Quirrell woke from his sleep feeling like a man who'd suffered insomnia for ten thousand years and had finally slept another ten thousand, washing away every scrap of past pain.
He reached up and felt the top of his head. Apart from smooth, bare scalp, there was nothing there—but Quirrell couldn't shake the feeling that he used to wear something on it.
What was it?
He couldn't remember. Every trace that purple turban had left in history had already been erased by Skyl's Eternal Transfiguration.
But he hadn't forgotten the one who'd tormented him—that mysterious man. Oh, Quirrell didn't even dare think of that man's title.
"At last you're awake. Quirinus, how do you feel?"
The voice was old and deep and kind. Quirrell didn't need to open his eyes to know it was Dumbledore.
"Professor… wh-where am I?"
"The hospital wing, my dear Quirinus. You've been asleep for a full two days."
"Professor Dumbledore—Merlin, you don't know how glad I am to see you, I…" Quirrell broke into sobs on the bed.
The hospital wing was under the charge of Madam Pomfrey, an excellent healer who took her work very seriously. The moment she heard Quirrell crying, she moved at once to hustle Dumbledore out.
"The patient needs rest. Don't agitate him."
Quirrell hurried to defend Dumbledore. "No, it's all right, it's not the Professor's fault at all. I'm much better now, there's no need to—"
Before he could finish, a bolt of lightning split his mind. Pain stabbed through his skull and Quirrell let out a scream, collapsing back onto the bed.
Faced with Madam Pomfrey's reproachful glare, even Dumbledore felt a little guilty. He tucked the blankets snugly around Quirrell, urged him to rest well, and then took his leave.
It was expected that Professor Quirrell would be stuck in bed for at least half a month. In the meantime, someone needed to cover Defence Against the Dark Arts.
The moment news of the vacancy spread, Severus Snape went straight to Dumbledore. He wanted the job. That burning desire had been there for years, and both he and the Headmaster knew it perfectly well.
Dumbledore also thought it was a good idea. Severus was a capable wizard; with him teaching, the children would definitely learn something real. But just then, a letter arrived in the Headmaster's office, delivered by owl from the hospital wing.
It was a very long letter, five feet of parchment covered in a hand that veered between shaky and steady. Quirrell described what had happened to him in Albania, how he had lived under the command of the mysterious man, how he'd been pushed into breaking into Gringotts to steal—and how he had been saved by the transfer student, Skyl.
Even with all his long years of life, Dumbledore couldn't help feeling a touch of "well, you really do live long enough to see everything" when he finished the letter.
Snape sat opposite the Headmaster's desk, his expression as shadowed as ever, trying to read the contents from Dumbledore's face. The old wizard's expression had shifted several times as he read.
"Severus, I'm sorry," Dumbledore said at last, looking up from the parchment with an apologetic air. "Quirinus has recommended a teaching assistant. While he is recuperating, this assistant will be responsible for Defence Against the Dark Arts matters."
"Oh? Has he now? How interesting." Snape answered automatically. He became aware that his leg had started jiggling and immediately stood up, placing his hands lightly on the edge of the desk. "And who might this assistant be? Minerva, or Flitwick?"
"Skyl," Dumbledore said, his tone complicated, almost a sigh. "I need to speak with him in person. Severus, if you don't mind, please bring him to my office."
The first words out of Snape's mouth when he saw Skyl were: "Skyl, you and… where did that dog come from?"
"This is Afu. He's very good."
The wolfhound's keen, burning gaze locked onto Severus Snape, making the former Death Eater extremely uncomfortable.
"Dogs are not allowed at school," Snape said coolly. "If you can't remove it, I'll give it a peaceful death with a potion."
"Woof! Woof!!"
Afu was so furious he could have burst a lung. If Snape had understood dog language, he'd have been verbally flayed alive by Voldemort on the spot.
Skyl chuckled. "I don't mind. As it happens, Professor Dumbledore really ought to meet Afu. I'm sure he'll like this dog."
"I hate dogs," Snape said, face blank.
"Woof, woof, WOOF!!"
Even with the lead on, Afu strained to hurl himself at Snape and take a chunk out of him. The students passing by were all silently cheering him on. If that bite actually landed, in less than half an hour the biggest piece of news at Hogwarts would be: Heard the latest? The old bat got bitten by a dog!
"Quiet," Skyl said, his tone mild.
The wolfhound dropped flat as if someone had snapped his spine.
"You've trained him well," Snape thought, secretly impressed. Looks like there really is a way to handle dogs. If I'd learned this back then, dealing with that blasted little Sirius…
"What's the matter?" Skyl had read a strange flicker of malice on Snape's face—aimed not at him, but at some painful memory from long ago.
"Nothing."
In fact, relations between the old bat and the transfer student were pretty good. In the very first Potions lesson, Skyl had demonstrated five different ways to brew Essence of Dittany, four of which weren't recorded in any textbook. Snape had been forced to praise him against his own instincts. Since then, they'd had the odd conversation here and there, and the atmosphere had always been decent.
As Skyl followed Snape toward the Headmaster's office, he asked, "Professor Snape, I've been studying spellcraft lately. It really isn't easy to invent new spells, is it?"
Snape had already been capable of creating spells as a student; in this area, he was rich in experience.
Strictly speaking, with the knowledge Skyl had now, he ought to be able to invent spells. But this was exactly what had stumped him. After puzzling over it again and again with no answer, he had been forced to admit that mortal intelligence had its limits, and had come to seek Snape's advice.
Snape didn't refuse. He simply asked, "How well do you know runes?"
"I know a bit," Skyl replied. He had deliberately gathered materials on the subject. His "bit" of knowledge was already at the level of an old wizard who specialised in the field.
"The earliest spells in the British Isles were written in runes. The witches and wizards of that time were called Druids. After Christianity spread here, the runic script gradually fell out of use. Most of the incantations we have now are derived from Latin. Today's wizards and the Druids of old may seem to be using different magic, but in essence there is no real difference."
"Yes."
"Flitwick will have stressed that the wording of an incantation must be precise. But I'm sure you already know incantations are not what matters. Language itself has no magic of its own—or at least its magic does not manifest directly. It must be completed through a witch or wizard. Otherwise Muggles could cast spells too."
Skyl knew this very well. "The most important thing in casting is to have a clear understanding of the spell's effect, an unshakeable will, and sufficient magic. I have all of that. And yet I still can't create a brand-new spell."
"The creation of a spell isn't a flash of inspiration," Snape said. "Quite the opposite. The process is hazy and dull. Spells are often born out of some delirious dream."
When he finished describing in detail the circumstances under which he'd created his own spells, Skyl suddenly saw the light. At last he knew why he couldn't invent spells—he hadn't dreamed in a very long time.
To be exact, he hadn't dreamed at all since crossing worlds. Perhaps his sleep quality was simply too good, and now that had become a problem.
"Is there any way besides dreaming?"
"None that I know of," Snape said.
They stopped at the entrance to the Headmaster's office. Today's password was: "Cockroach Clusters."
"Skyl, I think we need to have a proper talk," Dumbledore said.
He stood behind his desk, bright eyes glinting behind his half-moon spectacles. Then he glanced at Snape. "Severus, would you give us a little time? As for the Defence Against the Dark Arts substitute, I'll notify you separately."
Dumbledore turned his gaze back to Skyl—and the first thing out of his mouth was:
"Oh my, where did that dog come from?"
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