Chapter Text
November was cold and grey. The Quidditch game had lifted everyone’s spirits momentarily, even Slytherin house despite their bitter defeat, but then the chill swept through. The holidays were too far away to be excited for, and the days were growing shorter and duller. There was no snow yet, and the trees were starkly barren. The castle felt like something out of a murder mystery, gothic and foreboding against the dark skies.
This did not deter Willow’s friends. Armed with the new information that the object had something to do with Nicholas Flamel, and bolstered by their determination that Snape was the dark wizard after the object, everyone spent their spare seconds fervently researching in the library.
“Are we absolutely sure it’s Snape?” Christopher asked them one Saturday afternoon. He had a quiet disposition, and did not like moving forward with any plan until absolutely sure of all the facts. “I mean, he’s a professor!”
“He tried to jinx Harry off his broom!” Ron retorted, happy to be doing anything other than reading the large tome on the table in front of him. “What more do you need?”
Hermione looked up from her even larger book, her bushy hair twisted up into a messy bun. She had spent the most time researching Nicholas Flamel out of everyone and so far, she had found nothing. It weighed on her. “He also hates Harry. We’ve all seen how Snape treats him in class. Any dark wizard trying to follow in You-Know-Who’s footsteps would act like he is.”
“But he doesn’t hate Willow,” said Mae. She was sitting crisscross on the floor under one of the stained glass windows. Instead of researching Nicholas Flamel, she was reading up on magical creatures, trying to find anything that sounded remotely like the three-headed dog (which Willow had learned was Hagrid’s and named Fluffy) in the third floor corridor. “She’s Snape’s prodigy. If he was following You-Know-Who, wouldn’t he hate both of them, not just Harry?”
There was silence as the group pondered this. It was one of the only real snags in their deductions about Snape.
“Maybe he’s trying to win her over?” Christopher suggested. “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer?”
“Look!” Harry slammed his book down on the table, which earned him a sharp glare from Madame Pince. He did not flinch under it. “We know it’s Snape. Willow saw his limp, which he could have only gotten from Fluffy, and he tried to kill me, so what we need to focus on is figuring out what this thing he wants so badly is. Right, Wills?”
Willow had not been paying attention, though not for a lack of trying. The mystery surrounding Nicholas Flamel was intriguing, but it was not immediately pressing in her estimation. The object was safely guarded, as evidenced by Snape’s limp, and it seemed as though very few people knew it was hidden within the castle. What was more of interest to Willow was her magic. While Dumbledore had instructed her not to chase after it, he had never forbidden her from researching it.
So, research she did. And just as with Nicholas Flamel, there was nothing to be found.
However, Willow hypothesized that this was more to do with her than the actual texts. She had no name for the phenomena, and ‘Magical Power I Can’t Explain That Maybe Came From The Wind’ was not the title of any Hogwarts book. Willow determined that if she couldn’t find the name for her specific abilities, then perhaps she could learn about other wizards who had it. This meant combing through massively thick novels, such as Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century and Notable Magical Names of Our Time. They were dense books, and her head hurt if she read intently for more than thirty minutes, but if it produced the desired results, Willow did not mind.
It hadn’t yet. But she was confident it would.
“Uh,” Willow hesitated, tearing her eyes away from the page on Newt Scamander. She found that everyone was looking at her expectantly, and scrambled to recall what had been said around her. “Yeah, what Harry said.”
There were a few murmurs of agreement, and most everyone went back to reading their books. Everyone except Mae. Her blue eyes stayed on Willow, and narrowed ever so slightly. Her plump lips pursed. Willow felt a sudden flush rise to her cheeks, and she ducked her head into the book in her lap, having the strangest sensation that she had been caught.
Before too long, the group left the library for dinner. One of the only perks about the chilling weather was the Hogwarts food. The meals had grown heartier in the changing weather, and the tables were full of chicken pot pies, mashed potatoes, beef stew, and deliciously buttery biscuits. Willow relished in every meal, stuffing herself as full as possible and trying out every food available. Mae often gave her odd looks, but Christopher shared in her plight, and they often rated foods as if they were on a television cooking show, much to Mae’s delight.
