Tom sighed with relief as Snape let the conversation drop. He despised apologizing, he really did. Amelia generally did the apologizing, but Snape would need something more sincere, and Amelia had been one of the most adamant voices against peeking into the pensieve. Still, Harry would be getting their memories back someday, Tom could feel it, and he wanted the boy to know that things had been smoothed over. At least Snape had been rather gracious about it – the situation was uncomfortable enough without further humbling.

The Slytherin wondered, glancing at the professor, what the man was thinking about. Judging from his expression, it was nothing pleasant. But then, given that they were trapped in Voldemort’s dungeon, only someone with serious psychological problems would be thinking pleasant things. For his part, Tom figured it might be best to think about possible escape plans.

The window, being ten feet off the ground, but only six inches tall, was not a viable option. Though perhaps something else could go through it, some small animal or something. Rather unfortunate they’d yet to manage the animagus transformation, despite John’s fervent research.

On the other side of the cell, however, was the door. It really had taken quite the beating when It had been released – although it was intact enough to hang on the wall and lock securely, there wasn’t much more that could be said. The upper right corner had been bent inward to the point where one could see small glimpses of the corridor outside. Quite an impressive feat when the fact that the door itself was three inches thick and solid steel was taken into account.

Tom shifted against the wall to get a better look at the bent corner and had to stifle a groan. It felt like every muscle in their body ached – it was almost worse than a beating! They had only felt anything close to this once before, and that was when It had been released to stop them from dying when Harry passed out in third year. Slowing a fall of several hundred feet had severely taxed their magic, but this time was worse. The cell must have had some powerful structural wards, since it hadn’t fallen down around their ears when It came out.

Another shift – this time to get off of a rock that was pressing into their hip – and the groan couldn’t be suppressed. The noise caught Snape’s attention, and for a moment Tom was afraid the potions master would start harping about the bloody pensieve again. But no, the professor seemed destined to surprise him at every turn.

“What, exactly, is It, Tom?” Snape asked wearily.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Hermione left the Room several minutes after Malfoy, so as to avoid suspicion. She just barely made it down to the fourth floor stairs when Ron joined her from a side corridor.

“Where’d you go after breakfast?” he asked petulantly. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I…er…” Hermione hesitated, hating lying to her friend, but unwilling to be yelled at for helping to find Harry. “I had to grab my extra quill.”

“I didn’t see you in the tower,” Ron pointed out, frowning.

“We must have just missed each other,” Hermione said quickly. “I, er, had to go to the loo as well. Why so interested, anyway?” He seemed to be keeping watch on her a lot these days.

“I just…worry I guess,” said Ron, sadly. His normally lively air was almost completely gone. “Ever since Snape took Harry...” Hermione bit her tongue. “I don’t want that to happen to you, too.”

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione patted him on the shoulder. “It’s alright, don’t worry. Harry will come back, he always does.”

“Yeah,” Ron groused.

Hermione sighed – talking about Harry’s disappearance always put the redhead in a foul mood. Not that she couldn’t understand it, but it was so hard to keep up with everything and still hold out hope when Ron was sitting next to her, acting like the world was coming to an end.

They made it to Transfiguration just minutes before the bell rang, seating themselves, as usual, next to the empty window seat that belonged to Harry. She hoped her and Malfoy’s plan worked, because she wasn’t sure how much more any of them could take.

Ron, even in his depression, was stuck to her like spell-o’-tape all day. Hermione had planned to hurry up to the seventh floor during lunch and check on the potion again, but the redhead looked at her with big sad eyes whenever she started to stand, and she just couldn’t leave him. The only other opportunity she might have had was after dinner, when Ron was playing chess with Dean, but when the girl excused herself to go to the library, her friend volunteered to come with her, and she just didn’t have the heart to refuse. All she could do was offer a silent hope that Malfoy would be able to check in at some point and make sure the potion was doing alright.

The last thing they needed was for all their hard work to be ruined before they even had a chance to find Harry.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Tom shrank back, but this time there was nowhere to run. This was precisely why he had held off releasing It for so long, this exact question. James would normally be most suited to this situation, brushing off the question as best he could, but the git was rather unlikely to be able to deal wisely with such a delicate topic around Snape. He was unlikely to even appear again around Snape.

