Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Weasley was exactly where he had left him – asleep, slumped over the sticky table in the booth at the end of the bar.

Severus glanced about himself quickly to check that no one was paying him particular attention, then reached down and pulled Weasley's wand out from underneath the young man's hand. He straightened up self-consciously, feeling the unmistakable sensation of a reluctant wand in his fingers. It felt sluggish and resentful, but he shoved it into his waistband pocket regardless, where it prickled uncomfortably against the skin of his hip.

He stared at the unconscious man before him. Weasley was snoring gently, his head resting on an outstretched arm, a thin line of dribble extending from his open mouth to the table top, the result of Severus' Sleeping Charm. His pale, fleshy face was flushed, and the boy's slack-jawed expression reminded Severus once more of the tedious years he'd spent trying to impart even a modicum of understanding into the brains of idiot teenagers.

Of all the Weasleys, he was simply amazed that Granger had connected herself to this one.

The eldest one had been an excellent potioneer, the one with the tattoos and the control freak had both been both superb Arithmancers, and the girl had excelled in Defence. The least said about the unholy twins the better, apart from the fact that their entrepreneurial talents had earned them considerable respect in the staffroom... but this one had had no discernible merit at all at school apart from as sidekick to the equally hapless Potter.

He shook his head. She could do so much better, he thought unaccountably.

Flustered, he regarded the sleeping young man for a further moment, trying to look for anything of value in the unconscious idiot in front of him.

I suppose he's tall, he allowed grudgingly before an ominous twinge in his belly reminded him of his current situation, and he pulled himself together.

He had to find Granger – wherever the bloody stupid woman had gone off to....

Go to the Department of Mysteries, he remembered his future self saying.

And take Weasley with you.

He continued to look at Weasley, good sense warring with his doppelgänger's breathless instructions. As he stared, the pool of dribble under the freckled chin grew.

He snorted. Bloody hell.

Severus leaned over and shook Weasley roughly by the shoulder. "Get up, Weasley," he hissed. "We are leaving."

"Whu...?" Weasley came awake with a vacant expression that was entirely expected. He blinked stupidly at Severus and then jerked into a sitting position, scrabbling uselessly on the table for his missing wand.

Snape grinned nastily at him. Weasley's reaction was almost comical. He pulled his shirt out of the way, exposing the haft of the idiot's captured wand. "Mine, I think," he purred.

"What the...?" Weasley sputtered, his thick brows knitted together, his eyes darting about crowded pub until they focused on his pale wand in Severus' waistband. He froze.

Snape met his angry expression with a sneer. "If you want to find your bloody girlfriend, Weasley, you had better come with me."

oOo

She was awake, and she didn't know who she was. She lay in a kind of shocked terror, trying to assimilate all the information rushing at her from newly awakened senses.

It was hot. Hot and dark. She was thirsty, and her head was pounding with a fierce pain.

She was lying down on some sort of soft surface, her naked body covered with a sheet of a light, scratchy material. A damp cloth was on her forehead, covering her eyes. She welcomed its cool weight as it counterbalanced the painful throbbing in her temples.

Taking a deep breath, she searched her mind, gingerly poking at the swirling mist of unresolved memories and flashes of understanding in her consciousness. Nothing. She fought a rising surge of panic in her chest, pressing it down with an experienced firmness.

Wait! Experienced? She'd done this before – she knew it. Her heart began to beat more quickly. She had trained her mind before now to focus and suppress... what? She searched her memory again. Who am I? She calmed herself, trying to float mentally in order to allow the memories to come forward into her consciousness.

Come on, she thought. Come on...!

Nothing.

She tried again, picturing herself floating in a deep pool of water... a black lake, the waves on its edges lapping gently against the shore.

Who am I? she heard herself ask, her voice quavering with quiet desperation.

She waited, sinking deeper into the cool, dark waters, watching the green fronds at the bottom of the lake wash and swirl about her legs.

Still nothing.

Her mind was a hazy blur. She hissed through her teeth in exasperation.

Determined, she regrouped. Focusing her mental energies into an imagined point, she tried to push through the frustrating smog in her mind. The occluded memories shifted under her assault... but the mist that shrouded them did not clear. She tried again, pushing until she felt sweat breaking out on her forehead and prickling her neck from the effort.

Brief, confusing flashes of things and people... a huge grey castle... a smiling woman offering her food... street lamps at night rushing past her vision.... flying on an invisible beast, its heaving sides caught between her knees and the ground speeding underneath her in a disorientating blur.

The images raced past. Carefully, firmly, she pulled back, deliberately slowing the cascade of fractured thoughts until they resolved into a single moment.