That night, Willow ate slowly, reading under the table. Across from her, Mae and Christopher were whispering fervently, and Willow couldn’t help but notice the concerned glances being thrown her way. She kept her head down, and tried to focus her reading. It wasn’t easy, with Hermione, who was also trying to read, constantly shushing Harry and Ron, who were locked in a fierce debate over who would win the next Quidditch match: Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw.
The group went their separate ways after dinner, promising to meet up next afternoon. The Slytherins descended into the dungeons, where the cold was undeniable. Willow was sure she could see her breath, and debated in her head whether she should start wearing her winter cloak indoors for safe measure. Her mind was so preoccupied with the dilemma that she hardly had time to react when she was roughly pulled off the Slytherin staircase and shoved into the small, glass-walled room in the common room by Mae and Christopher.
“Hey!” she protested, attempting to shake off their strong-hold on her. “What the hell?”
They pushed Willow into one of the large leather armchairs and stood above her, blocking her exit. In the dim, blueish lighting, they looked a bit frightening, the shadows cast from the lake and the candles in the room unsettling.
“You’re hiding something,” Mae said, crossing her arms and jutting out her jaw. For a split second, Willow thought she looked like Pansy.
“Yeah,” said Christopher beside her, also crossing his arms and nodding very seriously. “We know it.”
Willow gave a deep sigh. She knew she couldn’t hide her non-studying forever, but she had (perhaps foolishly) believed that the others would be so absorbed in their own research that she could slide through the cracks. She had hoped that by the time someone had put two and two together, she would have answers for them - either from her own research or from Dumbledore. Alas, she was stuck. It was time to employ the backup plan.
“I’m not hiding anything.”
Christopher snorted in disbelief, and Mae rolled her eyes.
“I’m not!” Willow doubled down. “I’m researching just as you all are. I’ve been reading about famous witches and wizards, hoping Flamel will pop up somewhere.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, nor was it exactly the truth. The perfect sort of statement, in Willow’s opinion, and harder to decipher.
“You’re lying,” Christopher stated plainly.
Well, Willow thought to herself, that was fun while it lasted.
Mae’s demeanor changed, and she dropped the schoolyard bully act in favor of her natural state - kind and eager for knowledge. She let her arms fall to her side and batted her lashes at Willow, giving her a small, sideways smile. “We’re your friends,” she said sweetly. “You can tell us anything.”
“We’re worried,” Christopher added. “That’s all. You’ve been moody and quiet… though, you’ve always been like that. Wait, why are we worried, again?”
Mae glared at Christopher. “Because we are friends and we care!”
Willow couldn’t stop herself from smiling. It was so silly, and yet, it was the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for her since she’d arrived at Hogwarts. Her heart swelled in her chest, and as she watched Mae and Christopher bicker in the blue light, she felt completely at home.
“We’ll tell you a secret if you tell us yours,” Mae offered.
Christopher’s eyes widened in alarm. “We will?”
“Yes, we will! We’ll tell you one of our secrets and then you’ll tell us yours!”
Willow pretended to consider the offer, tilting her head this way and that before finally nodding slowly, as if this was a very serious decision. “Deal.”
Mae clapped her hands and bounced over to the leather armchair on Willow’s right. Christopher groaned, but he smiled good naturedly as he flopped onto the leather chair to Willow’s left. The small glass room was the perfect size for the three of them, with its chairs and coffee table. Secluded away from the rest of the Common Room, they were at liberty to discuss without the risk of being overheard.
“I’ll go first,” Mae said, and then her smile faded into a serious expression. “This doesn’t leave us, you understand? I know where you sleep and I will enact revenge.”
The threat made Willow grin. Even Chris smiled, shy and small. Mae took in a deep breath, and began.
