered blandly. The tortured smile fled.

"Yes, well," he said, and his gaze turned to the cordon of blue-robed bodies surrounding them like the bars of a Dalian existential prison. "I'm sure we'll find out what this is about soon enough."

Nothing existential about it; this is a prison. That's what they're here for. Every right you ever thought you had no longer applies, no longer has meaning. You're under the rule of law now, and there is no more time for decency or fairness. The civilized veneer is gone, and you're going to see what lies beneath. You've always known, or at least suspected. Time in a death room has a way of stripping things to the brass tacks. For some of them, though, this is going to be a rude awakening.

The tickle of suppressed laughter teased her throat. Wouldn't the young, idealistic Gryffindors be surprised the first time the new masters of the estate ordered them to stand aside while a rough-handed investigator searched their belongings, tossing crumpled parchments and treasured heirlooms to the floor with equal indifference? And wouldn't they sputter with goggle-eyed, victimized outrage to know that every syllable of every word they committed to paper was being scrutinized to be sure no cryptic messages or warnings were being smuggled to the outside world? Until the Aurors left, Hogwarts would exist as its own alien world. The illusion of the democratic republic would be shattered.

The doors to the Great Hall closed with an echoing, majestic boom. The cell door slamming shut and sealing behind them. The sound of shoe heels clacking on stone reverberated in the air, and the students turned to watch. The Aurors remained impassive, stony gazes locked onto something only they could see. Someone at the High Table sneezed. A chair scraped. A thousand pairs of eyes followed Madam Toad's progress.

When she stepped behind the High Table, there was a collective intake of breath, a harsh, sussurating sigh. Then absolute silence. Rebecca's chest ached with the need to breathe, but she didn't dare. Her nails sank further into her palms, and she was dimly aware of the burning sting of broken skin and the smoky, slick warmth of blood. The knuckle of her thumb popped with a sound like a snapping twig, and on the periphery of her vision, she saw Neville jump.

Madam Toad's hand reached for Professor Snape's chair, and blood pulsed behind Rebecca's incredulous eyes. She couldn't sit in that chair; no one should, but her least of all. It was sacrilege, the defacing of a memorial to a soul lost. If her ponderous buttocks touched Professor Snape's seat, it meant that he was truly gone, that the slow, inexorable process of forgetting had already begun.

She bit her tongue and hissed behind her teeth, the threat of tears gathering in her eyes like thunderheads. Across from her, Seamus' eyes were huge in his pinched face, and the barest tip of his tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. Neville was watching as well, and though his face mirrored the burgeoning horror in Seamus' face, there was also a tremulous hope, a glimmer of dreams within reach. He saw his liberation from Professor Snape's tyranny, and he hungered for it. Rebecca hated him for it.

Just as Madam Toad was about to lower herself into the chair, the Headmaster cupped her elbow and whispered something in her ear. The smug smile curled beneath her nose like a contented Cheshire cat faded, replaced by an offended, tight-lipped scowl. She gave a brusque nod, straightened, and stalked to the far end of the table, where she sat in an empty chair with a theatrical huff. Rebecca smiled at the Headmaster's beatific serenity, and she allowed her shoulders to drop. He was still in charge. There was a beacon in the storm.

Someone from the Slytherin Table laughed, a shrill, hyena falsetto, a laugh of undeniable relief. The tension ebbed, a palpable release of taut muscles and universally bated breath. Rebecca reached up and kneaded the nape of her neck, hard as granite beneath her probing fingers. The simmering, throttling grip of a monstrous headache lurked beneath the flesh of her cheeks and behind her eyes, caressing with warm, insistent fingers, but not yet squeezing, not yet crushing. That was for later. For now the danger had passed. The sight of the Headmaster presiding calmly over the silent High Table kept the clawing pain at bay.

"Blast the suspense. Where's my breakfast?" Seamus muttered, and eyed his empty plate expectantly.

"Well said, Mr. Finnegan," Dumbledore called, and the Great Hall erupted in giddy laughter. When it tapered to watery snorts, he continued. "I assure you, breakfast is forthcoming, but regrettably, I have a few announcements to make."

