Living Death

December 18, 1992, 5:30 PM, Charms Classroom, Hogwarts

Adam Clarke

The air in the Charms Classroom hummed with a peculiar blend of concentration and the soft mutters of study. We were all hunched over our tables, diligently working on the assigned work, but for me, the words were already long dry on the parchment.

I glanced around the room, my eyes moving from student to student, seeking something to alleviate the dull ache of boredom. Professor Flitwick, immersed in the task of grading papers at his desk, was oblivious to my restlessness.

I shifted in my seat, the wooden chair creaking beneath me. My gaze fell upon Cho Chang, focused on her own spellwork, before I moved onto someone else.

The rhythmic scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional soft sigh of a disgruntled classmate punctuated the quiet atmosphere. A Slytherin boy sitting across from me struggled with his work, looking like he wanted to tear the parchment in two. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of both sympathy and pity; I supposed not everyone found the world of magic as intuitive as I did.

I knew how arrogant that sounded, and yet I couldn’t help but feel this way. I mean, I’m already past this stage, too…

My attention drifted away from reality, focusing on thoughts of recent events. Among them was the image of the boy who had led the recent attack on me. I remembered how his arm, still healing from the injuries I inflicted, was encased in a sling. The incident had earned me more than just a stern lecture; it had sown seeds of resentment among some of the older students.

I remembered when my eyes had met the boy’s, a few days before, a fleeting sense of satisfaction flickered within me. Yet, it was accompanied by a realization— my actions had far reaching consequences, exceeding what I thought possible.

The article Skeeter wrote on the matter is proof enough, isn’t it? I thought. Likely that whatever goodwill I may have had with the people last year is all gone.

I sighed, my mind grappling with the complexities of my new reality. Sirius Black, my de facto father at this point, had imparted wisdom about the weight of responsibility and the choices we make when I saw him last.

It never stopped being odd— hearing him talk about responsibilities and duty. I figured he most likely felt the same. I’d seen it all on his face, and in the twitching of his soul thread. Sirius had likely never thought he’d say words that reminded him of his own family. Judging from the mild disgust on his face, he probably was tackling the idea of his family perhaps not being the absolutely evil creatures he’d thought them to be in the past.

At least some of them, but I suppose we all have to deal with uncomfortable truths in our lives, huh? I thought, before shaking my head and returning my attention to the in-class assignment.

It wouldn’t hurt to give it a once-over, again.

The monotony of the task mirrored the routine nature of my days, yet beneath the surface, the currents of change flowed, shaping the course of my pursuit; still, I could at least pretend, for a while longer, that everything was indeed well.

I meticulously reviewed my completed assignment, my eyes scanning each line of the essay to confirm its accuracy. Time seemed to stretch as I double, and triple-checked my work, an unconscious habit that had become second nature. Twenty minutes passed until Professor Flitwick’s cheerful voice disrupted my concentration.

“Alright, everyone, time to hand in your assignments!” Professor Flitwick announced, his diminutive figure bobbing behind his desk.

Nodding to myself, I neatly rolled up my parchment and joined the line of students approaching the professor’s desk. One by one, assignments were handed in, and the classroom buzzed with the low hum of conversation as the students chatted about the upcoming break from academic obligations.

Finally reaching the front of the line, I handed in my assignment with a polite nod to Professor Flitwick. The tiny professor looked up at me, a warm smile on his face, though it was tempered by a look of wariness.

It hurt to see that.

As the students began to shuffle out of the classroom, Professor Flitwick addressed the class once more. “Oh, and I almost forgot! No homework until next year. Enjoy your break, everyone!”

A chorus of cheers erupted from my classmates, the prospect of extra homework-free days lifting their spirits. I couldn’t help but smile at the collective relief washing over the room. However, my own mood remained tempered by the knowledge that my immediate future held a different fate.

As the classroom emptied, I lingered behind, my gaze fixed on the professor. Today was my first detention, one of the consequences of my recent altercation with the Blackthorn boy and his cronies.

The cheerful atmosphere evaporated as I approached Professor Flitwick, determination set in my eyes.

“Professor, about the detention…” I began, acknowledging the responsibility that came with my actions.

“I do hope you aren’t looking to get out of it?”

“Of course not, sir.” I said, shaking my head profusely. “I was only wondering what I would be doing.”

Professor Flitwick regarded me for a moment before his expression shifted into a sympathetic one. “Ah, I see, Mr. Clarke. Well, it will not be something you won’t be able to do, I’ve been assured.”

I nodded, my mind already shifting to the impending detention.