“I have a younger brother, Augustus. He got Spattergroit as a baby—it’s a really contagious magical disease, and it’s awful, even for adults. But because he was a baby when he got it, he nearly died. He's recovered now, he's eight, but he’s not like other boys his age. He can’t make it up the stairs without panting. He gets sick all the time. Colds, fevers, flus, he’s gotten them all, and it’s always worse than anyone else who gets it. The Healers say it’s because of the Spattergroit, and that he’ll probably be weak like this his whole life. He’s taken a bunch of strengthening and healing potions, but there are some things magic just can’t cure, I suppose.”
Mae paused here, and neither Willow or Chris asked her further questions. Mae wasn’t looking at either of them now. Instead, she was focusing on her hands, which kept folding over themselves. On her right hand, she wore a silver signet ring that she twisted around her finger obsessively.
“I love Augustus. He’s been dealt the worst hand of cards, and yet he’s still so gentle and kind. But sometimes, I wish my parents paid as much attention to me as they did to him. I understand he needs extra love. He’s so sick, and he needs the support. But, I feel like I’m wearing an invisibility cloak when I'm home. It’s like I’m not there. Mum and Dad can tell you everything Augustus loves, but I don’t think they even know my favorite color.”
She said this all quietly, but very matter-of-fact like. She could have been talking about the weather, or telling them about the British royal family tree. It was just another notch in the belt, another part of life, another day.
“That sounds really difficult,” Willow whispered. She didn’t know what else to say.
Mae shrugged. “It’s life.” Then, she straightened up and cleared her throat. “Anyway, that’s my secret. Christopher, you’re next!”
Christopher nearly leaped out of his seat, but softened at the girl’s giggles. He slouched in the chair, and his sandy bangs nearly covered his eyes.
“I’m muggle-born,” he finally said.
“Not a secret!” Mae jeered as Willow booed. Christopher ducked his head, though Willow caught the faintest glimpse of a grin.
“I’m an IVF baby,” he tried again, his voice lifting in hope.
Mae chucked the throw pillow from her chair across the room. Christopher just managed to skirt out of its path. “Come on!" she yelled. "Try harder!”
“All right, all right!” Christopher held up his hands in surrender. He was grinning from ear to ear, exposing his crooked teeth. Then, as he thought, his smile dropped, and he became quiet and serious. “Erm, so, my family is pretty great. Mum, Dad, me, and my younger brother Josh. We were doing pretty good for ourselves—nothing to snuff at, ya know? Then, well… with Thatcher in office, it wasn’t gonna last, was it? Dad lost his job, then Mum. Good thing the house was paid off, otherwise we’d’ve had to move.” He grimaced at this, his mouth twisting into a frown. “Just hard, living like that. Not enough of anything ever. Getting charity from school.”
Willow nodded along sympathetically. The Dursleys hadn’t been poor, but they had treated Willow and Harry like they were. Hand-me-down clothes, meager portions, and second-hand school supplies were all Willow knew. She glanced over at Mae. Her eyes were wide in sorrow, but there was a guardedness to her expression, as if she didn’t quite know how to react.
“That’s why the Sorting Hat placed me here,” Christopher continued, his ears red. “Said I was ‘driven to succeed.’ ‘Cause I can’t keep living like that. Having to choose between heating and groceries every winter. I won’t.”
“That’s what the Sorting Hat told you?” Willow thought back to her conversation with the Sorting Hat and shivered.
Christopher nodded, though kept his head down. “Told me I’d be good in Hufflepuff, but that my ambition would get me much further in Slytherin. Why?” he asked, looking at Willow through his bangs. “What did it say to you?”
“One secret per day,” she evaded the question with an easy smile, though she felt anything but.
“Thanks for sharing, Chris,” Mae said softly. She shifted in her seat, unable to look at Christopher directly. The signet ring on her fingers was spinning furiously. “Now, Willow!” and her demeanor changed in an instant to one of excitement and curiosity. “Tell us yours!”