“We…don’t know,” he said eventually, sighing.

“Well, when did It appear?” the professor asked.

“It was already there when Foster and Mummy were created. Only Boy could really say whether or not It are oldest, but he doesn’t even acknowledge that It exists, and maintains always that he was the first to break off. Most of us believe It was first, but we don’t know.” Tom clamped his mouth shut. He knew he was babbling, but he’d never before had to put into words anything about It, and It wasn’t exactly something simple to define.

“Continue,” Snape prompted.

“We don’t have access to any of It’s memories,” Tom explained. “And really, none of us want to know. Whatever happened to create It was certainly worse than the…what Uncle Vernon has done, because Boy takes that pain and is still better off than It.

“In our cupboard – inside Harry’s subconscious?” Tom queried, looking to the professor for confirmation; Snape nodded, “ – It is a distorted vision of humanity. We can’t tell It’s age by looking at It, because it shifts form. Sometimes It looks almost like a baby, a twisted and mangled infant tinted green as if sick, but other times It almost seems to be an old man, with dry scaly skin and world-weary, ruined joints. It can look like almost anything, depending on who’s looking at It and when, but none of us look at It very often. The only thing constant are the screams. Only when we hide It away in a box under the cot will It shut up, the rest of the time It screams like…like nothing I’ve ever heard before or would want to hear again”

Snape nodded his agreement of that assessment and his face turned thoughtful.

“Could It have been created the night Potter survived the killing curse?” he asked.

Tom shrugged. “It’s possible, but I think…there must be more to it than that. Some of Harry’s earliest memories – the ones that he can remember on his own – are of a bright green light and a pain in his forehead. If It had been created at that moment, then those memories would have been taken from him.” Wouldn’t they?

That makes sense, and none of us have a better theory, John said

Tom shook their head in frustration. “Everything’s all muddled until we’re four or five. What few memories Boy and Foster keep of that time are distorted and choppy, like watching the telly during a thunderstorm.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, and Tom searched for a better analogy, one a wizard would understand.

“Like…like listening to the WWN while levitating the set, I suppose.” John had once read that wizarding wireless sets ran on magic and a special type of magical wave, just like muggle sets ran on electricity and radio waves. Because of this, any magic performed on the set itself would interfere with the sound, just like electricity in the atmosphere interfered with the television. Snape, apparently, knew this as well, as he nodded slightly in comprehension.

I guess I am best for this, Tom thought with a little mental laugh. No one else can tell Snape’s nods apart.

No one else would want to, Danny pointed out, amused.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Severus listened patiently as Tom expounded on his description of It. He shuddered, unnoticeably, when the boy described Potter’s earliest memory as being hit with the killing curse. The telly analogy had thrown him for a loop, despite the fact that he knew what television was (in general terms, anyway) he couldn’t think just how an electrical storm would affect the little moving pictures. Tom, subtle and Slytherin as he was, caught on to his momentary confusion and explained in proper terms what he meant.

When he was a student, Severus had owned a WWN set, and a dorm-mate had levitated it after the first year charms students had learned the spell. The signal had gone absolutely berserk, shrieking and whistling and crackling so badly that the music could barely be heard over the interference.

“When we try to remember those earlier years,” Tom continued, “it’s very hard to tell what’s going on, and pretty often an adult or someone will use a word that we didn’t understand then, and it’ll show up as nonsense. And like I said, those memories, even as garbled as they are, aren’t very plentiful. We’ll maybe remember a moment or two of watching Dudley in his playpen in November when we were two, then Mrs. Figg’s cats on Dudley’s third birthday the next May.”

The boy took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy, exhausted sigh.

“All we really know is that, every time Harry gets hurt really badly, usually during his encounters with Voldemort, It gets bigger.”

“But Harry doesn’t lose memories when this happens?” Severus asked sharply.

“No,” Tom answered heavily. “It just…gets bigger. And louder.” The boy shifted, winced, then bit his lip. “Much more, and I doubt It’s box will hold it.”

