Chapter Text
When Callidus opened his eyes, he was in the one place that he had hoped to be, which also happened to be the one place where he hadn't expected to find himself.
“Don't try and sit-up,” Madam Pomfrey commanded, hovering over him, her strident words belied by the evident concern in her eyes. Had something happened? Had one of his attempts to land himself in a prolonged stay in the infirmary been successful? As he shifted, he gasped, feeling as if his chest had been packed by shards of glass, the pain shrill and making stars burst in the corner of his vision. But then, there was something at his lips, sliding down his throat, and blessed moments later, the bright pain became a bearable dull ache.
“What happened?” he rasped out.
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me, Mr Prince,” the matron said wryly.
“I -”
She cut him off. “I’d best let the Headmaster know you’re awake. He’ll want to hear this, and I imagine you aren’t in any state to have to repeat yourself.”
No state to have to repeat himself? What exactly had he done? His eyes followed Madam Pomfrey as she rushed off to her office, before he thought to take full measure of his surroundings. He had thought to find himself alone. But when his eyes fell upon two familiar heads, one with raven black hair, and one silver blond, he gasped yet again, and the dullness in his chest took on an uncomfortable saw-toothed edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, momentarily willing away the reality of the situation, but when he opened his eyes again, Harry and Draco were still there, lying unconscious on the beds next to him. Think! He had to think. He needed to remember what happened, because it was there, skittering nervously along the edges of his memory.
He could remember being exhausted. In fact, his mind was sharper now, despite being bedridden in the infirmary, than it had been in the past few weeks. How had he let himself get into such a state? His lips pulling into a grimace, he reminded himself that it was because he wasn’t good enough yet. Though Dumbledore had lent him that book on Occlumency, trying to pick up the skill through the written medium was akin to trying to learn to play the harpsichord from a textbook. But he knew that his reason for being in the hospital wing had nothing to do with the fifth years.
He could remember noise, a terrible racket reminiscent of an orchestra made up entirely of people who were tone deaf. And Rowle! Harry had finally succeeded in venting fourth his terrible vengeance upon Rowle. It had been rather spectacular - if Callidus could actually remember any details of it. But he did have a vague recollection of being rather awestruck. And then - and then -
Draco! And anger. And alcoves. And pain, so much pain. Pain, as if -
No, it couldn’t be. And yet, Draco’s words: ‘I thought we were brothers.’
Brothers. Brothers. What had Draco said last year? It seemed like so long ago. And the pain. Pain reminiscent of his heart shattering. The anguish of heartbreak. Callidus shook his head, unwilling to believe it. What they were experiencing now couldn't have anything to do with their brotherhood bond, could it? How could such a thing even be possible? His breathing was becoming ever more shallow, the shards in his chest taking on a razor edge, and suddenly, Madam Pomfrey was once again at his side, tipping something down his throat.
“In and out,” she said soothingly. “That's it, deep, calm breaths. Better?”
Callidus nodded. When he once again took stock of his surroundings, he caught sight of the Headmaster, unmistakable in his garish robes and powerful thrum of magic, behind the matron.
“Is he well enough to speak?” Dumbledore was asking.
Madam Pomfrey’s lips were pressed into a censorious line. “He shouldn’t even be awake now. If not for the other two - well, you know very well what I think, Albus.”
“I know. I wouldn’t have asked for this if not for greater need of the three.”
Madam Pomfrey answered that with only a harrumph, and Dumbledore stepped up to his bedside.
“Hello, Callidus,” the Headmaster said, and though he was not garbed in his full grandfatherly persona, the words were warm and kind.
“Harry and Draco,” Callidus broke out. He needed to know.
Dumbledore’s blue eyes were apologetic, and the implication of that look was like ice in Callidus’s veins, running straight to his heart, and then it was white sharpness and then -
“This is a bad idea, Albus!” Madam Pomfrey cried. “He needs rest!”