Her breath caught.

She was sitting in a white room. A thin, sharp-featured man with longish black hair scowled at her. Bright light reflecting off the surfaces of the walls and table between them enhanced the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He was familiar to her, she knew. Eagerly, she leaned forward, straining her mind to remember who he was.

He opened his mouth to speak, and her heartbeat increased. "You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute. And now and then, stab when occasion serves." His dark voice was deep and rich, the consonants rolling slowly from his lips as he stared at her with a compelling intensity.

A surge of recognition. That's Christopher Marlowe, she thought. Hang on! How do I know it's Marlowe? Why am I thinking about Christopher Marlowe?

She struggled to think more clearly. Marlowe, she realised, playwright, poet... spy.

Spy.... She stared at the thin-faced man sitting across from her in the white room. He sniffed at her thought as if she had voiced it out loud, but the look he gave her at the same time appeared to be grudgingly impressed.

She reached for him, but he pulled backwards suddenly, his chin rising with an arrogance so familiar that she felt a sudden rush of hope.

"Eat your chocolate," he said and stood up to leave.

Don't go! Terrified and excited, she leapt for the vision, trying to grasp it and draw it closer, but the man rolled his eyes and faded away, leaving a strange ache in her chest as he slowly diminished into nothingness.

Shit! She ground her teeth in frustration, suddenly aware of her real surroundings again.

Slowly, painstakingly, she flexed her muscles, feeling them burn and contract as she clenched her fists, moved her shoulders and arched her back. The action left her weak with the effort. Whatever had led to her lying here in this bed had certainly caused her body strain.

She turned her head. The cloth on her forehead slipped, and she lifted a heavy hand to pluck the soft material away from her clammy skin, blinking again as her vision cleared and her eyes adjusted to the diffused light in the room.

Not a room, she realised. It's a tent. Some sort of yurt, or something.... A huge tent, made from heavy canvas, or woven matting. Some sort of nomads' dwelling. That made sense; she could smell animals. She wrinkled her nose at the slightly sickly aroma.

She was on a low bench, perhaps a foot off the ground. There were other benches in the yurt arranged around the outside edges of the circular space. She blinked. The floor was covered with carefully laid rugs made from rushes and coarsely woven wool. She craned her neck, wincing as her muscles protested at the movement. Multicoloured fabrics hung around the walls.

A shout from outside the tent made her jump, her hands coming instinctively to her throat, plucking at the edge of the thin sheet that covered her. The action caused her head to spin. Concussion? she thought weakly. If she could just have some clothes...

She opened her mouth to call for help, but the cry died in her throat as the thought suddenly struck her that she may not be here willingly. Her initial caution reasserted itself, and she stilled. The voices outside the tent were still muffled, the words spoken indistinct.

Her breath caught in her her throat; someone was approaching the tent's entrance.

oOo

"Gerroff me!"

Snape's head throbbed with the after effects of Apparition, and he staggered slightly as Weasley tried to shake him off, slipping on the slick pavement beneath his feet.

Cursing, he reorientated himself, standing up and brushing himself down self-consciously. His Side-Along had clearly become a little rusty, but he certainly was not about to admit it....

Weasley loomed beside him, his bright red hair shining in the street lamp above them. "Where to, then?" the boy asked mutinously.

Snape sneered. "I would have thought it was perfectly obvious," he drawled. "Look where we are."

The younger man turned around, catching sight of the red telephone box that marked the public entrance to the Ministry of Magic on Marylebone Street.

Weasley's face darkened. "Look, I told you that I looked everywhere for her. We're wasting time! We should go to the Aurors. D'you think I wouldn't have checked her lab first?"

Snape took his time disentangling the non-sequiturs and incomprehensible grammar in Weasley's belligerent question first, then simply spread his hands before him. He can help, he remembered his future-self assuring him. Looking at the gangly redhead, with his sloped shoulders and stupid expression, he highly doubted his own words. Never mind, he thought. Get on with it.

"You asked for my help in finding Miss Granger," he responded snidely. Not entirely true of course, but it made him feel slightly better than you stuck a wand in my gut and threatened me with the Aurors you little shit. His side was still aching a little where Weasley had rammed his wand tip into the soft skin between his ribs.

"Bearing your request in mind," Snape continued, "my best suggestion is that we begin where, knowing Miss Granger, she probably spends most of her time."

Weasley flushed again at Snape's words, but then visibly pulled himself together. "Right, then," he said gruffly. "You'll need my help getting in here quietly, then?"

