Ancient Prophesy

Chapter Three

Four times in the year the Great Sabbat returns, and the Witches are seen,
At Lammas and Candelas dancing, on May Eve and old Halloween.

Hot waves of nausea welled up within her. She knew the face smiling down at her; it was the face she had most longed to see these past three weeks. Mother, grandmother, great-grandmother—this woman could be any one of them, or all of them. Raven realized that she had somehow risen from her chair, and was now standing inches from the fireplace, tears flowing freely from her wide eyes.

Weeks of suppressed emotions burst forth from the wall she had built around herself. She knew not where she was and she knew not where to go; she only knew the face of the woman before her—a longing to be held by her—and for the first time she cried.

A gentle voice spoke behind her. "Child, it’s really not to wise to stand so close to a fire in your bare feet. I would suspect you do not wish to add burns to your list of injuries."

Raven turned to face the voice addressing her. Even that small movement made the room waver and nausea wash over her again. Three robed figures stood in a semicircle watching her. To her left, wand at his side, was the man who had pursued her with vengeance. To her right, a stately older woman, hair in a tight bun, was looking at her with curiosity and concern. But Raven was sure it was the man in the middle who had addressed her.

With a lopsided smile and a tongue that fought to be silent, Raven heard herself utter a laughable statement to him.

"To think, all I asked for was a crystal ball. Instead, I get Dracula, Mother Goose, and Merlin." Her legs folded under her and she fainted into a heap upon the hearth.

Professor Dumbledore knelt next to Raven’s crumpled form and slowly unwound the blue robe and the wand from around her arm. He handed them both to Professor McGonagall, who stared in disbelief at what she held.

Throwing a sharp, puzzled look at Dumbledore, she looked up at the portrait above the fireplace and said, "Headmaster, surely this can’t be the same robe? The Ravenclaw estate was destroyed 20 years ago. Ezmarelda Ravenclaw was murdered that night; she’d be the only one who would have had possession of those robes."

Snape’s face—flushed from his chase of Raven—paled noticeably at these words, and spoke. "Anyone with knowledge of Rowena Ravenclaw would know about this portrait; her robes would not be so hard to duplicate." These words flew >from his tongue like venom, causing Dumbledore to look up over his half-moon spectacles with a searching stare.

"The question, Severus, is why would anyone want to do such a thing? What would be gained by it? But I think this discussion would be best finished up in the Hospital Wing. She is quite injured." His voice had a worried tone. "We will never understand why she is here if she’s not alive to tell us the reasons. Severus, will you please carry her for me? I fear these old arms are not as gentle as they once were."

Visions came in shadows and sound was distant and garbled, but Raven clearly heard the word Leviosa because of the force with which it was spoken. Strong, long arms scooped her up from off the floor and cradled her, her head resting on his shoulder. As he shifted her weight, holding her more tightly, she heard him mumble that the weight felt wrong. For a minute she thought he might drop her, but he regained his hold and continued on. Raven struggled to free herself from the man carrying her, but she no longer had control of her body, and was powerless to help herself. With one last effort she again tried to push away from him, knowing this was the same man who had pursued her with such venomous energy.

"Shhh—lay still girl. I’m not going to hurt you."

He spoke these words as truth and Raven, not knowing why, believed him. The smell of his robes and his hair was somehow familiar—something, almost but not quite like—Her.

"Mum?" she spoke, head swimming with visions. She forced open her eyes to look for the person she needed to see most right now; instead, she found her vision drawn to shoulder-length hair which blended in perfect unison with hers: she couldn’t tell where his hair stopped and her hair started. Who exactly was this man, and why did she feel like he was so familiar?

* * * * *

Sounds drifted into Raven's conscious and she struggled to tune them in. Her head ached again with the effort, but the blinding throb had eased. Turning her head to the voices, she thought they were the same as those she had heard before.

"How’s—Potter doing, Headmaster?" For some reason the question did not sound sincere.