“Unfortunately, this is one matter that rest won’t fix,” Dumbledore answered, regretfully. “Powerful magic is involved here. Old magic.” He returned his attention to Callidus. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Callidus didn't want to tell the Headmaster anything. The very idea went against his instincts, making his hackles want to rise. If this was related to their brotherhood bond, then shouldn't it be between the three of them? But then it occurred to Callidus that Dumbledore already knew. He had been closer to Dumbledore last year, and remembered the old man making reference to it. He silently cursed. He had been so much more trusting then, had revealed so much to the Headmaster.
Trying to draw in a steadying breath, he repeated: “Harry and Draco. Please - are they all right?”
Dumbledore gave him a measured look. “Your friends are in very grave condition. They are under a stasis spell now, and we’ve been doing what we can to stem the damage that has already been done. But -” he hesitated, “the stasis only keeps them in the state they are in. If we were to release it, the magic would -”
“Kill them,” Callidus finished weakly.
“We’re hoping it won’t come to that.”
Something occurred to Callidus. “How long have we been here?”
Dumbledore hesitated. “Nearly a week.”
Callidus paled, his mind reeling. “But what about me?” Callidus wondered. “Why am I - am I - while they -” he couldn’t form the question he wanted to ask.
“You are affected as well, but not as severely as both your friends,” Dumbledore explained. “Whatever magic that has enveloped the three of you, you seem to be on the periphery of this.”
Callidus thought back to that moment in the alcove. He thought of the look in Draco's eyes as he interrogated Harry. At the time, Callidus had been too weary to make sense of it. But now, as he replayed what he remembered, he thought it must have been betrayal in Draco eyes. After all, Callidus had been aware that Harry had been hiding something. The second prank, the obnoxiously noisy one, he had no clue about, but Harry wasn't awake and Callidus couldn't exactly ask him if indeed he had been responsible. He let it a long and uncomfortable exhale, realizing that he was beyond his depths.
Looking back in Dumbledore's direction, he said: “I think it's the brotherhood bond.”
“Can you tell me the process it involved?”
Callidus’s eyebrows swept upwards. It hadn't occurred to him that there might be more than one type of brotherhood ritual, but he supposed it was no surprise. He explained the process of the daggers, the mingled blood, the intent, and the magic.
“There were no incantations?”
Callidus shook his head. “No.”
Dumbledore let out a contemplative hum. “It will take me time to find the right spell so that we might fix this. But for now, it's best for you to rest. I have the sense that you'll play a central role in what's to come.” Callidus nodded, and after a few soft spoken words to Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore left.
Disapproval still clear on her face, the matron checked him over with a quick diagnosis spell, before handing him a phial of potion. He glanced at the small glass container, instantly recognizing what it was. His heart surged up his throat. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep, after having been unconscious for nearly a week.
“I won't need it,” Callidus said, pushing the Sleeping Draught back towards Madam Pomfrey. “To be honest, I'm already moments from nodding off.”
The matron gave him along and suspicious look, but then sighed and shook her head. “Young people are so stubborn,” he heard her mutter under her breath. But to his relief, she didn't force the matter, and after checking over him once again, she returned to her office.
After an indeterminable wait, in which each passing minute seemed to drag its feet, Callidus decided that now was as good a chance as any. He glanced back towards Harry and Draco, pushing away his mournful feelings at the sight of them. He could do nothing for them know, but with Dumbledore's help, perhaps he could help them later. He had to be able to help them later. But for now, the long-awaited opportunity had arisen. He was ensconced within the bowels of the infirmary, and he could finally examine the students that had been infected by the Orange Madness.