Snape debated a number of answers to the question and settled on yes.

Weasley nodded at the telephone kiosk. "Not here. We'll use one of the employee entrances around the side. Come on." He gestured to Snape to follow him about twenty feet away to a narrow side street. As Snape watched warily from behind him, Weasley stopped and faced a blank piece of plastered wall.

He turned to face Severus and held out his hand, palm up. "I'll need my wand," he said brusquely.

Snape took a short step backwards and snorted. "How do I know you won't simply call the Aurors?" he scoffed.

Weasley's face contorted briefly. "You'd hex me before I even started to speak, you bastard." He paused, then, "Look, I came to your first, didn't I? Just give me the bloody wand, so we can get in. Come on! She might be in serious trouble!"

Snape rolled his eyes. "Oh, please," he countered. "There are quite literally hundreds of other possible explanations for Miss Granger's temporary disappearing act – not the least of which," he continued nastily, "is the same reason why she found herself in a churchyard on New Year's Eve this year."

Weasley's eyes flashed, and his fists clenched at his sides. "You're a fucking bastard, you know that? A nasty-minded, shit-stirring, little..."

"Ah, ah, ah!" Snape waved his finger. "You need my help, remember?"

Snape carefully pulled his own blackthorn wand from his sleeve and then gingerly withdrew Weasley's. "And mind your language, Mister Weasley," he added as he proffered the haft of the pale wand gingerly towards him.

Weasley scowled and practically snatched the wand out of his hand. "I'm not fucking thirteen any more, Professor," he snarled, but then he turned immediately away from Severus and pointed the wand at the featureless wall. He muttered something under his breath, and the wall shimmered and resolved into a very large and ornate door frame, bearing the words M.O.M. Goods' Entrance carved neatly into a wall plaque beside it.

Weasley turned back around to face Snape. "Right. Stay close to me, and the wards will recognise you as my... my..." He faltered.

"Companion?" Snape supplied, acid dripping off every syllable.

Weasley's pale eyes narrowed. "I suppose so." The younger man stuck out his chin. "Stay close, or the Ministry's night wards will have you strung up like a beetle."

Without pausing to see if Snape was following him, Weasley pushed the heavy metal door open and walked quickly inside.

The corridor was dark and sloped gently downwards. His companion seemed at ease in the deep gloom, but Snape was twitchy. Anything could be waiting for them in the darkness. He muttered, "Lumos," softly, still conscious of the Trace and wondering how much time he had until his other self ceased to exist and the Aurors came after him.

The light from Snape's wand illuminated a stark and bare corridor lined with concrete blocks and a rubberised matting on the floor, which deadened the noise of their feet as they walked steadily downhill.

Weasley snickered. "Relax, Professor," he said. "I come down these corridors every day, bringing stuff in to catalogue and study with my, uh... my colleagues in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. The night watchmen don't come down here. They all stick to the public areas."

Snape didn't miss the slip among the false bravado. My father, Weasley had been about to say. Hmmmm. He said nothing, keeping in step with the younger man, his feet silent on the soft-tiled floor.

"We'll take one of the goods' lifts," Weasley said gesturing in front of them. Snape noticed that he had not sheathed his wand. He rolled his own in his fingers, feeling the reassuring thrum of its power in his hand.

The lift rattled and shook as it descended further into the bowels of the Ministry. Severus could feel his heartbeat thumping steadily in his chest in time to the rattle of the machinery. Weasley stood beside him, radiating tension, tapping his wand against the side of the elevator in a nervous tick.

What are you doing? Snape berated himself as the lift sank deeper towards the Department of Mysteries. What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?

But even as he asked himself that question, he knew the answer to it. According to his own self – his own older, oddly-dressed, and strangely suntanned self – Granger was in some sort of trouble, and she needed his help.

oOo

At the sound of the tent's door flap opening, she instinctively shut her eyes. You're asleep, she told herself. Keep your breathing low and measured. Stay calm.

There was someone moving inside the tent. No, two people, she corrected herself, straining to pick up any clues with her ears alone. She could hear the faint scuff of at least two sets of boots on the soft floor.

It took a considerable degree of resolve for her to keep her eyes closed as the noise of the quiet footsteps came closer to her.

A man's voice, thickly accented, spoke. The sound was guttural, the words flowing quickly – too fast for her to catch enough of what was said to be able to identify the language. She ground her teeth silently in frustration at how sluggish her thoughts still were.

She could sense someone leaning over her, close. The smell of cloves and cinnamon stung her nostrils.

"Ochi." The man standing over her replied. His voice was deeper than the first, and even more heavily accented.

