Avenging Fire

She hadn’t intended to humiliate the gentle half-giant, but watching Hagrid fidget with an empty gnome trap as his face coloured the deep scarlet of shame, Helena instantly regretted asking the innocent question.


“Oh dear. I’m sorry, Hagrid. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Let’s forget I said anything, yes?”

“S’not your fault, Doctor. I’m jus’…it was for th’ best. I’da bungled it all up at some point anyway. I’m jus’ glad my dad died ‘fore I had the chance to kill ‘im from the shame of it.” Hagrid sighed heavily and tossed the trap on the ground.


“The shame of what? What was for the best?”

“I…I got th’ boot my third year. Wand snapped. Forbidd’n ta do magic an’ all that. If it hadn’ been for Dumbledore, I’da been lost. I mean, jus’ lookit me! I couldn’ ‘ave lived as a Muggle, and who’d wan’ to?...er, sorrie Doctor. Didn’ mean no disrespect.” Hagrid flopped down on the steps of his shack which creaked under his weight. He scrubbed his fingers in the bird’s nest that was his hair and toed the trap on the ground. Perhaps he had grown more accustomed to her presence but Helena noticed that Hagrid seemed more willing to talk than he had previously, and that was a good thing considering he was the only one thus far who she could extract helpful information from.

“You seemed to have done well for yourself though, Rubeus. Steady job, doing what you love, a place of your own. No, you could have done a lot worse and a lot of people do.”


Hagrid looked up and blushed again, only this time happily at the genuine compliment from Dr. Nyx.


“Thanks to Dumbledore. Without ‘im, I’d probably be livin’ in the mountains in a cave somewhere. He was the only one ta believe me.” Fang brought Hagrid a mangled handmade ball and grunted for attention. Hagrid plucked it out of the dog’s mouth and threw it a considerable distance considering the strength and size of his arm. Fang bounded after it, barking in delight.


“Believe you about what? What happened to you your third year, if you don’t mind me asking.”


Out of habit, Hagrid looked around guiltily before answering. “They say a friend of mine did somethin’ horrible. But he didn’! I swear on my life he didn’!” Fang returned with the ball which Hagrid threw again.


“So why were you blamed for something someone else did?”


“Well, ‘coz I was hidin’ him inside Hogwarts, wasn’ I. He wasn’ suppos’d ta be there. But Aragog didn’ have no one else but me! And I don’ care what they say, there was no way he could of killed Myrtie!” Fang ran off on this third trip after the ball.

“Someone was killed?”


“He didn’ do it! He was locked inside his cupboard! That’s how I know he was innocent! ‘Sides, he told me he didn’ and Aragog never lies!”


Helena balked. Why was someone locked inside a cupboard? When she asked why a human being was kept inside a cupboard, Hagrid began to laugh.


“Aragog isn’ a person! He’s an Acromantula an’ a right smart one at that!”


Helena blinked at Hagrid having no idea what he was talking about. Fang nudged the back of her legs this time but was disappointed when the ball didn’t travel as far as when Hagrid threw it.


“You know, Arcromantulas. Great, talkin’ spiders.”


“Big, talking spiders…” Helena repeated with difficulty, finding her mouth suddenly going dry. “How big is big?”


“Let’s see, Aragog woul’ be ‘bout…well, if he’d be able to ride motorbikes, he’d find yours too small.


Helena made a quick visual image of her brother’s motorcycle and how large something would have to be to consider it tiny then factored in what she thought Hagrid would consider big and readjusted her mental scale. What she arrived at was a remarkably large spider indeed, and unknown to her, a fairly accurate one to the real Aragog. Her eyes involuntarily widened and she made a noise that was a combination of horror and repulsion.


“You’re not afraid of spiders, are you?”


“Spiders…no. But that’s not a spider, that’s a monster!” Her skin formed gooseflesh.


