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Vera The warrior stood proud and brazen at the crest of the hill. Six long years of fighting had made he and his peers tough and lean. His body was littered with tattoos and piercings that caught the fading light of the sun. The tight black uniform they all wore for stealth seemed to be specially tailored to radiate power. The snarl that curled on his lips was a perfect compliment for the twisted metal that graced his brow. Behind him were thirty battle hungry men and women, to his left two comrades in arms. In the distance, fourteen other troops identically set to his. In front the final destiny, the end to a war over two decades long and the changing of life as he and all his friends knew. With eyes blazing, he shook two Charged Daggers from his sleeves. Echoing through the hills were the quiet whispers of similar weapons being drawn. And then a long cold silence. "FOR THE KILL!" The single voice through the battalions into motion. The warrior charged, his thoughts so clear and precise that he would never truly remember what happened that day. It had started out as a routine healing job. They brought the injured warrior in on a stretcher as the medi-wizard scrabbled to check him in. The patient's eyes were glued shut with a viscous red slime. He reached hastily for Clarifying potion and poured in liberally over the glued eyes and would have left it to do its work had the patient not begun to scream bloody murder. The medi-wizard looked down at the bottle in his hand...it was a corrosive. He'd grabbed the wrong one. Fumbling in panic, he swabbed as much as he could off the exposed eyelids. What was left of the green gunk had started to seethe and bubble. More carefully now, he rubbed a Numbing cream around the rapidly blistering skin. When the damage seemed to be minimized, he found the Clarifying potion he'd originally wanted to use. Applying it had a noticeable effect. The skin around the eyes was cleared of the remaining slime, but an odd lavender glow started to suffuse the skin. The patient was oddly silent. "Sir?" When there was no response, the medi-wizard made up his chart and made a note to check on his patient again in a few minutes. There were so many others close to death's door; the cost of the victory was quickly rising. Left in the makeshift cot, Ronald Weasley began to sweat and vibrate faintly. His head turned restlessly and every once and a while a cry escaped from his lips. By the time the medi-wizard returned it was too late. The red headed man opened his eyes and saw nothing. The medi-wizard fainted dead away. Where once there had been living pupils, iris and whites there was only solid silver. "You're his last hope." Harry easily met Snape's hard glare with one of his own. "We've taken him to every specialist and they all said you were probably the only one who could help." "If Mr. Weasley's optical nerves were that severely damaged, I fail to see how I would be any service." The potions master replied stiffly. He sat at his desk, rubbing wearily at his forehead. He felt so old.... so tired. Every year he was both spy and teacher seemed like ten until he was sure that he was Dumbledore's senior. Twenty long years of war. If it hadn't been Harry, the door recently opened would have been slammed shut. But even Snape had special students and in those warring years where the Sorting Hat collected dust and training was up to fifth year and out the door to battle, he'd kept an eye on those who most likely were Slytherin. Harry for all he was the Heir of Godric himself was among them. Not that he would ever admit to it. As far as the brat knew, he only got in the door for his General status. "That's just it." Harry interrupted himself with a short coughing spasm. Years of sleeping in dirt and screaming orders had left him with a raspy throat. "His eyes are fine...except that he can't see...visually.... this silver stuff, he can sense like emotions and thoughts..." Snape's head shot up. "A Silver Sense." "What?" "A Silver Sense is an extremely rare spontaneous occurring of empathic and even telepathic talents. I'm not surprised that none of the medi-wizards could diagnose it. I don't think there has been a case in nearly a millennium and Merlin knows no has had enough time to research ancient anomalies of late." Restless fingers tapped out meaningless code onto the scorched desk. "Even then no one was quite sure what caused it and based on what fragments remain..." "Do you think you could help him?" He spoke with all the authority he had earned. For a long moment Snape stared at the man before him. Only twenty-one with gray hairs shot through wild black hair and green eyes were heavy with wrong decisions made. And as with them all, hands stained with blood. "Bring him by, if he wants to come. At the very least, it would be interesting to document his case. Do you have the original medi-wizard's notes? And anything documented after?" "Of course." The grin that met his agreement showed a flash of the boy beneath the warrior. It caught him off guard enough to smile back briefly. "I'll speak with him immediately." "Good day, General Potter." He said briskly. "Good day, Professor." A stiff, habitual salute and the boy-general was gone. "A Silver Sense...Silver Sight." He muttered to himself incredulously. Fascinating. A soft hand landed on his