At the mention of announcements, the pall returned, leeching the fledgling merriment from their bones. The Slytherins, who had allowed themselves to smile, froze in the act of shifting in their seats. Goyle's beefy hand wrapped around the edge of the bench in a white-knuckled grip, and Draco, heretofore a paragon of unruffled aplomb, arched one delicate platinum eyebrow in unspoken query.

"As you have no doubt noticed, we have more than a few visitors." He gestured at the Aurors with one long-fingered hand. "They are here to investigate the incident involving Harry Potter. While there is no evidence to suggest anything more than a lamentable accident, as Headmaster, it is my duty to ensure the safety of my students."

"Then why hire that greasy Slytherin git in the first place?" Ron Weasley muttered savagely, eyeing Professor's Snape's empty chair with a mixture of loathing and mutinous glee.

"Each student will be questioned, and I expect the questioning will last for several weeks. I realize that this disruption may prove inconvenient and distracting, particularly for those of you in the fifth and seventh years, but I must ask that you cooperate fully. If you have any concerns, information, or questions, please ask your professors, an Auror, or Miss Umbridge." He gestured to Madam Toad.

A name to the face at last, Rebecca thought.

"As fifth-year Slytherins and Gryffindors were eyewitnesses to the events under investigation, they will be questioned first. Please report to your Common Rooms immediately after your final lesson. Should you miss dinner, the Great Hall will remain open until eight o'clock. If there is nothing further, then I heartily second Mr. Finnegan's suggestion that we tuck in!" He beamed at them.

Umbridge hemmed and hawed, one hand raised in a mute call for recognition. Dumbledore blithely ignored her. "No? Excellent." He clapped his hands once, and the plates and tables groaned beneath the sudden weight of steaming food.

Fred filled a bowl with steaming porridge and set it in front of her. She grunted thanks and reached for the raisins, but he caught her hand.

"You're bleeding." He frowned at the speckling of blood on the table and turned her hand palm up. He winced at the bruised crescent gouges left by her fingernails.

"Bloody hell. Does it hurt?"

She shrugged. Aside from the momentary sting of breaking skin, she had felt nothing.

He turned over her other hand, and the frown deepened. "Blimey. Hermione!"

"No, it's fine," she protested, trying to pull her hands away. "They're only scrapes." Help from Hermione was the last thing she wanted to accept.

It was no use. George held on, stubborn as a limpet, and before she could close her fingers over the scored flesh, Hermione was peering at it was a detached, clinical expression.

"Bit ugly, that," she said, one hand fisted loosely on her hip and the other holding her wand. "What happened?"

Having a hard time eating in the middle of a lynch mob. Not that it's any of your business. The treacherous thought coated her tongue like a mouthful of balsamic vinegar, but she swallowed it and said, "Spasm."

"Mmm," Hermione grunted noncommittally. "Well, however it happened, I suppose we'd better fix it." Rebecca smirked at her politic skepticism. How very Gryffindor. How very irritating. "Hold out your hands, palms up," Hermione ordered.

She balked, but George favored her with an impatient, worried glower. I'll start a parade on the way to the Hospital Wing, that look said, and she knew he meant it. Best not to arouse suspicion. A few of the Aurors were looking at them, their faces tilted imperceptibly toward the Gryffindor table. She sighed and held out her hands.

"Lay them flat," Hermione said.

"This is as flat as they get."

Her mouth curled in a wry lilt at Hermione's surprised dismay. She should have known better. They shared a dormitory, and Hermione had seen Winky dressing her every morning. She could not have missed the misaligned joints, the slightly skewed fit of her bones. They jutted sharply from beneath the translucent skin in which they were clothed. It should have stood to reason that the joints above her waist would be no different.

"Oh," Hermione said. Then she recovered herself. "That will have to do, then," she said briskly.

I shudder at your magnanimity, Rebecca mused dourly.

Hermione cleared her throat and raised her wand. "Scourgify!"

Soap suds appeared on her hands, and she grimaced as the astringent detergent seeped into her cuts. She reflexively snapped her fingers closed in a vain attempt to shield them.

"Oh, open up," Hermione said crossly.

Rebecca ignored her, and only the vision of scrawled lines on parchment, the embodiment of the impossible, kept her from rolling over her toes. She would be of no help to Professor Snape whiling away valuable time in detention.

"Oh, have it your way," Hermione muttered. "Honestly, stubborn as a mule."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't meant as a compliment."