"Physically or mentally?" The much softer, older voice sounded worried. "Physically, Poppy assures me he is healing fine. He should be able to start teaching his classes next week. Don’t give me that look, Severus; you haven’t approved of my Defense teachers for the last seven years. Why should I disappoint you now?" He sighed heavily and continued. "He knows how to fight, Severus, but how he survived this time is beyond me. And that is saying something. Mentally, that’s another story. We both know Voldemort will stop at nothing to break Harry."

"Do you think it wise to leave her in here with Potter in the next bed? We still don’t know who sent her or how she got past the castle defenses." His voice was cold and calculating.

"Severus, surely you’re not suggesting we restrain her?" He spoke with a note of humor in his voice, but with authority nonetheless. "If she had been a danger to us she would have acted immediately, as soon as she appeared."

"Headmaster, until we learn who she is—"

"I have no intention of leaving her alone, Severus, and I strongly suspect we both know who she is."

At this, Raven opened her eyes. The lighting in the room, though dimmed by curtains, did not hide the look on the face of the man standing closest to her. Denial. Confusion. Regrets radiating from his very core. When he realized she was watching him, her blue-aqua eyes now wide with fear, he ran his fingers up across his forehead and back through his rank black hair.

"Yes, Headmaster—I think we do."

Raven tried to sit up, to question the men standing over her. Who in the hell did they think they were, that they could stand there and talk so freely about knowing her! At this point she most assuredly did not want to know them, especially the brooding one watching her. His dark eyes studied her intently; she found herself unsettled by the familiarity with which he was watching her. Why was he looking at her like she was someone to be both feared and celebrated?

Putting a final effort into movement, Raven slowly shifted to her left and lifted her head. Unfortunately, she wasn’t quite slow enough. Raven’s body convulsed and she retched, hurling what little was in her stomach onto the feet of Severus Snape.

"Bloody hell!" he spat, sliding back quickly.

Under normal circumstances, Raven might have seen this as humorous revenge; but the bed spinning under her dampened the joy.

Keeping her eyes shut to fight the nausea, Raven quietly listened as a woman’s voice spoke, reproachfully. "Serves you right, Professor—since you so aptly gave her the concussion. Now, if you would be so kind to fetch me one of your better potions to use on it, I will heal the wound on her forehead."

"Madam, I did not," his icy voice spat out, "inflict any damage to her forehead. That she managed to inflict on herself." His voice changed to a smug, authoritative tone. "I will, however, take credit for the broken wrist."

Raven heard liquid being poured into a glass; and a fourth voice, younger than the rest, spoke calmly. "If you two are through debating her condition, I think you will find she is first in need of water right now. Trust me when I say there is nothing worse than regaining your senses with the leftover taste of vomit in your mouth."

Again with great effort, Raven opened her eyes to see who was speaking. He was her age or perhaps a little older, tall and broad in the shoulder, with tousled black hair. But what she could most focus on through her half-closed lids were his lipid green eyes, which were still arresting even through the round glasses he wore. Never in her life had she seen such a color.

Professor Snape looked at the younger man now squatting down next to her, glass in hand, and spoke with a tone full of disdain. "So the patient has become the physician now."

"No, Professor; but I do know what is like to be so injured by a Death Eater that I vomit afterward."

The tone of both men told Raven there was no love between the two.

"I did not attempt to injure her," he spat out through clenched teeth. "I cast Stupefy to stop her from going any further into the castle. It should have dropped her in her tracks, not thrown her down the landing!"

"Gentlemen." The Headmaster’s voice interrupted. "We did not mean to wake you, Harry." He sounded at once both scolding and amused. He then smiled at Raven as if to apologize for the misbehavior of bickering children. Handing a basin to the young man, he watched him as he gently lifted Raven’s head.

"Don’t swallow, just rinse." A strong hand and arm cradled her head. She did as he told her, grateful for the cool water. He returned her head to the pillow and stood up, addressing the now seething Professor Snape.

