The crowds in the corridor were beginning to thin as the students, bubbling with holiday spirits, made their way through the twinkling corridors and down to the End of Year feast. Peeves had been hovering around in an especially excitable mood wearing a crown made of tinsel, pelting crowds with mince pies stolen from the kitchen and singing a very rude version of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’ at the top of his voice. The sharp tones of Professor McGonagall cut him off mid-chorus and a burst of giggles suggested he had responded with an amusing hand gesture. He struck up another round but his tinny voice grew quieter as he retreated, and Professor McGonagall could be heard chivvying along the still-giggling stragglers.
‘I think everyone’s gone,’ Delilah whispered.
‘Well, go and check,’ Pansy whispered back grumpily. ‘If I’m seen with you it’ll be social suicide.’
Delilah slipped out of the toilet cubicle they were crammed into and opened the bathroom door a crack. She peered up and down the deserted corridor and closed the door again.
‘We’re safe,’ she said.
Pansy slouched out of the cubicle.
‘So?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s the money?’
Delilah pulled her Gringotts bag out of the pocket of her robes.
‘It’s all there,’ she said, handing it over. ‘Twenty five big ones.’
Pansy took the bag and peered into it.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she said suspiciously, frowning up at Delilah.
‘I told you. I hate it here. I miss my old friends.’
‘I still don’t get why you can’t just ask to go back to Beauxbatons.’
‘It’s complicated. Do you want the cash or not?’
Pansy stared at Delilah for another moment, but then her piggy little eyes fixed on the bag of money in her hand and she nodded.
‘If this is some kind of trick though…’ she said warningly.
‘Look, let’s just get this over with, we’re running out of time. If you get to the feast late you’ll be noticed.’
‘OK.’
‘You ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remember, go downstairs quickly afterwards but don’t run, and if you meet anybody on the way, focus on acting naturally.’
‘Yes yes, I know.’
‘Well, come on then.’
Pansy drew her wand and Delilah took a deep breath, braced herself, and closed her eyes tightly.
After a moment, she opened them.
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Stop looking at me,’ Pansy said crossly. ‘I can’t do it with you looking at me.’
‘I wasn’t, I had my eyes closed.’
‘Well, close them again.’
Delilah closed her eyes and tensed as she heard Pansy draw breath; she heard a shouted word but it was drowned out by the explosion of pain that jarred through her entire torso, and she dimly heard the patter of rapid footsteps, a slamming door and her own scream of agony as she crashed to the cold tiled floor.
*
Professor Snape had been held up by a delayed owl and was in a biting temper as he made his way to the Great Hall, so was not best pleased to be intercepted at the top of the staircase by a quivering, clammy-looking third-year who clung weakly to the bannister, looking like he was going to be sick.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he snapped at the child. ‘Why aren’t you at the feast?’
The child paled and pointed mutely along the corridor like a tiny grim reaper.
Snape turned and saw, several feet away, a pool of blood inching ominously out from under a door. His heart stilled for a moment; a peculiar presentiment shot through him as he sprinted towards the door, and he flung it open to see Delilah Blackthorn lying in a pool of her own blood on the floor, her head slumped to the side and hair winnowing out beside her, lips and eyelids purple as a corpse, arm flung limply out, grasping for a wand which lay just out of reach.
He flew to her side and lifted the sodden left sleeve of her robes.
‘Diffindo,’ he muttered, gently pulling away the entire sleeve to reveal the tail end of a deep gash.
‘Diffindo’: he slashed the shoulder seam and peeled down the corner of her robes to see that, although it was still throbbing out a steady pulse of dark, arterial blood, the gaping wound had at least missed her heart.
‘Diffindo’: he severed the cotton strip between the cups of her bra and gently lifted the left one, once a jejune cornflower blue trimmed with a girlish lace, now heavy and scarlet with the lifeblood which gushed from her with lavish abundance.
He became aware that the third-year student had followed him along the corridor and was standing in the open doorway, staring, mesmerised at Delilah’s maimed, naked flesh.
‘Get to the feast you disgusting child,’ he snarled over his shoulder, ‘this isn’t a peep show. And if you tell a single soul what you saw here you’ll be expelled.’ He slashed his wand through the air and the door slammed closed in the boy’s face.
‘Diffindo’; he tore off the other sleeve, severed the other shoulder seam of her robes and pulled them down entirely. He lifted away her other bra cup and began to mutter a counter curse, running the tip of his wand over and over the torn skin, curling his free fist in despair as the throb of blood slowed but the jagged edges of her skin refused to knit.
‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘Come on.’
The worst wound ran from her sternum to her underarm, glancing over the top of her heart, deep and raw enough to make even Severus’ stomach turn over, pumping out blood that was thick as honey and so dark red it was almost black; this was surrounded by a number of more superficial but more stingingly scarlet wounds which ripped cruelly through the wincingly fragile-looking skin of her ribcage, which was fluttering madly like a rabbit’s.
Delilah was unconscious but still breathing in ragged little pants. He draped what remained of her robes back over her chest, then propped her up in the crook of his elbow and lifted her so that she flopped, light as a child in spite of her height, against his chest with her head on his shoulder, then gathered her mayfly legs in his other arm and staggered to his feet. He pointed his wand at the bathroom door with difficulty, accidentally letting her arm drop as he angled his wrist, so that her sundered robes fell open, her head flopped backwards and her wrist dangled down by her side. Severus strode through the corridor with her in his arms, staring down at her exposed neck, her pulse throbbing weakly against the delicately raised tendons of her throat.
*
Delilah was aware of the pain, tight and searing like a corset inlaid with barbed wire, before she knew who or where she was. She gave a strangled half-scream of agony and crossed her arms over her chest, instinctively not touching her wounds but clenching vice-like fists around her upper arms, gritting her teeth so hard her jaw felt like it would break.
‘Take this,’ said a voice at her shoulder, and she opened her eyes a crack to see the blurred form of Snape crouched beside her. She was paralysed with pain but nodded and opened her mouth. He held her jaw roughly, and slowly poured a few drops from a crystal vial into her mouth.
The relief was instantaneous and she sagged back, her arms falling to her sides as the effects of the tonic flooded through her. She realised she was in Snape’s study, lying on the hard little chaise lounge. He stood and walked over to his desk.
‘What happened?’ she croaked.
‘I was about to ask you the same. I found you lying in a pool of blood in a first-floor bathroom. It is most fortunate that I did: you wouldn’t have survived much longer.’
Delilah’s reply was so practised that it came out quite naturally in spite of her confused state.
‘I just went to the loo before the feast. I don’t know what happened after that.’
Snape stared bleakly at her, but his eyes were unfocused, a breakneck storm of thought galloping behind them.
Delilah became aware that she was wearing a white cotton napkin over her chest, held around her neck by a length of twine and pinned with tiny bulldog clips, like a dental bib; and that her robes were gathered in stiff rags around her ribcage. She picked up a corner of the bib gingerly and noticed a crimson bloom of fresh blood oozing through it.
‘Let me see,’ Snape said, walking across to her.
She stared at him.
‘For reasons which will soon be explained to you, I have kept this from Madame Pomfrey – in fact, from everybody except the headmaster, who will see you as soon as the feast is finished – and am treating you myself. Let me see.’
‘But…’ Delilah stammered foolishly.
‘Who do you think put this thing on you?’ he said impatiently, ripping the cotton sheet from her. He peered closely at her chest, and Delilah was immediately distracted from her embarrassment by the horrifying sight of her ravaged flesh. She fought a violent urge to vomit at the sight of her skin curling up in gruesome folds around the angry, gaping lacerations.
‘Can this be fixed?’ she whimpered.
‘Mostly. There will be some scarring, but you are extraordinarily lucky that the curse missed your heart: you would certainly have been killed if it hadn’t.’
Delilah closed her eyes as Snape turned away again, walking over to a tall glass-fronted cabinet mounted on the wall, full of different-sized potion bottles.
This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, she thought desolately.
Snape came back with a large plain bottle and poured a measure from it into a beaker.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, wincing as she struggled up onto her elbow.
‘Our old friend the Staunching Potion.’
‘Oh, so that isn’t just for…?’
Snape raised an incredulous eyebrow and handed her the beaker, which she swallowed in one. He crouched beside her again and pressed gently on the edge of the wound with his fingertip. It seemed, finally, to have clotted, and no fresh blood leaked out with the pressure.
‘Come,’ he said abruptly, rising and striding over to the fireplace. ‘The feast will be finishing; we must see the headmaster.’
Delilah lurched uncomfortably into an upright position, and in doing so discovered the extent of her destroyed clothing. She cast around for her bra, and, not finding it, made a pathetic attempt to pull her robes up over her chest, which, having been ripped at the shoulder seams, flopped straight down again.