Arabic? she thought. Am I Arabic? Egyptian, perhaps? Or is that Greek?

The man close to her grunted and then, to her surprise, placed a gentle hand on her forehead. He spoke again, with satisfaction in his voice.

The other, lighter voice rattled off a comment. The man sounded nervous... or even agitated.

The hand on her forehead withdrew and she heard the older man groan a little as he straightened up. He rumbled another comment, the words slower and almost soothing in their tone. The footsteps retreated away from her again.

The older man spoke again as they both stepped away from her. She heard the soft rustle of heavy canvas as they reached what must have been the door. She strained to hear them, trying desperately to search her confused thoughts for any word or phrase that she could recognise as familiar.

The older man seemed to be reassuring his companion. She heard the flap of the yurt's opening slap back on itself, and the men stopped speaking. She heard another voice, more gruff then the other two speak in the strange tongue, but then, suddenly, she finally heard a name, but one which caused the breath to catch in her throat: "Hypatia?"

Hypatia? Now why was that name so familiar...?

Neither voice spoke for what felt like heartbeats, before the flap of the yurt opened and the men left the tent and walked away, speaking softly, their voices fading away.

Hypatia?

Hypatia of Alexandria?

Pages of text swam before her closed eyelids, bright memories of scholarly research in a vaulted room, where a pale blue light swirled about her in delicate whirls and eddies, and the sound of a thousand ticking timepieces filled the air....

She felt a fierce flush begin to spread hotly from her chest to her hairline, opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling tapestries.

She was on the edge of remembering – she knew it!

What on Earth is going on?

oOo

The lift shuddered to a stop, jolting Severus out of his dark thoughts.

At once, he grabbed the cargo doors and pulled them aside, his wand held high for light.

He recognised the broad landing which preceded the final steps to the Department of Mysteries from his trial, and his heart gave a unpleasant wrench at the memory. He turned and grimaced fiercely at Weasley, hoping that the other man had not seen his hesitation. "Come on," he said roughly. "Let's get on with it."

Matching him scowl for scowl, Weasley pushed past him roughly and stalked across the landing to the ornate stone staircase on the other side. Snape walked quickly after him, wincing at the loud clatter of Weasley's feet as he took the stairs two at a time in his urgency to descend. The boy had all the guile and poise of a herd of Erumpents.

At the foot of the steps, Weasley spun sharply to his right and walked down the corridor which led to the entrance to the Department of Mysteries. Snape jumped slightly as, two-by-two, the sconces high on the corridor's walls flared into life, shining their cold blue light down onto the two men.

Severus followed closely behind him, fighting the dark memories of the last time he had been so close to the Wizengamot's court. He remembered the tight grip that the warders had had on his upper arms as they had led him away from the trial to his cell, the way his feet had dragged along the obsidian marble floor as he'd tried to keep pace with their urgent steps. The sound of the excited whispers from the public gallery that had followed him along the corridor, echoing about him...

Snape started from his thoughts, practically running into the taller man who had stopped in front of him. They had arrived in the circular entrance chamber for the Department, the floor a featureless sea of black marble, the walls equally plain, apart from the magical candles burning in small alcoves between the recessed, handleless doors set evenly around the room.

Weasley slowly raised his wand hand and said, "Two for the Time Room," in a clear voice.

His wand glowed for a second, and Severus felt a thrum of magical energy as the chamber recognised a Ministry worker. With a barely audible click, the third door on the left opened itself in mute invitation.

"It's a different one every time," Weasley muttered and set off towards the door.

Snape rolled his eyes. Did Weasley think he didn't know about the security measures designed to protect the Department? "I've been visiting the Department of Mysteries since before you were born," he sniped waspishly as he followed closely behind the younger man.

"I'll bet not since your trial, though," Weasley shot back over his shoulder, pushing the door further open with his large hands and disappearing through into the blackness beyond.

"Sphaera lucis," Weasley ordered, flicking his wand sharply, and light flooded out behind him into the entrance chamber.

Grinding his teeth, Snape followed him inside.

oOo

Wincing at the protest from her abused muscles, she sat up and half-rolled, half-fell out of her cot onto the floor. She paused for a moment, catching her breath, and tugged the rough sheet off the cot bed, wrapping it around her twice to give a semblance of modesty.

More images were coming back to her, despite the pounding headache and the mussiness of her thoughts. A well-ordered flat. Bookshelves and a daily newspaper. Making a cup of tea. Red buses and tall brick buildings. Whitehall. She felt a brief flash of humour. British, then, she thought, and then a shot of adrenaline stuck her: If I'm British, what on earth am I doing here?