Wait.

The way he’d said that had been suspect. “You’ve been assured, sir? You won’t be…?”

“Afraid not, lad.”

This news caught me off guard. I had expected Professor Flitwick to oversee the consequences of my actions, not anticipating a change in plans. As he explained the reason behind his unavailability, my curiosity piqued.

“Headmaster Dumbledore has requested my assistance in preparing for the upcoming ball.” Professor Flitwick explained, a sense of duty evident in his voice. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to oversee your detention, Mr. Clarke. However, I have arranged for a suitable replacement.”

My mind raced with possibilities as I wondered who might take Flitwick’s place.

The answer, when it came, sent me a rush of relief as well as a chill down my spine.

“Your detention will be supervised by Professor Snape.” He declared, his gaze steady.

Snape. The Potions Master with a demeanor as cold as the potions he brewed. The mere mention of his name invoked a mixture of apprehension and caution, considering my previous interactions with the man.

“Professor Snape.” I repeated, unable to hide the surprise and dismay in my voice.

Flitwick offered a sympathetic smile, likely misunderstanding the reason behind my reaction. “I understand it might not be the most pleasant prospect, but I trust you’ll handle it with the same composure you exhibit in my class.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Very good! Run along then, child.”

With a nod, I thanked Professor Flitwick and made my way out of the classroom.

My thoughts, for a few moments, were eerily quiet as I made my way to Snape’s office for the impending detention.

And then they came, in bursts. I grappled with the flood, trying to make sense of them all.

While, for obvious reasons, I harbored a certain aversion for Professor Snape, a small, unspoken relief settled within me. At least it wasn’t Lockhart. The mere thought of dealing with the man’s boastful and self-absorbed nature sent shivers down my spine.

However, my mind couldn’t shake a lingering unease about the change in Lockhart’s nature. In the original timeline, he was nothing more than a bumbling, inept wizard, a comical figure whose arrogance surpassed his magical prowess— or lack thereof— by far. Yet, the Lockhart in this altered reality was different, disturbingly so.

Lockhart, a powerful accomplished wizard? It still didn’t make sense. I hadn’t tampered with the timeline in a way that directly affected him. My focus had been on more significant matters, like Grindelwald and Voldemort. Lockhart had seemed inconsequential in comparison.

Inconsequential, and yet here he is as a consequence, all the same.

The corridors of Hogwarts were alive with a cheerful and vibrant energy that resonated through the castle. Students bustled about, laughter and conversation echoing against the stone walls. The enchanted armors lining the hallways engaged in lively dances, clinking and clattering in joyful celebration. Portraits gleefully chatted or engaged in animated discussions with one another, excited to adorn their painted surroundings with festive cheer.

The very essence of Hogwarts seemed to hum with contentment.

As I made my way through this lively scene, the contrast between the positive atmosphere and my own internal turmoil became starkly apparent. The happiness that radiated from every corner of the castle clashed with the weight on my shoulders. Everything around me seemed to mock my own sense of disquiet.

Still, I found myself unable to let that be a part of me, so affected I was by the events which were about to come to pass. Reaching the Potions Classroom’s door, I knocked twice.

“Professor?”

“Enter.”

Taking a breath, I pushed the door open to reveal a room bathed in dim candlelight, bookshelves lining the walls and potion ingredients neatly organized on shelves. Professor Snape was hovering over a cauldron to the side for a few moments as I came in.

He turned to me. The man seemed untouched by the cheerfulness that enveloped the rest of Hogwarts.

Great, now I’m becoming more like him.

“Mr. Clarke.” Snape intoned, his voice as cold and emotionless as ever, unaffected by the Christmas cheer at all. “You’re late.”

I nodded in acknowledgment, a heaviness settling in my chest. “Sorry, sir. I must have taken too long.”

“Hm.”

“So… What will—”

“Mr. Clarke, you are here for detention, not a social call. Let’s not waste any more time.” Snape snapped, his tone sharp and unwelcoming.

I nodded and went further in the room, setting my pack to the side and moving towards the Professor himself. The fumes from the cauldrons mingled with the dim candlelight, casting shadows that danced across the stone walls. Professor Snape, with his piercing gaze and hooked nose, regarded me with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.

My eyes were drawn to a smaller-than-usual cauldron tucked away behind Professor Snape’s desk, its contents emitting a gentle bubbling. The air around it seemed to shimmer with a strange glow, and my curiosity piqued when I noticed the unmistakable sign of a golden hue.

Unable to contain my surprise, I gestured towards the cauldron, my eyes widening in realization.