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

An unconscionably loud tempus alarm blared, bouncing off the silencing spells at the edge of Draco’s bed. He opened his eyes halfway, fumbled for his wand and cancelled the spell, then dropped his head back to his pillow, compressing the swan feathers with a loud fwump. He didn’t quite fall back asleep, but it was a very near thing. In the end, it took him a good half hour to drag himself out of bed and into a decent set of robes, which was precisely why he had set the alarm so early. It was a vicious cycle, really: if he didn’t take so long to get up, he wouldn’t have to wake up so early, but if he got more sleep, he wouldn’t take so long to get up.

The Slytherin didn’t have time to ponder it now, though, as he’d set himself a strict schedule. Half an hour to get up and get dressed, ten minutes to get to the kitchens and nick a quick breakfast, then fifteen minutes to walk slowly up to the seventh floor. No time for pondering such mentally taking things as vicious cycles at all. And so, with his perfect sense of timing, Draco arrived at the Room of Requirement at precisely five in the morning, chewing on the last bite of his scone.

Granger was, of course, already there and tapping her foot impatiently, as if he were the one who had misjudged the time.

“Morning,” he drawled cheerfully. Granger rolled her eyes at him.

“Let’s just get this outside, alright?” she said, resignedly.

“Outside?” Draco sneered. “I thought the point was to find somewhere inconspicuous, Granger, not go strolling around where any plebian Hufflepuff can gawk at us.”

She bit her lip, as if convincing herself of something. Finally, she brought her hand out, revealing a silvery cloth that caught the light like liquid mercury.

“That’s why I brought this,” she said.

Draco glared at her incredulously. “Where in Salazar’s dungeon did you get an invisibility cloak!” he demanded.

“It’s Harry’s,” Granger whispered. “I figure it’s worth it letting you use it if it helps save his life.”

Draco bit his lip to keep himself from whistling in admiration, but couldn’t bring himself to treat the rare cloth with anything other than respect as he draped it over himself and the cauldron. Granger was a prefect, and well-known for being up early, so no one would think twice at seeing her out on the grounds at this time of day, even if there was anyone else awake.

Invisible, he followed the Gryffindor through the winding maze of the castle and out onto the grounds, carrying the potion carefully so that it wouldn’t spill. After over five years, he knew Hogwarts relatively well, so he only needed to look up every now and then to make sure he kept Granger in sight, but when he looked up and realized they were heading directly for the Whomping Willow, Draco had to stop and stare.

“Granger,” he hissed, hastening his steps to try and get close enough for the girl to hear him without having to get within reach of the violent tree. “Granger!”

Finally, Granger stopped, evidently deciding to listen to reason instead of whatever stupidity her Gryffindor instincts inflicted upon her. But when she turned to look for him, Draco was shocked to see a smug-looking smirk on her face!

“No worries, Malfoy,” she murmured, levitating a stick about the length of Draco’s arm. Granger guided the branch toward the trunk of the Willow, tapping it on a certain knot. Immediately, all the waving limbs of the possessed creation of demonic topiary froze, leaving Granger free to walk right up to the base of the roots, which she promptly did.

Draco followed somewhat more cautiously, but fast enough to reach the girl before whatever she had done to the tree wore off. There, at the Gryffindor’s feet, was a tunnel, and a large one at that.

“We’re going in there?” he asked, purely for confirmation and without the slightest hint of hesitation.

Granger nodded, still smirking slightly, and climbed swiftly down the hole.

“Hand me the potion,” she directed, pale hands showing up sharply against her dark robes and the black of the tunnel, as if they existed on their own. Draco removed Potter’s cloak, crouched down, and slowly lowered the cauldron to them. Something behind him creaked ominously, like groaning wood, and the wind seemed to rustle a bit in the leaves.

Leaves!

Granger cursed (in and of itself enough to shock Draco) and shouted, “Malfoy, either tap the knot or get down here now!”

Of course, with the background noise, the blood rushing in his ears, and the surge of adrenaline, what Draco heard was: “MALFOY, ether tap with Nott or GET DOWN HERE NOW!”

So he did, nearly jumping directly into Granger’s arms in the process. She had, thankfully, set the cauldron down on the ground a few feet away, so that it was out of danger of being knocked over by a stray foot while he and Granger righted themselves, with far more exaggerated motions than were strictly necessary.