"Any ideas as to why she was able to continue? Oh, don’t look so defensive, Professor, I’m not criticizing your aim. I only find her ability to absorb such a curse curious."

"No." And with that single spoken word, he turned to address the Headmaster. "If you three are through with me, I shall go change my soiled clothing and prepare Madam Pomfrey the potion she requested." He turned and stormed out of the room without waiting for an answer.

Raven closed her eyes, too tired to focus any longer. She heard the woman’s voice utter several words she failed to comprehend followed by a sound of disbelief.

"Well, that’s never happened before! Professor Dumbledore, that spell has always cleaned any wound, no mater how bad! I don’t understand—?"

"Poppy," he interrupted, "do not concern yourself with it now. Just use water and a wound-cleaning potion."

"But Headmaster, I—"

"Poppy, please, your skills are not in question; rather the patient’s ability to deflect them." His tone was quizzical, but had the calming effect necessary to smooth the pride in her twice-challenged skills.

A pitcher of warm water and a basin appeared from nowhere, and Raven felt the caked blood and hair blissfully being washed from her face. She was finding it harder now to stay focused on the voices. Every ounce of her, mental as well as physical, was drained.

She realized with a start that her clothing was being removed from her body and something smelling of camphor was being applied to the burning pain in her left shoulder. Once more, nature’s fight or flight instincts returned to Raven, and she struggled to raise her led filled body from off the bed.

"Harry, hold her still a moment, please." Madam Pomfrey spoke with concern. "I need her to swallow this." Again Raven felt his strong arm slip under her shoulders as he carefully pulled her towards him. His warm arm on her bare back, though, completely unnerved her; and she screamed out in fear of him.

Several drops of a bitter liquid touched her lips, and she immediately heard her muscles tell her brain to stop ordering them about; they were now quite comfortable and had no intention of moving ever again. Her wrist joined in the discussion next, asking when it would stop feeling like a horribly useless appendage and be able to move again.

Funny, Raven thought, why have I never listened to my body like this before? It was quite silly, her body reminded her, to be frightened of this wonderfully strong stranger, holding her so carefully, showing her such care. It was nice to be cared for again.

"Thank you, Harry." The woman’s voice spoke again.

"Did you just use a Basilisk Draught on her?" Harry asked with an edge of displeasure in his voice.

"Yes." She paused, fingering Raven’s right hand. "It is very effective for immobilization of a patient. Her wrist still needs to be set before I heal it. I can’t do it properly with her so combative."

"Why do you ask, Harry?" the Headmaster answered, looking questioningly at him. "If the use of Basilisk venom concerns you, be assured it’s a very small, diluted dosage, and will only last a short period of time."

"Oh, no—I know Madam Pomfrey knows how to use it, she’s used it on me. I just know how very unsettling a feeling it is, knowing what’s going on around you and being so totally helpless. You want to move and your body tells you no. She’s terrified—I can feel her heart pounding through her back."

"Poppy, is she conscious?"

"Yes, Headmaster, I believe she is."

Raven felt the young man ease her head and shoulders back onto the pillow, and his hand stroked her hair gently back from her face. Another strong, callused hand, its knuckles weathered with age, lifted her good one and surrounded it within his own.

"I promise you no harm will come to you from anyone in this room," the Headmaster said reassuringly. "You need your injuries healed, and then rest. Please child, relax and trust we are here to help you."

Tears leaked out from the corners of Raven’s closed eyes, and she hated herself for her inability to stop them. She felt Harry’s younger, softer fingers wipe them away as she cursed again at her helplessness.

The nurse—had they called her Madam Pomfrey?—gently lifted Raven’s right arm up. Experienced fingers turned the wrist and realigned it bone to bone. Raven tried to pull herself up and away—not so much from the pain as from the grinding sensation in the movement—but her muscles refused to obey. Several spoken words were followed by a tingling, warm sensation in her fingers, but the pain was still overwhelming.

"It’s not healing completely, Headmaster. I’m not sure what else I can do for her that doesn’t involve magic."