“Is this what I think it is, Professor?” I inquired, my voice barely concealing a mix of astonishment and excitement.

Snape’s expression remained stoic, but a faint glimmer of satisfaction gleamed in his dark eyes.

“And what is it—” He said, keeping his tone level. “—That you think it is?”

“Liquid luck.” I breathed, tearing my eyes away from the potion to meet his own. “Sir.”

“And so it is.” He confirmed, his attention returning to the potion as he meticulously stirred its contents.

I couldn’t help but be taken aback. Felix Felicis, the legendary Liquid Luck, was a potion of great complexity and rarity. Its production was deemed magic too advanced, even by my own reckoning.

Snape’s voice cut through the air, his tone laced with a subtle challenge.

“This potion isn’t even mentioned until one’s NEWT classes. Impressive, isn’t it?” He remarked seemingly with idleness, though there was nothing idle about the look on his face.

I nodded, acknowledging the significance of the potion. “Considering it takes six months to brew, sir… Yes.”

Satisfied with my response, Snape continued his ministrations on the cauldron. Then, with a curious glint in his eye, he tested my knowledge further. “Tell me, Mr. Clarke, at what stage do you believe this potion currently resides?”

Stepping closer, I scrutinized the cauldron, noting the intricate dance of golden particles within. “This is…”

“Yes?”

I took my eyes off of the potion again, gulping as I saw the man’s expectant look. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I answered. “Professor, I would say it’s… At the stage where you need to add the rue. Though, I don’t know how much you would need.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, a hint of approval gleaming in his eyes. “That is partially correct, Mr. Clarke. I have already added the rue, but it takes some time for the effect to take hold— a common mistake for the uninitiated.”

“I see…”

“Regardless.” He cut in, his tone begrudging. “It was an… adequate guess.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As Snape observed me with an air of calculated scrutiny, he shifted the topic. “Now, as for your detention…”

Suppressing the urge to sigh, I nodded in acknowledgment and asked. “What will I be expected to do, Professor?”

Snape paused for a moment before directing me to a workstation on the right side of the room. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the potion ingredients laid out on the table, adding an extra layer of gravity to the task at hand.

“Mr. Clarke. If you’re so learned on Liquid Luck, then I trust you’ve also familiarized yourself with the Draught of Living Death.” Snape remarked, his tone neither condescending nor accommodating.

“Yes, Professor.” I replied, my mind recalling the potion in question. “Though, I don’t have a good recollection of it. I’d only read about it a few times.”

“It is of no matter.” Snape said and, with a gesture of his hand, wordlessly and wandlessly Summoned a book to his waiting palm. A moment later, he handed it to me, ignoring the slight widening of my eyes at his powerful use of magic.

Looks like I’m not the only one who’s been improving… I still have to speak to use wandless magic.

“Your detention will involve brewing the Draught of Living Death. It’s a sixth-year level potion, and I expect nothing less than perfection.” Snape declared, his dark eyes fixed on me, as if he hadn’t just used powerful magic right in front of me.

Swallowing, I nodded and made my way to the designated workstation. The ingredients, neatly arranged and labeled, awaited. The challenge laid before me was no ordinary task; it was a test, and a hefty one at that.

Leave it to Snape to make a detention far more challenging an ordeal than it needs to be. I thought for a moment, before shaking my head with a smile. Beats writing hundreds of lines.

And so, I got to work, opening the Sixth Year Potions textbook and navigating to the instructions to make the Draught of Living Death. Thoughts of Lockhart, and the incongruity of his newfound power moved to the fringes of my consciousness, pushed away by the immediate matter at hand.

The book’s pages, filled with intricate illustrations and meticulous instructions, overwhelmed me for a few moments before I focused my thoughts on the listed methodology.

One step at a time.

Carefully, I read the steps outlined in the book. “Add the Infusion of Wormwood; then, Powdered Root of Asphodel; then, stir twice clockwise; then, the sloth brain; then, the Sopophorous bean’s juice; finally, stir seven times counter clockwise…”

I nodded, absorbing the details with a sense of focus. The illustrations accompanying each step provided a visual guide, but I only paid it half a mind.

With the instructions fresh in my mind, I approached the class’ stores, fetching the ingredients before coming back and arranging them in a meticulous order. I was going to follow the recipe, with a few exceptions. The reason I’d initially researched this potion was because of its mention in the sixth book. And so, I knew of the changes required to improve its efficacy.

I filled the cauldron up, lit a flame underneath and prepped my ingredients. Losing myself in the process, I focused my mismatched eyes on the potion itself, observing how the magical currents in it shifted with every added ingredient.