“Aw, he’s no monster. An’ when I was in school, he was much smaller. Wouldn’ have hurt a fly. An’ for a spider, that’s sayin’ somethin’!”


Helena tried to shake off the sensation of her skin crawling and crossed her arms under her armpits, hugging herself. “So you were expelled because of Aragog?”


Hagrid’s expression became serious and his voice dropped low enough that Helena had to tilt her head forward to hear him. “It was him that reported me. It was him who blamed Aragog for poor Myrtie’s death. Got everyone to believe it so tha’ was tha’. Dumbledore saw through him ‘tho. Great man, Dumbledore.”


“ ‘Him’ as in…who?” Helena looked at Hagrid who raised his eyebrows significantly to suggest to her that she already knew the answer. “Riddle?! He got you expelled?” she concluded. “That’s horrible, Rubeus!”


Hagrid shrugged. “At least they didn’ find Aragog. They woul’ ‘ave killed him. He’s safe ‘n sound now.” Hagrid unconsciously cut his eyes towards the Forbidden Forest, inadvertently disclosing Aragog’s location. Helena wisely acted like she didn’t notice.


“When he was in school, did he break a lot of rules? Did he act out? Get in fights, destroy things, challenge the teachers?”


“No he didn’. Not at all. Fact, mos’ everyone thought he was perfect. All of course ‘cept…”


“Dumbledore.” Helena finished. Not every sociopath acted out in adolescence. Some learned early on how to wear a façade of normality to manipulate others. Helena considered this type of sociopath to be far more dangerous than the ones who were impulsive and outwardly violent. Those types could be detected easily. It was Riddle’s type, the highly intelligent, organized ones, who were the most treacherous and deadly.


“Rubeus, what do you think Riddle is doing? If he’s as powerful as everyone says, why doesn’t he just try to take over? What’s stopping him? He has followers after all, and all the makings of a despot.”


“Dumbledore.” Hagrid seemed to default to the old wizard as the answer to everything. “Dumbledore is the only wizard he fears and Dumbledore is more powerful than he is. Long as Dumbledore’s aroun’, there’s hope.”


Helena looked off into the distance, deep in thought. After several long moments of reflection, it was her turn to speak softly enough for Hagrid to have to prick his ears to hear.


“Did you know my brother?”


“Know ‘im? No. But I sort of remember him. He seemed like a good enough chap while he was here ‘tho! Sorrie. I know tha’s prob’ly not helpful to you.”


“Why do you think Riddle wanted him dead?” Helena’s voice became even softer as her gaze remained miles away. Hagrid listened silently, remembering his own fallen friends and commiserating with his new one. She turned and looked at Hagrid sitting on the steps of his shack. He felt her gaze and turned his head to meet it. He looks tired, she thought. “I just don’t get it.”


There’s a lot of things in this world I don’ understand an’ some I don’ want to. Tha’ mad dog devil is one of ‘em.”


&*&*&

Helena had intended to go to the library after talking to Hagrid to begin looking through the almanacs from when Steffen had been a student, but a note from Poppy tacked on her door, requesting that she go to the infirmary, delayed her plans. The Healer had decided that for her paper, a thorough description of how Paranormals diagnostically scanned was important.


“Right. Stand there, in the middle of ward, and manifest.” Poppy instructed.


“What would you prefer, psychokinesis or pyrokinesis?”


“Let’s do both and see if there’s a difference.”


Helena obliged and levitated an infirmary bed several feet into the air while Poppy walked around her, scanning with her wand. Humming to herself, she made some notes and Helena returned the bed to its proper place.


“And now, the other.”


“Alright but stay back. This part still makes me nervous.” Helena said. When Poppy was far enough away from her, Helena concentrated and the fire that formed in her upturned palm slowly spread until a humanoid shaped pillar of fire stood in the infirmary. It felt warm and pleasant to Helena whose skin was still puckering from learning of Aragog’s existence. She watched Poppy walk in and out of her field of vision. It reminded her of looking at someone across a camp fire. She was finding that while still somewhat intimidating, pyrokinesis also brought a sense of well being and sometimes giddiness. It must be from the endorphins Gavin said that spiked during prolonged pyrokinetic manifestations.