shoulder. "There you are. Frightened by Potter?" He didn't bother to look back. "Brush, please?" Now, he turned to gaze fully on his son. The secret white washed beauty of the dungeons smiled at him, and handed him the brush. With a sigh, Severus settled the other man between his legs and set about brushing through the perfect blanket of white-blond hair. Gradually, he relaxed into the task that had become ritual for both of them. The youngest Malfoy had been a personal toy of Voldemort's until his fifth birthday upon which Snape had stolen him away and secreted him in dungeon for all these long years. The saving of him had earned his most hated nickname from Dumbledore: the lion in snake's skin. As if only Gryffindors could be brave and impulsive. As if Slytherin had nothing honorable to offer. "Did you finish the Dreamless Sleep for Pomfrey?" A slow nod. The brush was set aside and Draco clambered into the older man's lap and cuddled there like any small child. If he left him long enough and stroked his hair, the boy would soon be asleep. "Silver Sight, child. And the return of General Potter, searching for occupation in this time of peace." "Now is the winter of our discontent..." Draco muttered sleepily. "Do you cast me as the hunchback then?" But there was no answer. Draco had drifted off. Harry left with his spirits greatly lifted. The ending of the war had been almost as hard as the fighting of it and many a day were spent trying to put the pieces back together. His mother and father had been wonderfully supportive, but they didn't really know how to help their General son, who won the day, but knew nothing of peacetime. To fill the time and aid recovery, he tried to take up causes for those with no voice. Many families had him to thank for the recovery of confiscated property and for the receiving of veteran tithes. And yet... A part of him would always ache for the thrill of battle, the cry of victory in the air. No one was more grateful for the end of Voldemort then he, but there was no denying that he and his peers had been forged for war and now, at it's end they were as useless as the Charged Swords rusting in their leather sheaths. And so many were forever changed... Ron among them, his second in command and closest confidante, so irreparably scarred. He would take the good news to him now and hope that some time in the busy Weasley household would relieve this depression. There was to be an honoring of the fallen of Hogwarts' a few nights hence. Snape could get a good look at the eerie effects of the Silver Sight then and begin to find a cure. Idly, he fingered one of his fifteen piercings. One for each close friend fallen in battle. A tattoo for every fight he had led, nine in all. Over thirty scars, each kept as a reminder to be faster, smarter and better next time. So much change, so much to rebuild.... his steel-toed boots clacked against the hard stone of his childhood as the heavy weight of burden and despair robbed him of his youth. The room was blessedly empty and for a long time, he did nothing more then breath the free air. Ron loved his family, but their constant, filling presence was slowly killing him. Carefully, he maneuvered himself to the window and swung the panel wide open. It was night; the sound of crickets filled the air. In the cavernous belly of the sprawling Burrow, Ginny was thinking about something warm and promising while his mother's mind was rigid with the immense task of making dinner and still tinged with sadness. Fred and George were three years dead, but that haunting sorrow never left. They were far enough away that their feelings did not crowd his mind nor their images bombard his thoughts. In the quiet, he didn't mind the blindness. Sitting here, in his bedroom window there was nothing to see that he had not seen a thousand times before. There was very little rage or fear left in him after all these hard long years. Very little left of any feeling, except perhaps, a vague relief that it was over. Initially, everyone had worried over his lack of reaction and seemed determined to get him to talk about it. But months had passed and he chatted and laughed and even winked with his disturbing new eyes. Eventually it was all forgotten for the rebuilding. Bill and Charlie were rapidly climbing the broken political ladder of the Ministry to join their father. As the eldest, it was they alone of the Weasley children who remembered a time without the threat of the Dark Lord. And then there were Fred and George, the clowns of their troop and unexpected martyrs. They had died together for the good of the cause. It still hurt to think of their double coffins, littered with their practical joke attempts. Even they had died with sword in hands, scarred and pierced. They should have gone in some spectacular explosion at the very least. Ron sat in the silence of his room and tried to imagine himself without his knives and metal distinctions. He had been the commander of wizards and witches, feared and respected. He had marched into Brighton with no hope of survival, only to win the day with a brilliant plan and the brass balls to pull it off. His body was pierced nineteen times, his body decorated with five elaborate tattoos and over a dozen ropy pink scars. Now the world was righting itself and showed him for what he truly was, what underneath he had always known himself to be: a scarred and frightened child. There was no place for him. It was not in him to rebuild. Born into a family of fire, he alone was consumed. He was a destroyer, an actor of chaos and though if he truly reached back, he could remember a time when he had towering visions of castles to be created, now it seemed that all of his life was a bath of blood. The silvery curse readily revealed the tenderness that others felt when visiting his side. He saw how they felt for him; how they respected him and wanted him to once more take up the yoke of leadership. Harry would, he knew, but then, the General was made to mend. For all he led the war, in the end it was he who would see the new world into peace. Ron could tell, could see it in his friend's weary eyes. But what of the peaceful General's left hand? What of this demigod's avenging angel? Snape might correct his vision and the world would be his to consume again, colors and wonders all.... but why? For what? Better still to become a crazy reclusive man, blamed on this strange malady then to be bitter old solider cramping up the works and stopping progress to regain his sense of worth. Downstairs, a low humming presence came to the door. Harry was here to tell of his success or failure with the greasy git. Ron eased himself from the window and used the clever new banister to guide himself out of his room and down the stairs. As he went he spoke the words to resurrect his wilting mohawk. Harry liked to see him as he had been these past years. Easier to look the part then to have to truly fill it. "He agreed!" Harry crowed before Ron came to the last step. "I told you he would." He replied softly. The Sight was stronger when it could focus on its target. In fuzzy detail, he caught a sketch of Snape, older and tired, but still vital in that quiet, snaking way of his. "You are one of his favorites." "Not that old tripe again. I'm the Heir of Gryffindor for Merlin's sake! Snape would rather see me die a thousand deaths then admit I have a bit of Slytherin in me." Privately, Ron agreed. Snape may have picked up on Harry's sneaking tendencies, but the core of sticky goodness in his best friend was purely Gryffindor. As for himself...had the hat been placed on his head, no doubt it would have said Gryffindor, but ingrained in his very flesh the snake hissed. "Nice of him to spare the time then. School won't start up for a while will it?" "Hogwarts' will be reopening its doors for students in six months. By then, all the wards will be fresh and the old curriculum put back in to effect. The Headmaster himself told me that this morning." "That's wonderful." "And what's more, they're going to give all of us a chance to go back...well, not back exactly, but there are going to be several adult centers opened to war graduates who want to get a more well rounded training. Most of it will be professionally geared." Seventeen years of Hogwarts' as a military training ground would take decades to undo. They both knew it, but let the thought lay silent. As so many things now went unspoken between them. "Was that Hermione's idea?" "How did you guess?" Ron didn't need Silver Sight to know Harry was grinning broadly. "She's got a paying job already what with organizing it for the Ministry, but she's determined to get her graduate work done." "Then she will." Hermione had fifteen piercings. Three tattoos. Four scars, including the thin one that marked the loss of her left hand. The new spelled one was almost identical, but it would always be stiffer. The Ministry contingency arrived home before Harry could respond, filling the house with hectic preparations. Dinner was a boisterous affair that left Ron's eyes aching and his head ringing. When he could, he slipped carefully into the garden and pulled a long drag on a smuggled cigarette. "Those things can kill you." "I thought you weren't coming home." He took a longer drag, trying not to betray his surprise and succeeding gracefully. Three piercings, no tattoos and one long scar across a pale cheek reaching far enough to twist perfect Weasley lips into a permanent grimace. "I wasn't going to..." Percy let out a low long sigh. Percy the spy. Percy the misjudged. Percy the vindicated. After everything, he had just disappeared. No one had time to apologize for years of distrust, for the thousands of things that shouldn't have been said and for all those that should have and went unspoken. "We've all missed you." "Of course. I didn't miss any you. Mostly." And the voice is so dead that Ron realized that there was nothing that could be said. No apology would help. "I did what I had to do, Ron and I don't blame any of you for acting as you did, but that doesn't mean I have to miss being the butt of jokes and the runt of the litter." "You're the only real hero of us all." "Bullshit." And the old Percy would have sounded at least remotely pleased. "Even you don't believe that. " "So why are you here?" "I'm a Weasley and no matter how far I run, I can't seem to escape it. I suppose that a large part of me can't let go. I want to have a family." Percy paused. "I don't want to wonder if I could have had it." "You know you can. Dad, Bill and Charlie were all for finding you and dragging your ass home. Mom stopped them. Said you'd come back when you were ready. Guess she was right." He threw down the burning butt and stomped heavy leather boots a few