Even Christopher was intrigued, and his embarrassment faded away as he straightened up. Willow looked at him, then at Mae. She knew they wouldn’t tell anyone else, but the parting of something that had only been hers for the past two weeks was difficult. The secret clung to her bones, screaming in protest as she opened her mouth, and began to tell the Slytherins what had occurred the day of the Quidditch match. As she recited her tale, they reacted exactly the way she had wanted them to—with gasps and exclamations in all the right places. By the time she had finished, the two were looking at her with such awe and confusion, Willow wasn’t sure if she should be pleased or concerned.
“You’ve found nothing?” Mae’s voice rang with outrage, echoing around them in the small blue room. “You’ve been researching for two weeks, and come up with nothing?”
“It’s not like I have much to go on. And besides, I’ve had to hide my research within researching for Flamel. My options are a bit limited.”
“Forget Flamel!” Christopher exclaimed. As Willow had told her secret, he had come out of his shell his secret had built. He was on the edge of his seat now, his brown eyes bright and thrilled. “This is way better! You’re the most powerful first-year in the whole school!”
“Maybe even the most powerful student,” Mae said thoughtfully. For the first time since Willow had begun her tale, she seemed genuinely concerned. “Willow, whatever this power or magic you have, it’s not normal. You’ve got to be careful.”
Willow grinned, hoping to ease her worries. “You sound like Dumbledore.”
Mae gave a flip of her hair and a cheeky wink. “Great minds do think alike.”
“He said he’d call on you once he’d figured it out, right?” asked Christopher. Willow nodded. Christopher continued with a shrug. “Then, you just got to wait it out. Keep researching and wait for him to come to you.”
“And not tell anyone else about it,” Willow added. “Really. Not even the Gryffindors. No one else can know.”
“What about Harry?” asked Mae.
Dumbledore hadn’t said she couldn’t tell anyone, and she had considered telling Harry, but only briefly. It would only arise more questions from him, ones that she had no answers for. Their relationship was still in a precarious position, still healing from the two month division. She couldn’t risk tearing it all up again for something she couldn’t even explain.
“He has enough to worry about as it is,” she said with a shake of her head. “He’s obsessed with Flamel and Snape.”
“I’m still not set on Snape being the dark wizard,” Christopher lifted a finger.
Mae rolled her eyes in a way that suggested that she had heard this argument far too many times. “Well, Harry is, so unless you’ve got a better idea, Snape is who we’re going with.”
Christopher opened his mouth to continue protesting, but Willow cut in before she heard the same debate for the second time that day. “The important thing,” she said firmly, “is that no one can know.”
“This doesn’t leave us,” Mae repeated, her blue eyes hard.
“What happens in the Slytherin common room stays in the Slytherin common room,” said Christopher, looking around at the glass walls. He had been at Hogwarts for three months, and yet Willow still saw the wonder in his eyes as he took in the view of the Black Lake. Magic was still magical even once you lived with it.
“Well,” Mae reached around her chair and began rummaging in her bag, “how are you all doing on that Charms essay? Personally, I think it’s ridiculous.”
And with that, the three began a flurry of studying, and giggling, and writing, the weight of their secrets dissipating into the cold air.
The next Tuesday, Snape held Willow back after Potions class. She was now well ahead of her peers, and working on brewing Potions completely from her memory. Snape had positioned her work table in such a way that she could not see the blackboard with his written instructions, and she was forbidden from any textbooks. It was incredibly stressful, but with each stumble Willow made and each insult thrown her way, she became better.
So, when she approached the dark desk of Professor Snape, Willow was anticipating a reprimand for her potion, a pointed question about the ingredients used or how many times she needed to stir the mixture. However, Snape continued to be full of surprises.
“The November full moon is this Thursday,” he said. “Full moons are an auspicious time for Potion Masters. Can you tell me why?”
Willow thought back to her Potions and Herbology textbooks, both of which she kept on her person at all times. She practically had them memorized by now. “Plants harvested during a full moon tend to be more potent, particularly if they have been directly in the moonlight. And there are some magical plants that only flower during a full moon, so Potion Masters can only harvest them once a month.”