Looking down, she stared at the flames that slithered and danced on her body and thought how surreal it looked. The darkness of her earlier mood was replaced with a growing euphoria as her endorphins started releasing.

“COOL!”


Helena instantly extinguished herself from surprise. At the entrance of the infirmary stood a teenaged boy who had been passing by and happened to look in and see the humanoid shaped flame standing in the middle of the hospital ward.

“Out!” Poppy ordered as she walked towards the boy, shooing him away with flicks of her wrists.


“Wicked! What was that?”


“Never you mind. Now scoot! Out out out!”


Helena smiled, estimating it should take approximately a half an hour for the boy to spread around that a human torch was visiting Madam Pomfrey. When it reached Christopher’s ears, she was sure she’d have a surly nephew demanding to know why she didn’t set herself ablaze for his amusement as well.


“I didn’t see any difference between the scan of your psychokinesis and your pyrokinesis. How are you feeling?”


“Fine. Incidentally, what do I ‘look’ like? Gavin said he could see auras and he sure looked me up and down when he first met me. Can your wand detect them?”

“Auras? In a way. Witches and wizards resonate differently than Muggles. You can’t tell until you scan but when you do it’s like seeing different hues of the same colour. That sort of thing. It’s different with you, at least when you’re manifesting. It’s like you’re both but neither. It’s very odd. Hmm, I wish I had another Paranormal, or three, in front of me right now. I’d like to see if they scan the same as you.”


An image of Albus Dumbledore dressed as a circus barker and Poppy dressed as a lion tamer popped up in her mind.

Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting Poppy Pomfrey and her Prancing Paranormals!

Another image appeared of a group of Paranormals, herself included, wearing shiny costumes with the letter P on the front, jumping through flaming hoops and juggling each other with psychokinesis. She pictured Gavin Smythe log rolling on top of a giant ball with Poppy jabbing a spindle legged chair at him like old time lion tamers. She laughed softly at the absurd image.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Maybe Gavin could visit again so you could have another Paranormal to compare with.”


Pomfrey made a tisking noise and began muttering under her breath about the audacity of his questioning her medical judgment while she jotted her notes, referencing the incident when Helena’s blood sugar had dropped from working with her abilities and had fainted and how she thought Gavin had accused her of starving Helena.

Poppy replaced her quill in its ink well and nodded at her notes.


“I’d like to do some experiments, if you don’t mind. I’d like to observe how long it takes you to become fatigued while manifesting and how you scan when you’re depleted. But not now. I have checkups scheduled for the Hufflepuff fourth years in a half an hour. How about tomorrow at two o’clock? That way I’ll get you a couple of hours after you’ve eaten.”


“Righteo! I’ll be here!” Helena was still slightly giddy as she left the infirmary. Poppy watched her go in bemusement. She picked up her quill to jot down a side thought on her notes.



&*&*&


Her library trip was delayed again, having walked out shortly after walking in. Just as she was heading towards the almanacs, a large group of students entered and a minor riot ensued when Madam Pince discovered one of them had brought out a chocolate bar, so she decided to return to her quarters and finish Gavin’s book.


As she opened her door, a hooting sounded above and she saw Hieronymus perched on a broken wall sconce, waiting for her.


“I was beginning to think you went back home.” She held her arm up for the owl. “So, how is Uncle Albie? Has his assistant hexed him yet?”


Albert Nyx, her paternal uncle, was an editor for United Kingdom Wizarding Scholastic, Inc., one of the producers of textbooks for the wizarding world. Although on the surface he was gruff and prickly, he was one of those people that the cliché of the bark being worse than the bite applied. Once when she was young, she had watched him compose a rather robust howler to a proofreader who had passed a deadline and was perplexed that this was the same man who gave her sweets and piggyback rides and chased her about the living room on his hands and knees. When Steffen had heard the shouting, he assumed it was concerning him and hid in Albert’s kitchen pantry.