She must find out what was happening. The two men that had visited her had not seemed to be overtly hostile in their intentions, but it was so hard to tell.

A niggling thought in her mind whispered of power in her fingertips, coursing through her body, drawing on the energy around her – but she dismissed the idea as fantastic, and struggled to her feet on legs that felt like jelly.

She dragged in a breath and rubbed her face with her hands. Come on – focus! She took a stumbling step, acutely aware of any noise her feet made. The tent's opening was about fifteen feet away. Slowly, she made her way towards it, frowning with concentration, her ears straining for any sounds outside the tent.

She paused when she reached the door, listening intently. She could hear animals moving a little, the clank of a herd bell, the occasional grunt or muttered word from a distance away. Her chest tightened with anxiety, and her hand, hovering by the heavy cloth of the door flap, shook with nerves. She closed her eyes and fought for calm.

Unaccountably, the image of the thin, dark-browed man swam before her. He said nothing but raised an eyebrow mockingly, a small smile curling his lip.

She let out her breath in a short huff. Right.

Pull yourself together. You have to know.

Slowly, she pulled the inner flap of the door to the side, shielding her eyes with a shaking hand to prevent the sun from dazzling her.

And she gaped at what she saw.

oOo

As he stepped over the threshold into the Time Room, the relentless sound of ticking immediately set Severus' nerves on edge.

The room was as cavernous as he remembered. Clocks and other Muggle timepieces lined the walls in between the huge bookcases and glass display cabinets which ran the length of the room on both sides. Twin rows of desks, most of them covered with parchments, clocks, and watches, stood before him, and the carpet on the floor was decorated with a range of astrological symbols and star maps which wove between the corners of the desks and the bookshelves at the perimeter.

"Oy, Snape!" Weasley's rough whisper caught his attention. "Her table is over here!"

Weasley had walked almost half the length of the room and was standing beside one particularly large desk, waving peremptorily at him.

Scowling, Snape stalked between the rows of laden furniture to where Weasley was hovering next to Granger's workstation.

The dark wooden desk was surprisingly orderly, compared to those around it. Three sets of books had been arranged beside each other, and behind them, a series of scrolls had been stacked neatly in a carved wooden box. A purple-covered, fine-lined notebook had been placed to one side, slightly offset from the others. He flipped the notebook open, recognising the pages from the leaf that Weasley had thrust at him in the pub less than an hour ago. It was Granger's research diary.

He touched the corner of it again and felt a strange tingling sensation in the tips of his fingers that made him jump.

His eyes flicked over the familiar, leather-bound volume of the Historia Ecclesiastica, which now sported numerous coloured pieces of paper sticking out from the sides, and rested instead on the top cover of a pile of largely Muggle books that lay beside it.

Hypatia of Alexandria (Revealing Antiquity), he read. He pushed the book gently to the side. Hypatia's Heritage: A History of Women in Science from Antiquity through the Nineteenth Century was the title beneath it. His brow furrowed. Beneath that lay another volume, Feminist Perspectives in Medical Ethics, and at the bottom of the pile, the jarringly entitled What's YOUR Connection? Wizarding Families Throughout the Ages promised a "thorough and unprecedented guide to tracing YOUR wizarding family roots through Arithmancy and Divination!".

Severus could feel his eyebrow rise of its own accord as he turned his attention to the next set of books on the desk.

The other collection of books was based on the Muggle discipline of physics, apart from the heavy, blue-backed final volume at the bottom, which turned out to be an early copy of The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he murmured.

"Well?" Weasley said aggressively.

Snape's lip curled in irritation. "Have you read all of this diary?" he asked, waving his fingers to indicate the purple-covered notebook.

Weasley nodded. "She's been working on something to do with the bell jar," he said, swivelling about and pointing further down the corridor of desks towards the giant glass mechanism at the end of the Time Room. Snape frowned. The last time he had visited the Time Room, he was sure that there had not been a screen partially obscuring the huge crystal vessel.

He picked up Granger's diary, ignoring the flare of magic in his fingers as he closed his hand about the little notebook. The relentless ticking of the clocks and watches about him was beginning to fray his nerves, as was the knowledge that his fifteen minutes had surely elapsed and he was due a visit from the Auror Department at any moment. He was running out of time.

"Show me," he said curtly.

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A/N: I don't own the characters that JKR does. Huge thanks and hugs to the incomparable beaweasley2, nagandsev and Clairvoyant, without whom.... Thank you to all who take the time to review. The next chapter will be up in about three weeks' time. Best wishes, Px