He felt his pulse leaping when it occurred to him that he didn't know if he had his school bag. But as he pushed himself up, each centimeter slow and measured to ease the pain in his chest, he checked each side of his bed, and exhaled with relief when he spotted his book bag. He also happened to notice a number of get well cards and letters on the nearby bed stand table, but it didn't seem important at the moment.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, biting back a sharp intake of breath from the jagged twinges that seemed to spark one another, scattering needle-like pricks through his chest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he counted his breath, and let his mind clear into a hazy softness, implementing one of his Occlumency exercises. He took the physical pain that he felt, and imagined shutting it away in a cupboard, the same way he would shut away unneeded potions ingredients. To his relief, his mental exercise seem to have helped. After another cautious glance towards Madam Pomfrey’s office, he pushed himself to his feet.
A wave of intense dizziness washed over him, tilting the infirmary in alarming angles, but it was only until a sense of nausea arose that he sat back down. He needed to think. Perhaps it would be better to apply the owl sight potion first, and then vapourize Longbottom's Brew once he was nearer to the infected students. Just because he was all but hospitalized, it didn't mean that he needed to act rashly.
The owl sight potion did nothing to ameliorate his sense of dizziness, and only amplified his nausea, but having taken that step hardened his resolve. After a bracing breath, he stood up, letting his weight lean against the bed until the infirmary was no longer spinning. Longbottom’s brew in hand, he pushed away from the bed, sliding his feet along the floor when he realized that taking actual steps only served to jar his head, making it ring and vibrate like a bell. He kept his eyes pinned towards the curtains that cordoned off the infected students. To turn his head now and look towards Madam Pomfrey’s office would only set his delicate balance in disarray.
By the time he had slid over to the privacy curtains, he was panting, sweat beading on his forehead from the exertion. The dull throb in his chest was once again jangling his nerves and becoming something more threatening, but he ignored it. It was maddeningly effortful to uncork the phial of Longbottom’s brew, but he managed it after four tries, and then, it was only a matter of uttering a spell to vapourize it.
Waiting for the vapourized potion to work took so long that Callidus feared the stasis spell might have interfered with the effectiveness of Longbottom's Brew. However, when he began to notice the streams of yellow and white that emerged from the prone bodies, he exhaled gratefully. As the loops and whirls of magic appeared around the infected students, a clear pattern began to emerge - one which was less of a surprise than he expected. Aside from the student in Ravenclaw who had hints of bronze in their magical signature, the rest of the students were surrounded by mostly yellows and whites. But it was the sight of Longbottom which shocked him the most.
The last time he had seen Longbottom's magic, it had been vivid and bright, leaping around him in brilliant arcs that seemed to have a life of their own. But that magic was now dulled and sluggish, the arches of magic lying low across his body as if it did not even have the energy to leap forth from his skin. The sight of it terrified him more than he could have imagined. It was one thing to hear Madam Pomfrey talking about how Longbottom was deteriorating; it was another matter to witness it with his own eyes.
Though he still hadn't learned to interpret all the colours of magic, he knew enough to know that having only white or yellow in one’s magical signature suggested that a person hadn't ever used Dark magic or Old magics, such as Earth magics. He couldn't feel comfortable drawing conclusions from such a small sample, and yet, he couldn't stop himself from speculating. What if the Orange Madness didn't attack those with muggle blood, but instead attacked those who only ever practiced Light magic, or other forms of magic approved by the Ministry? If the Orange Madness was based on that, then it would still disproportionately affect muggleborns and half-bloods over purebloods.
He wanted to rush down to his lab immediately. Or if not that, then he needed to write a letter to Wystan. Wystan already had researchers working on this very issue. If Callidus tried to take care of it himself, would he even be able to save Longbottom in time? Once again, his pulse was beginning to accelerate, and after another wave of dizziness, he knew he needed to get back to his bed. He began to slide his feet back, pushing past the privacy curtains, but then he felt an intense jolt of agony in his chest, and collapsed.
He was just so weary. And now that he was down, he didn't think he could push himself back up. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.
-o-
When Callidus next awoke, he was back in the hospital bed, and the shadowed light that entered through the infirmary windows suggested either dawn or dusk. It disoriented him to have no sense of the time. This time, both Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore were by his bedside, the matron’s lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.