"Only time will heal this one, Poppy."

"Headmaster, will you hold this for her?" Raven felt the woman gently pull the ring from off her finger. "The swelling from the break will cause problems if it’s left on."

Grief stabbed at her chest as she felt the ring slide off her finger.

"NO, not my mother’s ring!" her voice yelled out inside her head. But no matter how hard she tried, the words would not form on her lips.

Harry must have sensed the struggle within her for he spoke quickly. "I trust Dumbledore with my life, you can trust him with your ring." She felt his hand again smooth her hair back, and she wondered for the first time how he knew so well what she was feeling, what words she needed to hear.

The hammering began to grow in her head again, but not so loud that she failed to hear the cold, unctuous voice from across the room.

* * * * *

No—impossible, he thought. I was there that night. I saw the ruin of the cottage; I smelled the death in the air. The memory, long hidden >from conscious thought, was now raw in his mind. It had been years since he thought of her by day; night was another story. Her death had haunted his dreams for years. Her death and others’.

Pulling his wand from the sleeve of his robe, he could not help but recall the night she had seen the mark on his forearm. Compulsively, he gripped his forearm, and pressed hard against the Mark hidden beneath. He bent his head and shut his eyes as the night’s events played over again in his mind. Anger. Guilt. The horror on her face; the tears and sobs that could not persuade him to change his course. The tattoo had then burned new and red, now it just burned old and black.

He stood transfixed, staring at the shambles of his classroom. Workbenches and stools lay in disarray, and pieces of stone cauldron littered the floor. But the blood on the hearth brought Severus Snape a sickening reminder of the young woman who had left it. How much more blood would he shed before his lie of a life would be over?

With a hard twist of his wand, he cleaned the hearth of all traces of blood, and again found his thoughts turn to the cottage at Ravenglass. He learned too late of the gathering that night. He would have warned her. The Death Eaters of the Inner Circle were the only ones privy to such info. Ezmarelda was a pureblood witch. Why would the Dark Lord be after her? He didn’t know that night, but he soon learned.

"Yes, Lord Voldemort, the Potters are within the town of Godric’s Hollow. We’re sure of it. There’s rumor of a Fidelius Charm; we just need to know their secret keeper. A thousand years of waiting will be over with that one bit of information!"

A cold mirthless smile crossed the Dark Lord’s face and his eyes narrowed as he spoke. "Severus, perhaps you have something to add to this information? I believe you were at school with Potter, were you not?" The other Death Eaters in the room waited while Snape approached. All eyes were turned to him, awaiting an answer.

At that very moment the world opened for the first time for Severus Snape. The wrong answer: Power, reward, and revenge. Most definitely a dish best served cold. The right answer: Atonement, self-respect, and a chance of life for the woman he once loved.

"My Lord, I believe your needs would best be served questioning a man by the name of Peter Pettigrew. He is the best friend of James Potter, and is sure to have the information you need."

He hadn’t been able to save Ezmarelda. A part of him had died that night with her; and, unknown to him at the time, a part of him had come to life. She was the only woman who had ever loved him—Regardless of his faults, regardless of his brooding passions. Even knowing he still held feelings for Lily, she had loved him. Now he could save Lily. Even James did not deserve the hand that fate had dealt. If any of the blood on his hands could be washed off with this one small lie, then he could accept the death that awaited him when Lord Voldemort discovered the deception. Or so he thought.

The rubble from the blasted caldron was everywhere. The door hung off one hinge and the wall where her body impacted looked weakened. How had she survived that blast? He had seen grown men lose limbs in accidents like this. Again the present shifted to the past.

There had been nothing left of Potter’s home. Voldemort saw to that himself. But it should not have ended that way. Lily should have been safe. He had told Dumbledore everything. Everything. The memory of the Veritaserum made him swallow hard as he swept the dust and debris from the ruined classroom away with another vicious snap of his wand.