"No."

"Finite incantatem." The suds vanished. She muttered a Healing Charm, and Rebecca watched as the ragged skin knit itself closed, sand shifting to cover a void.

When it was done, and the skin of her palm was unmarked, she looked up. "Thank you," she said stiffly.

"You're welcome. See to the table before you leave." Then Hermione turned on her heel and went back to her spot on the bench.

There's a McGonagall-in-training for you, Rebecca thought uncharitably. Professor Snape has a warmer bedside manner.

At the thought of her absent professor, her eyes drifted to the empty chair, and her heart gave a painful wrench. Her scant appetite faded altogether. She prodded at her cooling porridge, stirring it lazily until it hardened to the consistency of concrete. After that, she gave it unenthusiastic pokes with the edge of her spoon, carving abstract lines that reminded her of serpents.

George nudged her. "Something wrong with the porridge?"

"No. I'm not hungry."

"You should be. You barely touched your food last night." He was looking her up and down with a critical, maternal eye.

The black, noxious tide of her anger threatened to sweep away her veneer of civility, and she counted to ten before she spoke. "I'm fine. It's just stress."

"Maybe you should see-,"

"Madam Pomfrey, I know," she snarled, the anorexic thread of her fraying patience snapping like a bowstring stretched beyond its means. "I can't tell you how glad I am to have my mother here with me."

The moment the retort left her mouth, she regretted it. She flushed a deep, ugly scarlet and studied her congealed porridge. She picked up her spoon and jabbed it into the gruel. She was acutely aware of his eyes on her burning cheek, and she fought not to squirm.

"All right, then. I'll not trouble you again." Hurt, anger, and wounded pride.

She wished for God to strike her down. "I'm sorry, George," she said miserably, "that was bitchy of me. I wish-," I wish I may, I wish I might "-wish I hadn't said that." When there was no response, she said, "If I still feel wretched in the morning, you can take me to Madam Pomfrey yourself."

"Fair enough," he agreed, and though he smiled, she knew all was not forgiven. Her brutal rebuff of his solicitous kindness had cut him to the quick.

Twenty-five minutes beneath the cloak and dagger, and I'm losing my grip.

She left as soon as she was sure it would not bring more questions, and the instant she was out of sight, she turned the speed dial to maximum. She no longer cared about the castle or the priceless relics in it. She wanted to feel the wind on her face and in her hair, to breathe air untainted by suspicion or hate, air beyond the reach of the Ministry's iron fist. She pushed the stick forward as far as it would go.

The walls blurred as she shot by, the whirring of her chair's wheels a terrified whine in her ears. She pushed harder on the control stick, willing more speed from gears that had no more to give. She cursed them, a breathless, furious hiss torn from her lips and cast behind her like malediction. "Dammit, goddammit!" One more inch. One second faster. That was all she would need to escape the bonds of her obligation.

But there was no more space or time to be had, and the specter of that which her resurrected conscience demanded of her pursued her through the winding corridors, rattling its chains and wailing in disconsolate supplication. No way to go but forward, and no way to see what awaited her.

I'm blind now, Judith. Are you happy?

By the time she reached the Care of Magical Creatures paddock, adrenaline surged through her veins, sharp and acrid as an electrical charge. Her limbs were leaden with it. The metallic tasted of it permeated her mouth. She jerked to a halt, wrapped her shivering arms around her knees, and buried her face in the sagging valley of her lap. She retreated into the dark, into the smell of wool and laundry soap and waited for her turbulent emotions to settle.

"Mornin', Rebecca."

Her head snapped up to find Hagrid looming over her, a jolly grin on his enormous face. "Oh, hello, Hagrid," she said weakly.

"You all right?" His bushy eyebrows furrowed in concern.

She looked into his open, guileless face and was seized with the urge to tell him everything, to go into his cottage and drink tea from a cup the circumference of her head and unburden herself. He would listen. He might not believe her, but he would do that much.

It was a tempting vision, but one that was not to be. She adored Hagrid, but he was a notorious gossip, and it wasn't safe. Not to mention he was an acolyte of Saint Potter. He thought the boy was goodness incarnate, and not a day went by when he didn't visit him as he lay in the Hospital Wing.

"Oh, I'm fine," she said gaily, and then she burst into tears.

No help. No help at all.