Willow knew she ought to be more wary of Snape. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were dead set on Snape being the dangerous villain after whatever Fluffy was guarding, and even Willow could not deny the evidence against him. But, like Christopher, she had doubts. Snape being a bully and being a dark wizard were two very different things.
She watched Snape’s expression carefully. She had learned that Snape did not give compliments or praise of any kind. However, Willow had come to savor the small bits of approval she could gleam from the sour professor. The quick flash in his black eyes, or the rise of an eyebrow. It was nothing, and yet it was everything.
At her answer, he gave a stiff nod. “A rudimentary explanation, but correct nonetheless. Miss Potter, being a Potion Master requires more than brewing adequate potions. It also requires foraging. Why is foraging preferable to buying ingredients?”
“Usually, the ingredients are of better quality and there's rarely a cost.”
“Why have someone poorly do the work for you when you can simply do it yourself better?" Snape raised an eyebrow. “I intend to forage this full moon. I would like you to accompany me.”
Willow’s heart skipped a beat. “Me?” she sputtered, unable to conceal her shock. “But why? There must be others that are better. Seventh years, or even professors.”
Snape narrowed his eyes, a sign displeasure. “Do not overestimate your abilities. I ask you not because of extraordinary skill, as you do not possess that. I ask because you are teachable.”
Willow wasn’t sure if she should feel insulted or flattered.
“You have demonstrated a basic competency for potion making that, with proper guidance, might evolve into something not entirely useless.” Snape continued, his voice smooth. “That is, if you do not prove to be as idiotic as the rest of your peers.”
A faint flicker of pride warmed Willow, though she quickly tampered it down. There would be time to expound on her accomplishment later. Snape did not take well to self-flattery. “Thank you, Professor. I would be honored to join you.”
“The honor is entirely yours,” he said with dry amusement. “Meet me in the entrance hall at eight o’clock Thursday evening. Dress warmly and bring your wand.”
Willow nodded, her heart already racing. She gripped her bag tightly, and turned on the spot, eager to get to the library and read as much as she could before Thursday evening.
“Miss Potter,” Snape called to her as she reached the door, “you would do well to remember that foraging is not a whimsical stroll through the countryside. It takes focus and precision. Do not waste my time.”
“I understand, Professor.”
Snape gave her one last piercing look before bowing his head over his desk. It was as much of a dismissal as she was going to get, and Willow closed the classroom door behind her. In the hallway, she found Harry, Ron, Hermione, Mae, and Christopher all waiting. Harry and Ron were leaning against the wall, avidly discussing something. Willow assumed it was Quidditch, as Harry was miming a maneuver with his fingers while Ron looked on, shaking his head. Sitting on a bench was Hermione and Christopher, showing Mae a muggle handshake, which involved snaps and claps and absolutely delighted Mae.
Willow hesitated just outside the Potions door. She was absolutely elated about the opportunity to forage, sure that no one in the first-year had been asked. The pride she had hidden before welled inside her, more powerful than before. However, there was the matter of what Snape meant to the others—dangerous, cruel, and possibly out to kill the Potters. If she told them about her proposed evening with him, alone and away from the safety of Hogwarts, they’d think she’d gone mad.
“Whatcha standing there for?” Ron waved her over with a grin, and Willow went without pause. When asked why Snape had kept her back, she calmly stated that he simply wanted to remind her to study the Wiggenweld Potion, as she would be brewing it without directions next week. The response satisfied the group, and then she excused herself to go to the library.
Thursday approached quickly. The entire day, Willow felt as though she sat on pins and needles, eager to grab her wand and winter cloak and leave the castle immediately. Every class was agonizingly slow, and dinner felt like a drag. At ten minutes to eight, she managed to come up with a plausible excuse to leave Mae and Chris in the common room (“I told Hermione I’d help her with Herbology in the library”) and she shrugged on her cloak the moment she was out of sight.