times, hoping he'd hit the smoldering flame. "And what about you?" "I didn't say anything. I figured if you wanted to come back then you would and if not then you probably had a damn good reason. You never had that stubborn streak the rest of us were cursed with." "Oh, I had it." A clear image strikes him and Ron realized that he must have been looking right at his elder brother. It's Percy as a child, face screwed up as he wrestled tiny Fred and George into their pajamas. "I just had it beaten out of me." Another image, faster this time, with the faint sounds of taunts behind him and a dark cold stare in front. "I.." But it's too late; the family has finally discovered where Ron went to and his companion. There was no more time for questions as the prodigal son was greeted. Ron made plans to have a long talk with his brother one day. Despite all their years of insurmountable distance, it seemed they had a lot on common. The Great Hall was filled to busting with alumni and their families. Food was eaten in improbable quantities and a lake of butterbeer was used to wash it down. There was a grand parade of speeches made and toasts drunk to both the living and dead. Every teacher was strewn with medals for valor and few of the audience were left undecorated. As the night grew on, the awards become more and more serious and the crowd far more drowsy and less rowdy. By the time every one raised their glass to the martyrdom of Neville Longbottom, silence reigned. Snape watched it all, having already tucked aside his awards with the others the Ministry had seen fit to rain on him for his years of 'dedicated service'. He clapped equally for all the honored and raised his glass politely. There had been a time when he would have scowled through this sort of thing, but tonight his children were in the audience. All of his almost-Slytherins, who he had raised and watched and lost sleep over. All those whose names he looked for with a pit in his stomach when lists of fatalities were printed. For them he would clap and sip at pungent non-alcoholic beverages. Just for their very act of living, he would honor them. Neville could only be followed by the Duo and Snape watched with sharp eyes as Harry stood, wrapping careful fingers around someone else's arm. It was amazing how well someone with hair that red could hide. When the full figure of Ronald Weasley became apparent, Snape barely repressed a gasp. The boy was totally transformed since his smirking acceptance of his diploma six years before. Six feet tall if he was an inch, he moved with an assurance that no recently blind man should have. Harry's hands lightly guiding him, Ron radiated power. The pair of them were incredible. It seemed that all Potter lacked was a crown and the mystical sword to take the archetypal place of King Arthur. The warrior who wished for peace, but in the end only brought wrack and ruin. Harry's hair had grown shaggier and prematurely silvered over the years, framing a face that was filled with a condescending wisdom only echoed in the Headmaster's. The black leather robes he wore were those adopted in the war for formal occasions as they doubled with armor. They gave him an air of mystery, cloaking him. And where the same robes made Harry a greater enigma, they gave Weasley a defined power. Red hair spiked into a stiff mohowk should have made him look childish, but instead accentuated the tight lines around his mouth. The eyes! As he approached the dais, the ethereal beauty of the Silver Sense became more obvious. They were an undulating mass of mercury that swam with intention. When that gaze fell unerringly on Snape's own person, he could not repress goose bumps. Yet, as soon as the focus shifted, he became abruptly aware that it was not the only pair of eyes on him. Searching the audience, he finally found his other observer. The twisted mouth did not so much as quirk in acknowledgement of being found out. Snape bowed his head slightly, meeting the dark brown gaze. "General Potter and Lieutenant General Weasley." Everyone rose to their feet as the two received the last of a long line of honors. Distantly, Severus could make out Lily and James, tears of pride streaming down their cheeks. They'd done well enough, he the Captain of the Air Team and she the lead manufacture of precious Invisibility Cloaks. They had reason to be proud of their son. Saved by another turncoat. His eyes picked up Regulus in the far back of the crowd. He stood hunched over, every so often casting looks over to Percy and then Severus. Three conspirators, who for so long labored together in secrecy, another three survivors casting about for firm ground. "There is nothing to say that has not already been said." The great General spoke with a voice harsh with dust and dried blood. "We will never forget those who fell in battle," throughout the audience, Snape could pick out hands flying to some glittering piece of metal or another. Such a strange way to remember the dead, "and to keep their memory we must enjoy what they have given to us through the sacrifice of their blood." The applause was deafening. Ronald Weasley was noticeably silent as he had been throughout the war. If Potter was the once and future King made flesh then Ron was his Sir Lancelot, stalwart, steady and loyal. Would they make peace together, a golden age? When all was settled would a fight over a