Before long, I was at the fifth step outlined. The potion had, at this point, reached the smooth, black currant-colored liquid mentioned as the ideal halfway stage. The next step was adding the Sopophorous bean juice; using the flat side of the knife, I crushed the shriveled bean, surprised at how much juice came out of it. Focusing my thoughts on the potion again, I scooped up the juice and introduced it to the concoction, watching as the Potion’s color shifted to a light shade of lilac.

Nodding to myself, I began to stir.

Seven anti-clockwise, one clockwise. I thought to myself, doing it over and over and over and smiling as the Potion turned palest pink.

The subtle change indicated that the Draught of Living Death had been a resounding success, and a surge of accomplishment coursed through me.

Despite the success, I found myself transfixed by the film of magic hovering just above the surface of the potion. It danced and shimmered, an ethereal manifestation of the enchantment within. I wasn’t yet adept at identifying the nuances of magical signatures, but this particular display seemed to echo the stillness of death itself.

“A Draught of Living Death, indeed…” I murmured, my voice barely audible in the quiet of Snape’s classroom. The irony of the potion’s name struck me as I beheld the pale pink hue. “A study in duality.”

Suddenly, it made sense why a clockwise stir was necessary after the initial seven counterclockwise ones. Seven steps til death, one step back— to keep its target recipient at the very brink.

As the final stir concluded, I stepped back, the cauldron now filled with the completed potion.

“Professor.” I called out, breaking the silence that hung in the air. “I’ve finished.”

“A moment, Clarke.” Professor Snape said, still closely monitoring his own work.

I nodded. He’d been working for months on his own project, so I could stand to wait for a few minutes. Besides, the more time he spent on this, the less time I had in detention.

Eventually, Snape moved away from his brew to check over mine. His expression remained impassive, but the subtle movement of his soul thread— a reflection of his emotions— betrayed a measure of intrigue. It was an acknowledgment, a sign that my potion had indeed left an impression on the formidable Potions Master.

The cauldron before me held the completed Draught of Living Death, its pale pink hue a testament to the success of my endeavors. Yet, it was Snape’s judgment that carried weight in this particular moment.

After a prolonged pause, Snape finally spoke, his tone measured and calculated. “Impressive, Mr. Clarke. Your knowledge, once again, borders on the extraordinary.”

The words hung in the air, laden with Severus’ subtle implication. Snape’s comment alluded to a deeper understanding, a recognition of the fact that my familiarity with the magical world was not merely the result of rigorous study but something more profound— an insight into the intricacies of a world that had not always been my home.

As Snape acknowledged the success of the Draught of Living Death, a question lingered in my mind, and so I voiced it out. “Sir, did you purposefully choose this particular potion for my detention, or was it merely a coincidence?”

A subtle quirk of Snape’s lips, a fleeting expression that almost resembled amusement, betrayed a fraction of his true sentiments before he regained his composure. The controlled reaction hinted at a deliberate choice, a carefully curated test that extended beyond the confines of a typical detention task.

In a moment of transparency, Snape offered a glimpse into the reasoning behind the Draught of Living Death. “Mr. Clarke, the Ministry has mandated the brewing of this potion for the League of Nine. In a prior duel, a student suffered a grievous injury, one that, while manageable by Healers, could have benefited from the use of the Draught of Living Death. Regrettably, we had none in store— until now.”

“I see…” I said. “So its choice was just a coincidence.”

“A very apt one, as it happens.” Snape says and begins to bottle the batch before Vanishing the remainder. “Life and death.”

“Right… Now that the potion is complete, what’s next, Professor?” I inquired, my gaze shifting from the now-empty cauldron to Snape. The tension in the room lingered, a palpable undercurrent that hinted at a conversation yet to unfold.

“We…” Snape replied, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “Are going to talk.”

“About what, sir?” I said, looking around nervously.

“There is no need for coyness.”

“It’s not that.” I said, shaking my head. “We may be watched.”

That stopped the man flat. “Watched?”

A moment passed before he shook his head. “My room is well secure, Mr. Clarke.”

“Maybe so, but have you checked for any eavesdroppers?”

Snape looked at me only for a moment before nodding and turning his attention to the room. Focusing, he incanted a spell and waited.

“There are none but the two of us.” Snape said, his expression stoic but his soul thread wiggling in a put-upon way.

“Thank you.” I said, nodding. “After my experience with Blackthorn, I can’t trust that I’m not being watched.”