Snape was waiting for her in the Entrance Hall, and the clock chimed as she approached him. He was dressed in his usual black robes, though he wore a thick black winter cloak over them. Around his waist, he wore a black belt and off it hung various instruments including knives, scissors, and tweezers. Slung across his body was a soft leather pouch, and when Snape turned to face Willow, she heard the tell-tell clink of vials.
“Good evening, Professor,” she said as she approached him. She felt silly with only her wand, but straightened up as tall as she could.
Snape did not return the greeting. He looked her up and down and rolled his eyes. “Are you prepared?” he asked.
Willow nodded. Snape drew in a deep breath and then exited the castle. Willow followed behind him. The air was cold and brisk, and Willow could see her breath. The full moon shone above them, undeterred by clouds or fog. It was a beautiful night, and as they walked through the courtyard and out onto the grounds, Willow struggled to keep pace, wanting to stop and admire the view of the forest and the lake.
“Where are we foraging, sir?” she asked as they marched across the grass.
“The forest.”
Willow stopped in her tracks. The forest was forbidden, and if the whispers from the upperclassmen were to be believed, it was for good reason. The forest was a dangerous place for wizards, even powerful, clever ones like Snape. There was no telling what they could encounter within it.
“Is there a problem, Potter?” Snape called. He had not stopped walking toward the forest.
Willow steeled her nerves. The forest would be fine. She was with Snape, and Snape wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She forced herself to place one foot in front of the other, and she jogged to Snape’s side, ignoring the pounding of her heart and the voice in her head, that sounded an awful lot like Harry, whispering at her to turn back now while she could.
They entered the forest a few paces from Hagrid’s hut. The windows were lit, and Willow longed to be enveloped into its warmth. Instead, she followed Snape into the cool dark, past the tree line. The trees towered above her, some long and skinny, and others large and gnarled. Their branches reached upward, as if they could touch the moon themselves. The undergrowth was just as dense, and each step Willow took came with the crackling of twigs and the shuffle of moss and grass.
Snape walked with confidence, as if he had taken this trek a hundred times before. Once they were out of the light of Hagrid’s hut, he raised his wand and flicked it. The tip illuminated with a bright, white light, and Willow followed it like a moth, keeping close to it and its owner.
Soon, all reminders of the world outside faded, and Willow only knew the forest. The hoot of an owl, the shiver of the wind through the barren trees, the crunch of her and Snape’s footsteps on the rarely disturbed ground. She strained her ears for any hint of an unwanted creature, but heard nothing. It was more alarming than comforting. Snape's head acted as though it was on a swivel, and though he walked straight, he never kept his focus in front of him for long.
“Pay attention,” he said in a low voice. “This is not a place for idle wandering. Keep your chin up and your senses sharp. You never know what may be watching in the shadows.”
Willow swallowed hard, and gripped her wand tightly beneath her cloak. “What are we foraging tonight?”
“Fluxweed, moonseed, hemlock, and nightshade. We will start with moonseed. What do you know of it?”
Willow hardly knew anything of the plant, but dutifully listed off what she could remember from her course books. “It’s poisonous, every part of it. The seed is shaped like a crescent moon, which is where the common name comes from. It’s often confused with grapes.”
“One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi is a simple text. It would do you well to expand your personal library and invest in specified novels.” Snape continued his march into the dark. “Moonseed can be lethal. It thrives in shaded areas, particularly those near rivers. When harvested under a full moon, the toxicity increases and it becomes an immensely powerful ingredient.”
They continued on in silence, weaving through the trees. Snape seemed to have an innate sense of direction, taking his cues to turn from the landmarks around him. After a few minutes, Snape pushed through a clump of trees and revealed a river. He stopped just by the bank and gestured to the tree on his left. At the base was a cluster of vines, the ends of which were reaching high straining toward the moonlight. The fruit in the center was crescent shaped.
The professor strode over to the plant and knelt before it. Willow mirrored his movement. Snape withdrew a short silver knife from his belt and handed it to Willow, his long fingers gently holding the blade while the hilt faced her. She gingerly took it, and watched as Snape withdrew a second knife. This one he kept for himself. He then placed the edge of the blade just under the berry.