‘Er, can I go back to my dormitory for some fresh robes first?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Snape said distractedly, twisting off the lid of a carved wooden box from the mantelpiece. ‘No. This is urgent.’
‘Right, but…’ she gestured her torso and Snape turned around. He stared for what felt like a second longer than was natural, and her skin prickled under his gaze. Then he went over to a tall, narrow cupboard in the corner and drew out a set of black robes.
‘Wear these,’ he said, thrusting them at her. He continued to watch her, and she had no choice but to wriggle out of her own sticky, sodden robes, down to her knickers, and slip the ones he’d given her hurriedly over her head. The sleeves draped far beyond her fingertips and the neck was so wide that she had to clutch at it to stop it from slipping off her shoulder, but they were at least clean and whole. Snape turned back to the fireplace and tossed in a handful of Floo powder from the wooden box.
‘Albus, are you ready for us?’ he said into the fire.
‘Severus?’ came an answering voice.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m ready.’
Snape gestured for Delilah to step into the flames and followed her into the grate, and a moment later the dingy form of Snape’s office dissolved before them and the tall, anxious form of Dumbledore spun into view.
‘Delilah,’ he said at once, pulling her out of the fireplace and ushering her into a squashy armchair, into which she collapsed gratefully: just that short Floo journey had been enough to make her head pound with exhaustion. He surveyed her with an expression of such anguished concern that she wondered what she looked like, so she glanced around the room and was shocked to catch sight of herself in a dappled looking-glass on the wall: her lips were mauve smudges against a chalk-white face, and her hair was stuck to her head in sticky clumps, black with dried blood. Snape’s oversized robes made her look hunched and feeble, and the top of one of the gashes was visible on her shoulder where the robes were slipping off, a savage slit of open flesh. Seeing herself somehow made her feel worse, and the throbbing ache in her head intensified. Dumbledore had his tea service set up on the small round table by her chair, and he poured her a steaming cup.
‘How are you feeling?’ Dumbledore asked once she had added a dash of milk and raised it shakily to her lips.
‘OK. Well, I mean, a bit… I don’t know really.’
‘No. It was a foolish question. Professor Snape has given you something for the pain though?’
‘Yes.’
Dumbledore turned to Snape, who was standing beside the grate.
‘What happened?’ he demanded sharply.
‘I found her on my way to the feast. The younger Creevey boy spotted the blood coming out from under the door. I was only just in time to save her.’
‘Sectumsempra?’
Snape nodded.
‘And the wounds?’
‘They have clotted, but I haven’t been able to make the skin heal.’
Dumbledore turned to Delilah.
‘You must be wondering why we haven’t taken you to the hospital wing,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately the hospital is a breeding ground for gossip in the school, and until we understand who did this and why, we thought it best to keep the attack between the three of us. I can assure you that Madame Pomfrey couldn’t do more for you than Professor Snape is.’
‘It’s fine, I understand.’
‘What do you remember of the attack?’
Her heart began to pound and she hoped she was too depleted of blood to blush with nerves. A feeling of unreality had settled on everything, which helped her to bleat out the rehearsed story without hesitation.
‘Nothing really. I went to the bathroom before the feast, and when I came out of the cubicle someone cursed me: I didn’t even see them, they must have been hiding in another stall and just stuck their wand out. I heard them run out of the room straight away, but I had my eyes closed. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up.’
‘And the voice? Male? Female?’
‘I think female, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Severus – did you encounter any other students in the corridors?’
‘Just the Creevey boy, and he…’
‘No, of course not. You don’t think Draco…?’
‘I suppose we can’t rule it out.’
‘Think carefully, Delilah: is there anybody who might want to curse you? Do you have any suspects in mind?’
‘No. Ariadne Hornby despises me, but she has done since the minute she met me, I can’t see her trying to kill me.’
‘And have you slipped up and accidentally told anybody your real name?’
‘No!’
‘I won’t be cross if you have.’
‘Honestly Professor, it’s become second nature to me now to introduce myself as du Lac.’
Dumbledore nodded and paced thoughtfully.
‘Unfortunate that it wasn’t Myrtle’s bathroom,’ he muttered, apparently to himself. ‘She could have told us…’ He rubbed the tip of his index finger into his temple and twiddled a lock from his flyaway eyebrow. The clock chimed sonorously behind the desk.
‘We cannot have this happen again,’ he said finally. ‘Whoever did this will soon learn that they were unsuccessful, and may try again. You will need to learn to defend yourself.’
‘I can defend myself!’ Delilah protested indignantly.
