Chapters 221-230

Dark Dreams

Deep in dark dreams, Hermione heard voices. One of the voices she had heard before. For some reason her brain supplied the image of an angel with gilded wings.

‘We were there in time,’ the angel said softly. ‘Just in time. They are gone for good. The frog-hag is dead. The child got away, but it’s only a matter of time until we catch her on her own. ’

Alina, Hermione thought. Oh, no. Alina!

She tried to open her eyes, but she couldn’t. She felt strange, so warm and heavy, as if her body did not belong to her, but to someone else. As if she—her mind, her soul—were merely imprisoned in this heavy, awkward shell, weighed down and tethered where she didn’t belong anymore.

‘What about that American Necromancer?’ another voice asked.

‘Forget about her. The vampires will never allow her to set foot on European soil.’

‘And what about this one here?’

Silence.

‘I have…reason to believe that she is not beyond salvation. Penitence may yet lead to redemption in her case. And of course we cannot allow her to return…’

Alina. Alina. The name echoed in her dreams. She should wake. She knew she should wake. Because of Alina. But already the name was fading from her mind, and try as she might, Hermione could not connect a face with it. Other words drifted to the forefront of her drugged dreams. Salvation. Penitence. Redemption.

The fog that obscured her thoughts and memories lifted momentarily. Just enough so she could see her hands. Her hands were pale and they were shaking, her fingers seemed very thin and fragile. But they were breaking two slender, smooth rods, carefully carved out of precious wood and polished to a beautiful sheen. Over and over, she watched her hands, breaking, cracking, shattering, the symbol of her life.

Those clean Latin words echoed eerily in her mind. Salvation. Penitence. Redemption.

Words that could hold no meaning for her ever again.

At long last darkness obscured her dream vision again.

She was grateful and did not try to wake from her slumber.

oooOooo

‘Winky! Woodstock!’ Alina’s voice rose shrilly, and she could only hope that the anti-Muggle wards would also cover her voice.

Still no reaction. The door was solid and unmoving under her hands. Alina wanted to slide down and crumple on the stairs.

No, no, no. She must not do that. She used the ring of the doorknocker to steady herself. Once more she raised her hand. Her knuckles were already bruised and bleeding.

‘Winky,’ she shouted. Where was that bloody house-elf?

Suddenly a bright shriek pierced the air. A screeching phoenix burst out of thin air in an explosion of fire-coloured feathers. Swiftly, Woodstock landed on her shoulder. Wings like gentle flames fluttered caresses against her neck. Rubbing her beak against Alina’s cheek, the young phoenix trilled a few soothing notes.

In that instant the door opened, revealing a thoroughly disgruntled house-elf.

oooOooo

There was no sun in Death, and apart from the Ninth Precinct, no sky, just darkness and twilight. The river had no banks. There were no flowers and no scent.

And still Severus imagined he could smell the stink of burning, rotting flesh, as the hands of the demon closed around his neck.

Beside him, he could feel Harry futilely grappling with the sword. But this Dead was cleverer than that. Even though it was dead, the magic imbued in the blade had to hurt this creature terribly. That it did not care about this pain and put its purpose above it, was frightening. Only the Greater Dead were capable of such reasoning.

Still, as Severus struggled against the vice-like hands closing around his neck, even as he felt his strength ebb away, he grew aware of the fact that their attacker was not yet one of the Greater Dead.

But at the same time this demon certainly did not belong among the ranks of the Lesser Dead anymore.

Claws scratched over scar tissue and panic welled up inside him, memories of pain paralysed thoughts and reactions. Dead, dead, dead…not yet…not yet…

The twilight of the Sixth Precinct darkened around him, when he couldn’t breathe anymore. Fiery wheels popped up at the edges of his vision, spinning in garish colours. If he couldn’t dislodge the demon soon, it would be over. He could barely feel his fingers as they feebly tightened around Saraneth’s grip.

Dead, dead, dead…but not yet one of the Greater Dead…

Realisation hit him in white-hot agony and bone-chilling fear. For a second his heart cramped in his chest in an explosion of pain that raced through his left arm and down his back into his thigh.

With the strength of despair, he wrenched his arm free, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process.

Then he heard the dark and distant call of Saraneth. With all his strength he rang the deepest Necromantic bell, while his throat worked painfully to choke out a name. He did not need a spell to reveal this name…

‘Tom Marvolo Riddle,’ Severus croaked. ‘Lord Voldemort! Get thee gone! I bind and banish thee deep into Death. Never no more thou shalt walk under the sun.’

Next to him Harry kicked at the creature and finally managed to free his blade. That gave Severus enough time to get out the second bell. He ripped Kibeth from the bandolier. And for once the tricksome bell graciously obliged and instantly trilled a sweet cadence of sounds.

The charred figure withdrew as if struck. Its mouth opened in a silent scream of rage.

‘Get thee gone, Lord Voldemort,’ Severus repeated, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper.

Promptly the black spectre faded away.

But even as the demon disappeared, Severus Snape knew that his strength had not sufficed to bind and banish Voldemort beyond the Ninth Gate.

Tonight he would not bother them again. But one day, he would return.