His memories of what he had done came back in a rush, and he managed to croak out an apology. If there was one person he didn't want anger, it was Madam Pomfrey. After all, so long as he was in the infirmary, he was in her power. He cringed back into his bed, waiting for her to castigate him for his recklessness, thanking the fates for the fact that he hadn't crumbled while he was still examining the disease students. If that had been the case, he wasn't sure how he would explain himself. Fortunately, before Madam Pomfrey could speak, Dumbledore came to the rescue.
“How are you feeling, Callidus?”
Callidus grimaced. “Like someone replaced my lungs with broken potion phials.”
“Unsurprising when you don’t have the good sense to stay in your bed,” the matron muttered, but she was uncorking a phial of potion and handing it to him. He recognized it as a pain reliever, and gratefully drank it down, barely noticing the pungent taste.
“Why were you out of bed?” the Headmaster asked, eyes bright with a touch of impishness.
“I - well - bathroom! I wished to use the bathroom.”
The matron narrowed her eyes. “The bathroom is in the opposite direction of where you had collapsed.”
“I was - disoriented.”
The pair of them paused, weighing the truth of his words, but to Callidus’s relief, they let the matter drop. He thought about what he had learned - about how the infected students had a magical signature that made them vulnerable to the disease. Could he tell Madam Pomfrey? The thought tempted him, until he realized that most of wizarding society didn’t know that magic could be seen, and how could he ever explain? Especially since some part of him couldn’t bear the thought of revealing magic sight to others. It was too wonderful, and it was his , and his alone . He would have to trust Wystan. Wystan would help.
“I’ve discovered a method to help your friends,” Dumbledore was saying, pulling him from his thoughts. “However, it will be dependent on you, and your strength - both physical, mental and magical. It is a great deal to ask of you -”
“I’ll do it. If it can save Harry and Draco, I’ll do it.”
“I must impress upon you the gravity of the situation. The brotherhood ritual that you three had used is extremely powerful magic, and even with this opportunity to save your friends -”
“Please,” Callidus entreated. “I’ll take any chance. I can’t -” his mind reared away from the idea of ever losing Harry or Draco. Longbottom’s death would haunt him forever, but to lose Harry or Draco would kill him. Though in this case, it would be quite literal.
There was a look of deep respect in the Headmaster’s eyes when he nodded, and it made something within Callidus feel warm, even as he shivered.
“What do I need to do?”
“We cannot remove Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy from under the stasis spell. It would likely kill them immediately. But there is a form of magic that will enable you to venture into their minds, through a dream state.”
Something about the Headmaster’s words filled him with a deep disquiet. Why did the idea of visiting someone in their dreams seem so familiar? He searched his memories, trying to part the stubborn mists, but he could grasp onto nothing. There was only a feeling, almost like deja vu, and a lingering sense of danger. But then, why wouldn't it be dangerous? His friends’ - or he should say brothers’ - lives were at stake.
“Ordinarily, the Healer would be the one casting the spell on the patient’s whose mind they wish to visit,” Dumbledore informed him. “If there was more time, I would teach you the spell, since the link between you would be more stable. However, given our circumstances, I have modified the spell so that I shall be casting it to link you three together. The link should be strong enough to bring you to Mr Potter’s and Mr Malfoy’s mind once you have fallen asleep without needing to seek them out. We will need to relax the stasis spell for this, because the unconsciousness of the stasis is too deep for either of them to dream. But this means a greater risk. Your time will be limited, Callidus. The most telling sign is if the link should happen to grow unstable. I cannot tell you what that will look like, but you will know. Do you have any questions for me before we proceed?”
“What am I supposed to do when I find Harry and Draco?”
“You must aid them in mending their rift,” the Headmaster explained. “With the particular Brotherhood ritual you have chosen, I understand that the magic punishes betrayal?”
Callidus nodded.
“Then it will be necessary for you to help them overcome the feelings of betrayal. So long as the sense of treachery lingers in either of their hearts, the brotherhood ritual will be fatal to all of you.”