perfect sad beauty ruin them all? Snape snorted at his own musings and carefully turned to his food. Whatever it was that Snape had expected from the great Lieutenant General, it was not this. He had arrived, early this morning, a somber Ginny at his elbow. She fussed over him until a barked command sent her from his side. He had grown since Severus had last seen him up close. The Weasley height ran true in him, he was almost eye to eye with the potions master, but the bulky muscle that usually decorated that long frame was noticeably absent. Where William and Charles were friendly mountains of power, Ronald was whipcord of quiet menace. As soon as his sister had departed with a detailed whispered description of the lay out of the room, Ron eased himself into one of the hard backed chairs and went into a full sprawl. He was encased in black from tight muggle jeans and t-shirt to full wizard robe and boots. In each ear a row of earrings sparkled, two in the right eyebrow, one in the left nostril and the suggestions of two others under the tight black shirt. And those strange eyes. They were open and seemingly focused, a sharp contrast to the blind men he'd encountered before. "Well, Lt. General Weasley..." "Ron." Was the abrupt interruption. "I hate titles." "Ron." He repeated, slowly. He intended to never say it again. "Why are you here?" "Didn't Harry give you the whole pile of parchment that's been following me since day one?" "It is filled with the opinions of mindless ninnies and their faithful idiots. It's so hopelessly botched with jargon I was of half a mind to set the whole thing on fire." "Harry keeps telling me that they tried their best." "They have no bloody idea what happened to you." "That's what I thought." Sightless eyes flicked restlessly to the backroom. "Tell me what you know." "I was in one on one combat with Lucius Malfoy. He threw a poorly brewed Incendius Potion into my eyes. I was so high on battle lust, I didn't feel a thing. By the time he was so much bloody meat on the ground, I couldn't see. The medi-wizard fucked up with some type of corrosive and a clarity potion. After that I have to relay just on what people tell me and that's all written up in those fucking reports." Ron banged his fist down on the arm of his chair. "Why does no one know what happened to me!" "Silver Sense." The sudden anger was so typical of the Gryffindor Weasleys and Severus refused to be moved by this wild young man. "It hasn't been seen in nearly a millennium and no one is sure what causes it. There is no known cure as of yet. I intend to change that." "Silver...." For a moment, pale eyelids covered piercing silver eyes and the boy seemed just that... a boy. Not a Lt. General, not a war veteran, but a child playing with toys far to dangerous for his own good. "Sweet Merlin." "Wait.... you've heard of it?" "I read about it when I was researching... They mentioned the Silver Sound and Touch, but nothing of Sight." "Those cases are only mentioned in fifteenth century medical texts." "And Charms texts of the early sixteenth." A flicker of a grin faded as soon as it arrived. "What were you doing looking in the Obscuroms?" In answer, Ron pushed up one sleeve of his black robe. Two stunning tattoos littered the white skin. With unerring accuracy, thin fingers found and petted the larger one. An intricate broadsword sprang from ripped and bleeding flesh. Around his bicep was a phrase, but before he could get a better look at it, the sleeve was pushed roughly down again. "Charming. What does your silly decoration have to do with anything?" "What do you know of Charged Weapons?" "They're specially adjusted to focus natural power in the same way that a wand does. I believe they were created sometime during the war by a fleet of Charms specialists." He replied stiffly "If by a fleet you mean one, then yes, you're essentially right. I discovered how to Charge weapons and I got this the day they went into mass production. Harry wanted me to take credit for it immediately, but it would have been a grave tactical error. As a Lt. General I was a tempting enough target. If I was thought to have a brain behind the brawn...one assassin or another would have succeeded." "But surely the war is over. No need to hide your accomplishments..." "I just want to be forgotten. Get healed and disappear into the void." "Then we can begin immediately." Those strange silver eyes flickered again to the backroom, but he was quickly trapped into a web of exhausting questions from Snape's fast tongue. Slowly, Draco backed away from the door, shaking a little. His father was dead and this silver-eyed wonder had killed him. He was torn between keeping out of sight and hugging the threatening looking red head. Perhaps, tonight when the man was gone, he would ask Papa if he was safe. Turning back to his beloved potions, he found his hands shaking. Memories that could not be eluded once more returned. When this happened, he usually asked Papa to brush his hair, but when Papa was busy like now.... he crept into their bedroom. Papa had tried to get him to sleep in his own bed, but he just didn't feel safe. So many attacks, so many long nights wondering if it would be now or in an hour or perhaps not at all this night, but over breakfast.... Shivering harder, he curled into their large bed and hugged his battered stuffed Crup to his chest. next part << |