Albert and his Irish witch wife, Siobhan, had raised three children. Some empty nester couples find renewed intimacy when their children leave home, but Albert and Siobhan weren’t one of them. When the last and youngest, Julian, moved away to Australia, Albert and Siobhan discovered that at some point, their marriage had moved from husband and wife to friendship. They still loved one another but intimacy had cooled and they had grown in different directions.


The split was amicable and they hadn’t even bothered with a divorce. Siobhan returned to the Irish costal village of her childhood and where her spinster sister lived but still maintained contact with Albert and their children. For the most part, Albert was content to be alone, but on occasion he would turn up on the doorstep of his brother or at Helena’s, or at Steffen and Mary’s. They teased him with the accusation that he simply didn’t like cooking for himself.


Hieronymus immediately flew to the back of an armchair and settled down for a nap. The bird had obviously been out exploring and hunting as Helena thought she spied a bit of rodent blood on his beak. Shuddering, she spread out an abandoned Daily Prophet from a few days ago on the floor behind him and sat down to finish reading Gavin’s book. When she was done a little over an hour later, she levitated it onto the mantle as a salute to midget Paranormal cum author.

The clock chimed, announcing five o’ clock. Dinner would be in an hour and Poppy would read her the riot act if she skived it off. It felt uncomfortable. Here she was, no job to go to, nothing to do but tasks she set for herself, sheltered in a huge castle in very nice quarters, and a veritable feast every night considering that she herself usually only ate tuna fish sandwiches and crisps at her desk. She was feeling useless and in the way and the fly in everyone’s ointment.


Most everyone had been polite thus far however she wasn’t a Magical so she wasn’t in ‘the club.’ At least she was of use to Poppy, who intended to write a paper on Paranormal husbandry, but mostly whenever she surfaced in the Great Hall for a meal, she felt like a guest who had overstayed their welcome.


So, ask to earn your keep if you feel that strongly about it.


But what could she do since she couldn’t do magic? Maybe she could help Hagrid, although the large man seemed fascinated with awful creatures and what’s more, considered them cute and cuddly. ‘Great, talking spiders’ indeed! She thought about the Magicals taking all the Magical creatures with them when the worlds split. Well, they were certainly more than welcome to the Acromantulas! She’d run screaming back into the castle if she met up with a spider bigger than what she could swat away.


She decided to talk to the Headmaster and ask for volunteer work. If for nothing else, it would keep her occupied and her guilt at a manageable level and would still leave many hours in the day to investigate Steffen and Mary’s death, how to keep their children safe and to get her returned to the life she worked so hard to make.


And if she came up on a giant spider, she’d simply hide behind Hagrid.

&*&*&


Like so many nights before, Severus Snape was wearing down the soles of his boots on the stone floors of the castle, wandering aimlessly through the corridors and passageways therein. The common assumption, one he did nothing to correct, was that he prowled for students to terrify. This was only partially true. He did willingly play the boogeyman of the student body, but with his reign of terror came an important lesson; being tender in years and fresh with innocence would not save them. The sooner they learned that predators laid in wait for such ones, the better off they’ll be.


The other portion of truth behind his nocturnal strolls was a mind disquieted from serving two masters, diametrically opposed to the other, but so very alike in their convictions. One had seduced him and the other offered salvation. Severus often compared his masters to the biblical Satan and Jesus with himself as Judas as each of them fitted their respective archetypes almost perfectly.