“It will take more than a small Animagus form to breach my defenses.” Professor Snape said, shaking his head at my expression of surprise. “Does it surprise you that I, too, know more than you think? You underestimate humans too much.”

“You…” I said. “You still think I’m some kind of demon from Hell?”

“Are you?”

I swallowed the frustration down. Now was not the time to be angry.

“Do you doubt my promise, Professor?” I questioned, a subtle edge in my voice. “Do you require some assurances on my part?”

Snape scoffed, dismissing the notion. “This is not a matter of reassurance, Mr. Clarke. It’s a matter of information. There are aspects of what you’ve told me which still remain elusive, and I intend on achieving a full understanding before moving forward.”

The directness of Snape’s words cut through any pretense, and I acknowledged the depth of his skepticism. The promise I made regarding Lily Potter’s revival hung in the balance, tethered to a fragile thread of trust that Snape seemed reluctant to fully embrace.

I didn’t blame him. Acknowledging Snape’s concerns, I nodded solemnly. “Fine. I understand, Professor. Ask whatever questions you need.”

Snape’s gaze, sharp and discerning, bore into me, though the man did not stare directly into my eyes.

“How do you intend on going forward with the resurrection?”

I nodded, having expected this question first. “As I told you—”

“Yes, the Stone of Resurrection.” Snape cut me off, wordlessly summoning another book to his hand; I realized it was a copy of the tales of Beedle the Bard. He continued to speak even as he flipped to the pages concerning the tale of the three brothers. “A mythical object with the power to bring the souls of the dead to the plane of the living. However, the souls lack a physical body, and are no better than pale reflections of their true selves.”

“They lack a physical body.” I confirmed, though I shook my head in the negative. “But they are not pale reflections. They are the souls of the departed, and it brings them pain to be in the world of the living, as they are dead.”

I waited a bit for Snape to absorb those words.

“And how is it that you intend on reviving… Your target?” Professor Snape said, closing the book he’d lent me. “I doubt it would be anything as simple as the task you’ve just completed.”

“True.” I admitted, staring down at the many vials of light pink potion which Snape had collected. “Though it is still within that particular potion’s realm.”

“In what way?”

I turned my gaze up towards Snape again. “I can see it. I can see the stillness of death in the potion itself. It is a living death.”

“I fail to see how this aids you in our current endeavor.”

My mind went to Helena, and how my mere presence seemed to bring life back to her spectral form.

“‘Seven counterclockwise stirs, one clockwise’, you once wrote in your Sixth Year copy of Advanced Potion Making, Half-Blood Prince.” I said, and for the first time since our fateful confrontation in the Hospital Wing, Severus’ eyes went wide with shock. “You might have reached that conclusion through trial and error, but I can see and understand why it had to be done that way. Seven steps towards death, followed by one step back to life; it signifies an imperfect death— or a living death, as it were. Is this not so?”

“You… That name…” Snape said as he gathered himself, sending me a hard glare which said in no uncertain terms that I should not use that name again. “No matter. What are you getting at?”

“I’m beginning to understand the energies which bind the world together.” I said, doing my best to explain it to the man in a way that made sense. “Our souls are bound to our bodies, and yet they can exist outside of them.”

“You speak of ghosts.” Snape said. “Pale, degraded imitations of the people they once were.”

“And yet, a degraded soul has the potential to revert to its original state if given the climate in which to recover.” I said slowly. “I have seen it.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you intend on achieving a perfect resurrection.” Snape said, shaking his head. “What use is a healed soul if there’s no body for her to…”

And then he stopped, the gears slowly turning in his mind as he began to link things together.

“…The Philosopher’s Stone?” Professor Snape said in conclusion, his expression one of astonishment.

I nodded in confirmation. “Your old boss seemed very confident he could fashion himself a new body with it. With research, nothing stops us from doing the same.”

“Still, that doesn’t mean much, Clarke.” Snape said, shaking his head. “I’m sure, with your superior powers of observation, you may have noticed that we possess neither the Stone of Resurrection, nor the Philosopher’s Stone. How do you expect we will acquire either?”

I nodded at that. “I don’t know how we can get our hands on the second, but I know how to get the first. I know where the Stone of Resurrection is— right now, in fact.”

“Then it is simply a matter of retrieving it.” Snape said after a few moments.

“Yes.” I nodded, though my expression was grave. “But I don’t know what manner of defenses we can expect when we go to fetch it. All except one.”

“Which is?”

“Tell me, Snape.” I said. “What do you know of a Curse that spreads through the body, causing quick necrosis?”

He had no answer to that.

This is going to be a long detention. I thought as we began to discuss.