‘Professor Snape has told me that you’ve demonstrated impressive duelling skills,’ Dumbledore agreed. Delilah threw a surprised glance at Snape, but he didn’t look at her. ‘It is partly in light of that,’ Dumbledore went on, ‘that I am going to insist that Professor Snape give you private defence tuition, at least until we perceive the threat to be eliminated.’
Snape spluttered.
‘I hardly think-’ he began.
‘That is my final word,’ Dumbledore said bluntly, and Snape scowled. ‘Based on your reports on her progress in your class I gather you will approve Delilah’s dropping History of Magic classes next term to continue with Defence Against the Dark Arts, which will free up some of her time. I will leave it to the two of you to arrange a mutually convenient appointment. I suggest you begin as soon as you are well enough, Delilah, preferably during the Christmas holidays. We are fortunate that almost everybody is going home, so we can be fairly confident the assailant will be on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow. If, indeed, they were a student.’
Delilah’s heart quickened as she saw her opportunity. She stood with difficulty.
‘About that, Professor,’ she said. ‘I wondered… can’t I go home for Christmas too?’
Dumbledore and Snape exchanged a glance.
‘No, Delilah,’ Dumbledore said gently.
Delilah blinked. She had been so sure this would work.
‘To France, to see my mother. Just for a day or two?’
‘No.’
‘Just for an hour, then?’
Dumbledore shook his head, and Delilah sagged.
‘I really want to see my mum,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Please. Just for Christmas. Please.’
‘Of course you do. I understand. But the answer is no.’
‘I thought that maybe since… since this has happened…’
‘You do not understand the gravity of this situation. Somebody attempted to murder you this evening; we have no idea who, but every idea why. You are in an extraordinarily dangerous position, and it would be irresponsible of me to allow you to set foot outside of this castle until we know more.’
Delilah felt utterly shattered. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over immediately. Every single part of her body ached, and her wounds throbbed unbearably. Even just standing had made her feel weak and ill. She felt disgustingly dirty soaked in dried blood, and her head hammered the worse as she tried to hold back her tears. For a moment she was tempted to blurt out the whole stupid, unutterably stupid truth, but she knew she never would.
‘But… but please,’ she whispered pathetically through the strangling lump in her throat.
Dumbledore gazed at her, and for a moment she thought she saw a film of moisture cloud his blue eyes, before he blinked it away.
‘I wish I could give you another answer. I think it’s time we let you go to have a hot bath and a sleep. Tonight you will sleep in the Guest Quarters so you aren’t seen by any of your fellow Housemates; a House Elf has taken your night things to the room and is waiting at the bottom of the stairs to show you the way.’
Delilah bowed her head. She gave a tiny nod and turned towards the door, blinded by tears. The two men watched silently as she traipsed across the room, the overly-long robes dragging on the floor.
She turned at the doorway and spoke through her hair.
‘I bought my mum a Christmas present,’ she mumbled. ‘Can someone at least give it to her?’
‘Of course,’ Dumbledore said quietly. ‘Give it to me or Professor Snape, and we’ll see she gets it.’
Delilah continued on through the door and onto the moving staircase, the door falling gently to a close behind her.
Dumbledore stood still for a moment and then moved slowly to sit at his desk, sinking his head into his hands.
Snape bristled silently.
‘Say what you want to say, Severus,’ Dumbledore said after a moment, without raising his head. ‘I am exhausted, and wish to put this unpleasant day behind me.’
‘Are you ever going to tell her?’
‘Which bit?’
‘About her mother. She wouldn’t know the girl if she found her mangled corpse on her doorstep, and you let the child think she could drop by for Christmas lunch.’
Dumbledore lifted his head but didn’t open his eyes.
‘What would you have me do?’ he asked wearily.
‘She has a right to know.’
‘So we tell her, lose her trust, perhaps lose her; perhaps lose everything.’
‘It’s wrong to lie to her like this.’
‘As you are always reminding me, Severus, I am not omniscient,’ Dumbledore said. He sounded broken, at the end of his tether. ‘I am trying to do what is best, as I see it. There is no happy ending available to Delilah Blackthorn. You may disapprove of me – goodness knows I’m used to that – but I must ask that you obey me.’
‘You know I will,’ Severus said truculently. ‘I am ever your humble servant.’
‘And I am lucky to have you.’
Snape looked for a moment like he wanted to say more, but evidently thought better of it.
‘Goodnight Albus,’ he said curtly.
‘Goodnight, Severus.’