For a short time, Severus had believed he’d won his bitter salvation, just to have his redeemer fail him in the worst possible way. The only other woman he loved was dead, delivered to his dark master by his own hands by the repeated words of a crackpot. Lying prostrate and weeping at the feet of his savior had been for naught. She was gone. And as a cruel twist of irony, the offspring that should have been his but instead sired by a hated tormentor, was foist upon him. The boy’s presence reminded Severus everyday of his culpability.


The devil had returned. For a few years, Severus had held his breath, daring to hope that perhaps he was rid of him. He should have known better. Something like that never truly dies. The Dark Lord found a way to reform himself. Severus remembered the moment he found out that his former master was back. He had been asleep in bed but was awakened with a searing pain that traveled up his arm and into his chest. Gasping, he yanked up his sleeve and stared in cold horror at the dark mark that had once again reappeared. Foolishly, he resisted the call until he was writhing in agony and had no choice but to go.


Nothing had changed. The Dark Lord was still intent on cleansing the wizarding world of the cockroaches that infested it, and Dumbledore was intent on thwarting him and he was caught in the middle.


Evil is often described as banal and in the case of the Dark Lord and his machinations, very fitting. Everything, every action executed in behalf of the Dark Lord’s agenda, was cliché. Nothing was served by torturing and murdering innocent people except to temporarily appease his master’s hatred and to feed his thuggish sycophantic servants’ blood lust. The first scream of the first victim of the returned Dark Lord was as familiar to Severus as an overplayed melody.


The Dark Lord developed a new strategy. Instead of moving at once, he proposed a viral method of spreading terror. He gave his Death Eaters a task; present him with names of Mudbloods and blood traitors each of them knew. From their torture, further names would be extracted, and from them, more names. When Severus informed Dumbledore of this new strategy, the old man remarked, “How terrifyingly effective.”


The first wave of victims were those that particular Death Eaters held grudges against. Petty disputes and jealousies was what stole the firsts’ lives away. Just before they expired however, the Dark Lord would descend, rip their minds open with Legilimency, and extract the next wave, the next victims. Severus was ordered only to observe and give Dumbledore and the Order the names of those marked for death. He was not made privy to what his other master intended to do with the intelligence and that troubled Severus’ already weighted conscience.


When enough victims had accumulated to draw the attention of the Ministry, the Dark Lord wisely called a temporary halt to the executions of those on his death list and Severus breathed a little easier. That is until the night two drunken, thuggish Death Eaters attempted to earn the benediction of their dark master by targeting one lone marked woman.


As Death Eaters, Szasz and McClelland were rather useless except to supply the Dark Lord with Muggle and Muggleborn victims. They weren’t particularly talented wizards, or exceptionally intelligent, but they were more than adequately equipped for brutality. The Dark Lord had never been impressed with either of them, considering them rather vulgar, but they were pure bloods and properly sycophantic and that was enough to earn their dark marks. Regardless, he kept them orbiting in the outer circle to their frustration.


Szasz and McClelland’s blunder was not discovered until the Dark Lord had summoned his Death Eaters. Szasz came alone and was questioned as to the whereabouts of McClelland. When his answer was not forthcoming, the Dark Lord pulled the answer out of his mind through Legilimency and discovered that not only was McClelland dead, but it was at the hand of Szasz. If that hadn’t earned Szasz a round of Cruciatus curses, the fact that their Muggle victim survived and escaped and subsequently vanished did. The Dark Lord punished Szasz until the man was soaked in his own urine and feces. He would have killed him but decided instead to allow Szasz to redeem himself by correcting his blunder and finding the woman and delivering her to him.


Severus Snape’s pace became quicker and his footfalls heavier and as he angrily thought about these recent events. The marked woman was no different than the others. She only became marked when the Dark Lord ripped her identity out of the mind of her tortured brother moments away from his death, just like the others were ripped from the minds of their own loved ones. There was one thing however that made her unique, she had survived.