“Cut close to the stem, like so,” he instructed and demonstrated. “Ensure that you do not damage the plant unnecessarily. It is paramount that you respect the ingredients.”
Willow copied his movement, and though it was not nearly as precise or clean, the berries were collected with ease. The tension she had been holding slowly began to dissipate as the precision of the work overcame her. There was no room for error, and with each cut, she felt a small sense of accomplishment. Once she had collected the ripe berries, she placed them in the glass jar by Snape's knees. He raised an eyebrow as she carefully dropped hers in, but said nothing, which Willow took as a sign of approval. After this, she moved onto the leaves, collecting the large ones in the same manner as she had the berries. These went into a thin flask. While she did this, Snape dug at the roots, carefully choosing which ones to cut and which to preserve.
“It does no good to completely decimate a plant,” he told her when she asked why he considered each cut so carefully. “This moonseed needs to survive for as long as possible, and it will do so if only I take what is necessary.”
Once everything from the moonseed had been collected, they crossed the river and began their hunt for fluxweed. As with moonseed, Snape gave curt direction and explanations. He offered no praise, only critique, but Willow hung onto his every word. After fluxweed, Snape had her identify nightshade, and the process began once again. It was exhilarating and Willow found her initial fear of the forest melting away as she became absorbed in her task.
It was all going well, until they were harvesting hemlock.
Willow couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she had sensed the change, but once it came upon her, it was undeniable. One second she had been relatively calm, gently collecting the hemlock seeds and placing them into a small vial, and the next, she was on her feet, wand pointed in front of her, her foraging task forgotten. Snape paused in collecting the hemlock roots, his black eyes scanning the area surrounding them. It was dark beyond the low light he had cast with his wand.
There was the snap of a branch. The crunch of twigs. A low growl.
“Professor,” Willow began in a low whisper, unable to keep the tremble out of her voice, “are there werewolves in this forest?”
“It is a possibility,” Snape matched her volume, but sounded completely unconcerned. “Potter, it is imperative I harvest this hemlock root tonight. Do you understand?”
Willow was sure he could hear the pounding of her heart. The end of her wand shook, and as try as she might, Willow could not get her hand to steady. The darkness beyond their small circle of light seemed alive, shifting with each sound. Willow turned over her shoulder, then turned around again. Anything could jump out from any angle.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“If something should come your way, the stunning spell, Stupefy, should be sufficient.”
“Against a werewolf?” Willow whirled around, staring at her professor incredulously. “Sir, I—”
“Silence!” Snape interrupted, and his tone brokered no argument. He turned back to the hemlock and began cutting away at the root, perfectly cool. Willow felt intensely hot, sweat pooling under her robes. Another twig snapped, and she jumped, turning to face away from Snape.
There, just beyond the edge of light, was a pair of gleaming, yellow eyes staring at her from just behind one of the larger trees. It was just out of the light and so Willow could not tell if it was a werewolf, regular wolf, or something else entirely.
Willow did not dare to speak. She did not dare to breathe. She held her wand outward, desperately trying to stop her hand from shaking violently.
Behind her, Snape muttered a spell Willow could barely hear, and then light bloomed over her. A ball of bright, white light shone above her head and illuminated the surrounding area, further than it had before. She could see clearly now her predator, and fear struck her so powerfully, she thought she might faint on the spot. Illuminated in the light of the full moon and Snape’s spell was a tall, strong, terrifyingly real werewolf.
It was nearly indistinguishable from a regular wolf, but thankfully Professor Quirrell had been reviewing them in his class and had shown the class numerous photographs and diagrams. It had grey matted fur, a short snout, and a tufted tail. It's eyes were the most unsettling feature—yellow in color, but human shaped. The wolf crouched low, muscles taunt, a guttural growl rumbling from deep within its chest.
“Remember the stunning spell, Potter." Snape's voice was calm and deliberate.
Willow shook her head, and watched as the wolf tracked the movement. “A single stunning spell will not take down a fully grown werewolf.”