“Granger,” Draco sneered to cover his blundering and panic, “what made you think tapping with Nott would be a feasible solution?”

The Gryffindor looked at him as if he’d grown two heads, then seemed to be biting back laughter.

“Tap the knot, Malfoy,” she said, sounding unduly amused. “K-N-O-T, knot.”

Unable to think of an appropriately witty comeback, Draco sneered his way to the cauldron and picked it up, noticing as he did so that it was considerably easier without a load of fabric clinging to his every move.

Wait…where was Potter’s –

“Accio cloak,” Granger said behind him, catching the silvery cloth as it slipped through the entrance to the tunnel. “Not going to make the same mistake twice,” she muttered, moving ahead of him into the darkness ahead. Granger lit her wand and led the way while Draco was left to carry the potion.

The passage was long, dank, dark, musty, dirty, wet, and altogether unpleasant. Draco wished he had worn a better cloak, and perhaps his dragonhide boots, and that he had a house elf or two to carry the heavy cauldron for him, as his arms felt like they were going to fall off. For the first half of the journey, the ground beneath them sloped down, but eventually the gradient turned upward again, though it seemed like they must already be far from Hogwarts.

“Granger,” Draco asked irritably, “where does this lead?”

“Hmm? Oh, the Shrieking Shack,” answered the Gryffindor absently. Draco almost dropped his load.

“Where?” he demanded. “Excuse me, I could have sworn I heard you say this led to that dilapidated pile of driftwood haunted by worse ghosts than the Bloody Baron and Peeves combined.”

Granger waved one arm dismissively. “Those are just rumors and legends, Malfoy,” she said disdainfully. “The truth is, the shack, the willow and the tunnel were all built for Remus Lupin’s use when he was here as a student, he came to the shack every full moon to transform; the whole Shrieking Shack legend was fabricated by the villagers based on his howls, and Dumbledore propagated it to keep people away.”

There was a pause while Draco let this sink in. Then:

“How on Earth do you know these things, Granger?” he asked incredulously.

She smirked back at him – an expression that held not a little sadness. “It’s just…one of those perks of being friends with Harry Potter – you learn things no one else would ever know.”

Draco shook his head in amazement. He’d never really stopped to think that, because of all the trouble the Golden Trio got into, they probably knew the school better than anyone, what with forays into the third floor corridor, the chamber of secrets, the forbidden forest, and (apparently) the shrieking shack. He was almost jealous.

Almost. The multiple near-death experiences were rather off-putting.

Finally, they reached an old, beaten up door that opened into an area that might – if one were to give it proper decoration and furnishings – be called a parlor. On the floor, Draco could see piles of paper with arithmancy equations and a penciled sketch of a pentagram drawn on the wood.

“Alright, here we are,” Granger announced proudly, moving a table to her side. “Just set the potion here, please.”

Draco, too busy looking around to be indignant, did as he was told and relieved himself of his burden. The old shack was actually rather nice, if one ignored the ghoul (or rather, if Granger was to be believed, werewolf) damage and only looked at potential. With the right interior decorator and structural contractor, it might even make a livable summer cottage. Nowhere near as nice as the Malfoy cottage in Brittany, mind, but livable.

“I left candles in here, pure white like the book suggests,” Granger spoke incessantly, explaining her actions even as she performed them – pulling the five candles, along with a brazier, out of a nearby cupboard. The girl used a Point Me spell to find North, and started arranging things while Draco watched, checking the pages around her occasionally for reference.

Draco found North himself, just to make sure Granger was right, and checked the direction against the sketched pentagram. The pentagram is drawn top facing east… Wait a minute.

“Granger,” Draco drawled scornfully. “You’ve drawn it completely backward. The top of the pentagram needs to be facing East, not West.”

“Malfoy, if you had read the introduction of Star Rituals you would have learned that the pentagram represents the mother goddess, lying spread-eagle on her back; as such, in order to face East, and the sunrise, the top must be pointing away from East,” she demonstrated with a stick-figure illusion spell of a woman lying down on the pentagram, then raising her head to face East.

“Oh,” Draco muttered, scowling.

Granger smiled slightly.