Snape had to admit that he was completely shocked. To his knowledge, no Muggle had ever escaped their fate. McGonagall would likely describe it as pure, dumb luck but still, by all rights, she should be dead. Snape quickened his pace even more and the frown that he wore deepened into a scowl. Two wizards attacking a solitary woman, Muggle or witch, angered him. It was a dishonourable, cowardly act, like a lion attacking a lame rabbit. If that wasn’t despicable enough, female victims were almost always raped and defiled in the worst imaginable ways. All this was undoubtedly planned for the woman.


Except of course, she had survived.


He remembered the night she popped out of the Floo, beaten and bruised and bloodied. Her eyes had been wild and darting and her wounds angry. As soon as he saw the state she was in, he knew what had happened to her even though he had no prior knowledge as to Szasz and McClelland’s plans. That kind of brutality was only inflicted by those who thought of her kind as scum and less than human. He had hurt her that night as he roughly yanked her off the floor and dragged her through the corridors. It was unintentional as his barely concealed raged made his hand stronger than he intended.


As they waited for Dumbledore to arrive, he watched her. Blood was caking in her hair and on her body, one of her eyes was rapidly swelling shut, and it was obvious that pain was wracking her body, but through it all, her only thought was of the two children she guarded. He saw then the source of her strength. He had known one other who had shown such love.


His other master, faced with the result of his inaction, faced summary judgment that night. With no other choice than to tell the woman that not only did he know she and the two children had been marked for death, but that he himself knew of it. She raged at him and demanded to know why she was never informed that she and her wards were marked. It was a fair question. Dumbledore, as always, attempted to placate but her anger brooked no argument, no reason, no justification. It was then it happened.


Her transformation, her rebirth, was at once terrible and beautiful.


While she continuously raged, he and Dumbledore were riveted to the space around her. It warped and crackled and grew in energy until violent flames erupted and engulfed her and a shockwave of energy exploded outward. Snape had actually felt the power as it moved through him. Both he and the old man stumbled backwards from the force. His first instinct had been to render her unconscious but Dumbledore had stopped him and tried to calm her. But she was experiencing her ‘becoming’ and was quite unreachable. They had no choice but to watch as she collapsed, drained and naked, to the floor of Dumbledore’s office.


As he delivered her, nude and unconscious, to Madam Pomfrey, he thought he had rarely seen anything so beautiful.


But none of it should have happened. She should have never been attacked, never had a reason to be reborn. She should be living her life quietly, far away from the insanity that was festering in their world.


It was with these final reflections that Snape approached his quarters only to find her at his door. She rapped her knuckles softly and then placed her ear near the door, listening for sounds of occupancy. Deciding that he was not inside, she turned to make her way back to her quarters.


“Doctor?”


Dr. Nyx turned and looked at Snape, standing cautiously at the head of the corridor. She waited as he approached the door to his office, from which led to his quarters.


“Is there something you require? Why are you darkening my door?”


Dr. Nyx regarded him for a moment, as if determining a course of action.


“I was wondering, Professor, if you would like to have a drink with me.”

------------------------------------

A/N: Reviews doth maketh joy.

Just to refresh, this is an alternate universe fic that takes place during Harry’s first year. Since Voldemort has already returned, things are a bit different. No Professor Quirrell and no mountain trolls in the bathroom ;)~

The last part of this chapter was Snape’s reflection and POV of this fic’s early chapters, where Dr. Nyx was attacked and her first manifestation.

BTW, Hagrid-speak (as I like to call it) is hell on spell check.


In this chapter, I referenced how Snape considered himself Judas, Voldemort as Satan, and Dumbledore as Jesus. A quick word about this. What I was doing was referencing the Jungian hypothetical construct of Archetypes. JKR’s HP series is rife with Jungian concepts. I could write an essay about it, believe me!

If you’re interested, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jungian_archetypes


Tambrathegreat: What would I do without you? And, if I may say, you have exquisite taste in music! ;)~


Alabaster Princess: Thank you! I’m anxiously awaiting the next chapter in Stockholm Syndrome!