“It has to.”
The wolf stepped forward, and Willow’s breath hitched. The wind began running through the trees, shaking the branches, lifting up the edges of her cloak. The wolf sniffed at it curiously, and Willow felt a familiar prickle at the back of her neck.
Yes, she thought, and she relaxed into the feeling. I need you.
She planted her feet and felt the sturdiness of the dirt beneath her. Every blade of grass, every small rock embedded below her feet, every bit of moss and clay and silt sang to her. She listened to their call, and pulled their song inside her, grounding herself, filling herself with their energy. The wind was wild now, whipping her hair in front of her eyes. She tasted iron on her tongue, and swallowed it, more certain now than ever.
The werewolf bent low, its eyes narrowing. Willow knew she should feel fear. Some distant part of her did, and it screamed when the wolf reared back and propelled itself forward, soaring above the ground, its mouth agape, ready to bite.
But the distant part of her was silenced as Willow raised her wand arm. It was no longer shaking. It was strong and powerful, pointed directly at the wolf’s chest.
“Stupefy!”
A jet of blindingly red light shot from her wand, and hit the werewolf in the breast. It collapsed mid jump, falling to a heap on the ground. She watched as it breathed, but did not move otherwise. She had properly stunned it, knocking it out completely.
And then she, too, collapsed to the forest ground, shaking like the branches above her. Her wand slipped from her fingertips. She didn’t have the energy to reach for it. The grass beneath her was frigid, and when she curled her fingers around a grey blade, it crumbled to ash. She was cold, achingly cold, every inch of her screaming in pain. It felt like she had run an entire marathon and then been hit by a double-decker bus. She lay there, unable to move, barely able to breathe, terrified the wolf would wake up, but more terrified of herself.
What have I done?
“Potter,” came a sharp voice from above her. She watched as a golden thread surrounded the werewolf, encapsulating it in a gilded cage. If it did reawaken, it would not be able to escape. Then, she saw a black cloak sweep in front of her vision. Snape crouched down, his black eyes scrutinizing her closely. She had never seen him so intensely focused.
He raised his wand and gave a quick sweep over her huddled body. Willow barely had the energy to turn her face upward and see what his diagnostic spell displayed. The various colors and shapes made no sense to her, and she doubted they would even in her regular state. But Snape understood them, and the longer he stared, the thinner his mouth became.
“You foolish, reckless child,” he hissed. “You’ve nearly burnt yourself out.”
Willow’s head had never ached as much as it did now, and the colors made her vision swim. Snape dismissed the diagnostics with another flick of his wand, plunging them into the dim moonlight.
“Get up,” he commanded. “You are not dying, as much as you may feel like it.”
Willow forced herself to move, her limbs trembling with the effort. She pushed herself off the ground, and stumbled into the nearest tree, grasping it for support. Snape watched her without any offer of assistance. She felt a brief swell of hatred toward him for it, though it was quickly forgotten as her vision swam, and she focused her attention on staying upright without fainting.
“Professor,” she slurred, her voice hoarse, "is there something wrong with me?”
Snape's expression darkened, and he did not answer right away. He busied himself with gathering the remaining of his foraging supplies, and plucking Willow’s wand from where it had rolled away from her. He handed it to her with a flick of his wrist, and she gratefully took it from him, finally feeling anchored.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” he answered finally. “But you are untrained. And that is dangerous.”
He stared at her a moment, and Willow could have sworn she saw a flicker of concern flash across his features. But, given her state, she doubted her own senses, and it was gone the second it appeared.
“Come,” Snape snapped, turning on his heels and striding into the dense trees. “We are done here. We are going to the headmaster.”
Willow straightened up at that. “Dumbledore?”
Snape did not warrant such a silly question with a response. He continued onward, illuminating his wand by his side. Willow stumbled after him, each step agonizing. But she paid her suffering no mind, instead thinking of the thousand questions that were flooding her mind, trying to decide on which one she would ask the headmaster first.