The feeling of cold crept across Callidus’s skin once again. He peeked over at Harry and Draco, both of whom appeared deceptively peaceful, as if they were merely sleeping, and it was strange to think that shaking them, and calling out: ‘wake up,’ would be ineffectual. Another wave of cold encompassed him when he realized their lives were in his hands. Oh Merlin. Could he even do this? He had to.
Dumbledore leaned forward, placing a hand on Callidus’s shoulder. “I have the utmost faith in you.”
The kind touch and solemn words soothed away a bit of his fear, and Callidus jerkily nodded. After a few more words of instruction, Dumbledore pulled out his wand and cast the spell upon Callidus, Harry, and finally Draco. The Headmaster’s magic was powerful, and curiously reassuring.
“Now what?” Callidus murmured.
“Now you sleep,” Dumbledore answered.
Callidus hummed, his eyelids already at half-mast. Distantly, he was aware that the sky had darkened. It was night then; not day. It felt like lifetimes ago that he had last slept at night. Because the truth was, he still hadn't escaped the grip of the fifth years. As he considered the older students, his heart seized in a sudden fear, but the power of his lassitude was too great and the blackness was coming for him. He was unconscious before a sound escaped his lips, before he could tell Dumbledore that this was a terrible moment, a risky time. But now, there would be no one to help him. No one but himself.
-o-
As Callidus returned to awareness, he recognized the sight of the Slytherin common room, bathed in a familiar green light. The common room was empty, which was odd, and he kept feeling something pushing insistently in his mind. He turned to look towards the immense fireplace, and spotted a familiar head of black hair sitting cross-legged at the sofa alone.
Stepping forward, he asked: “Harry?” What was Harry doing here without Draco?
Harry started, and looked up towards him, his green eyes shining with unshed tears. “Cal. Draco won't speak to me.” He looked down at his hands, wringing them in a nervous (or guilty?) gesture.
“Draco? Why?”
Harry gave him an odd look. “Don't you remember? You were there.”
The words were like a trigger, demolishing the blockage in Callidus’s mind, and his memories inundated him like the battering waves of a tsunami. The prank against Rowle. The fight between his best friends. The Brotherhood bond. The punishment of betrayal. The possibility of death. And more than that. The fifth years. It all came to him now - the way that they had attacked him, tortured him, in the realm of dreams. And when Dumbledore cast the spell, it had been night. He wasn't safe here. And yet, there were no fifth years in sight, and he needed to mend Harry’s and Draco’s friendship.
“Where’s Draco? We need to speak to him.”
Harry's eyes strayed towards the entrance to the boys’ dormitories. “He's locked himself up in the dorm. He won't let me in.” He lifted his gaze to meet Callidus’s, expression beseeching. “Will you speak to him for me? He won't talk to me, but maybe he'll talk to you.”
Callidus nodded, striding towards the dormitories. The dream distorted the space so that there was only one door in that corridor, and he jiggled at the handle. It was locked.
“Go away,” came Draco's muffled voice from behind the door.
“Draco, this is Callidus. Open the door.”
A pause. And then: “I don’t want to speak to anybody right now.”
Callidus groaned. Why did Draco have to be so obstinate? “Draco, this is important. It’s a matter of life and death. We need to talk.”
“Just leave me alone!”
Callidus gritted his teeth in frustration. Did Draco not understand the concept of life and death? Perhaps he needed to appeal to Draco’s selfishness. “You will die if you don’t speak to me and Harry.”
“Good!” Draco said after a moment. “Maybe if I’m dead and gone, you’ll both finally appreciate me the way you evidently can’t while I’m alive.”
Merlin! It was the most immature rationale he had ever heard. He probably would have started pulling out his hair in aggravation, except that the hurt in Draco’s voice was obvious, even through the thick door. But it occurred to him that this was just a dreamscape. A locked door couldn’t really hold him back. And yet, if he barged into the room, couldn’t that potentially damage Draco’s trust in him? He furrowed his brow. Dealing with interpersonal matters was not among his strengths.