Pettigrew. As soon as he had left the Inner Circle of the Death Eaters, he went crawling to Headmaster Dumbledore and revealed that the name he had given was Pettigrew. He could not bring Ezmarelda back, but he could keep Lily safe. Dumbledore assured him that Sirius Black was well hidden and would die before he betrayed James and Lily. He had allowed himself to feel hope that night. He knew the road to redemption was long, but he had taken the first step on his journey. Dumbledore believed in him; he would not disappoint the only man who had shown him the meaning of trust and compassion.

They both had been blind! In a moment of self-indulgent rage, he grabbed the classroom door and ripped it free from the remaining hinge. Heaving it into the hall with the strength of a man gone insane, Snape listened as the thunderous crash reverberated down the corridor. Pettigrew. He told them Pettigrew. That one name—told as a lie to save the Heir of Gryffindor and destroy the bastard child of no one—sealed together the fate of Harry Potter and himself.

He righted worktables and stools, and cast a cleansing charm to remove the last traces of the purple liquid spattered on them. He would never have dreamt he would become a teacher at Hogwarts. When he went back to Voldemort, he and Dumbledore both knew the risks.

"If they find Peter and learn of your deception, Severus, you’ll be killed."

"I know Headmaster, but—" Even then he couldn’t bring to words the festering ache his conscious caused him. "I must do this my own way. Voldemort will see through any other lie offered him. The only hope Lily and James have is if they stay hidden, and Black"—he did nothing to hide his sneer—"stays hidden as well. I’ll offer them the Veritaserum, Peter will tell them nothing, and then I’ll wipe his memory. I’ll either survive Voldemort’s anger at Pettigrew’s uselessness or I won’t. The choice is now out of my hands."

"The Ministry is useless to us now," Dumbledore answered. "I no longer know who to trust. I need you to get me those answers, Severus. The names of those within the Ministry who are of their own free will helping Voldemort to power." He paused, looking more worried than Severus had ever seen.

Until now. The game was afoot again, and the people involved grew stronger by the day. Three years, and he was only just seeing the web of deceit and deception being woven by Death Eaters, his loyal brethren.

Severus sat at his desk and pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. His head hurt from the blast and his ears were still ringing. Lily was dead, Ezmarelda was dead—who was this girl and where did she come from?

He knew how she got into this classroom. Dumbledore didn’t, but he did. Dumbledore didn’t know all his secrets. A twisted smile dared show itself at the corner of his mouth. Harry Potter wasn’t the only student in Hogwarts history to help himself to potion supplies from the professor’s private closet. Ezmarelda Ravenclaw was as good at charms as Lily Evans. And better at Herbology than Professor Sprout ever dreamed of being! With his blending skills and her knowledge of the properties of plants, herbs, fungi, there wasn’t a potion unavailable to them, except for the ingredients with which to make them. They had simply turned Ezzy’s ring into a Portkey and used it whenever they needed fresh, yet forbidden supplies.

Put the ring on the right hand—into the potion class you go. Put the ring on the left hand—pop out, mix the potion in glen of Forbidden Forest and enjoy the wicked rewards. Oh, the potions they had tried together!

The smile on his face was not twisted this time; rather, it was wistful. Ezzy was a friend, then a lover—neither of which he appreciated until she was gone. He would even say he loved her, but what did he know about love?

The ring should have been destroyed the night Ezmarelda died. The ring, the robe, and the wand. This young woman—who had rendered him speechless in his own classroom—possessed all three. Greater witches and wizards than Ezmarelda had escaped death before. If she had survived, if somehow she had remained hidden all these years, than Severus Snape knew who this young girl was. This single thought filled him with more terror than Voldemort ever could.

He could hear the first years approaching for their afternoon class. Most were growing pleasantly quiet at the sight of his classroom door still lying in the hall. By Merlin’s beard, he hated first years! He had no time to fix the door, let them wonder about it. Just on more thing for them to be frightened of. The wicked sneer returned. Filch could fix the bloody damn door himself; that was his job after all.