Deciding to swallow his pride, he said: “Please, can we just talk? This isn’t just about you and Harry. It - it affects me as well.”
Draco was silent, but it was a silence that gave him hope; it meant that Draco was no longer reacting, but that he was thinking. He heard a sound from behind the door, thought the blond was about to open it, when suddenly his skin prickled with foreboding. He felt eyes upon him before he heard them.
“Well, well, look who decided to come out of hiding. Our little treacherous coward shows his face,” Hoyt’s voice rang out, dripping derision.
To be stamped a traitor was something that he expected, but for Hoyt to call him a coward caused a flare of red across his vision. His father’s face flashed across his mind's eye, drunk and radiating menace, presaging violence to come. He thought of his fear for his mother, for the broken skin and mottled bruises that would come, of the horrible and infuriating helplessness that would make him shake. There was nothing that he hated more then ever having to see that aspect of himself, to know the weakness in his own limbs, the ineffectualness of his words.
“Don't call me a coward,” he ground out hoarsely. Hoyt and her friends didn't know him; didn't know him at all.
“Cal?” came Harry’s voice from the common room. “Who are you speaking to?” just as Draco’s voice asked: “Did you say something?” Hoyt was saying something undoubtedly nasty and mocking, but her words were flowing over him, unable to penetrate the loud panic in his ears. And Alphie - Alphie just grinned, ravenous and half-mad.
Merlin, no. He felt something like a fist gripping his throat, strangling him, his eyes darting back and forth from the fifth years, to Harry who was padding over. And yet, neither Hoyt nor her friends turned towards Harry’s or Draco’s voice.
‘Can they not see them?’ he wondered, biting off the words that were about to form on his tongue. His words might not betray him, but it turned out that his eyes would. Hoyt’s eyes had narrowed into slits, while dark-skinned Randle and mousy-haired Drefen were following the direction of his gaze.
“Is someone else is here?” Randle murmured.
Hoyt stilled, like a hunting dog on a scent.
‘Please, please, please,’ Callidus’s entreated, unable to utter words to beg his friends’ safety. But he wasn't entirely helpless here, was he? His time spent pouring over the Occlumency text had to amount to something.
His scattered thoughts began to pulled themselves into some semblance of order, the chaff of needless worry ruthlessly discarded in favour of an ice-clear clarity. He needed to separate the fifth years from his more vulnerable friends. He needed to do something .
It was no easy feat, but he stripped away all extraneous thoughts, to focus on a single one. He could not tell if it was merely his imagination, but he sensed a burst of his own concentration and power, and the common room dissipated as he and the fifth years reappeared in one of the dungeon corridors, grey and nondescript. He felt a small spark of pride, aglow in his chest. Whatever bit of Occlumency he had picked up was helping if he could change his surroundings with this degree of firmness and control.
Hoyt’s eyes widened, before a cruel smile curved her lips. “Our little traitor has been working on strengthening his mind. You know, that just makes it all the more fun when we finally tear it apart.”
Alphie let out a sound alarmingly like a giggle, chanting: “I’m going to rip you to shreds. I’m going to dance in your blood,” oblivious to Drefen’s and Randle’s expressions of distaste.
“But first -” Hoyt interrupted, “I do believe we’re not alone. Who are you protecting, little traitor? Did you somehow manage bring some mudbloods and blood traitors into your dream?” She laughed, a sharp and ugly sound, like metal grinding together. She looked back towards her friends. “Alphie, why don't I give you the honour of having your fun with this one. As for us -” her eyes met with Drefen’s and Randle’s, “something different? I do love the idea of a little hunt.”
“No!” Callidus burst out, but Alphie’s wand was already on him, and his emotions were violently churning the still waters of his mind into a useless froth, and as Hoyt, Drefen and Randle turned their backs on him, Alphie gleefully spat out a word, and then there was only pain.