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A frothing wave shoots spray into my face and spatters my robes as I reach the vacant dock. The fog still hasn't lifted, creating a surreal quality to the world around me. The Portkey, a dented, barnacle-encrusted can, dangles on the hook where a lantern ought to hang. I reposition the bag on my shoulder and hesitate. Once I do this, I cannot go back.
"Come on, Hermione, there's nothing for you back there." I shake my head, doubling my resolve as something unsettling twists in my gut.
I look back once, but the fog crowds me, choking out the landscape on all sides. I have nothing left to tether me to this place, so I reach forward, grasp the Portkey, and allow myself to be taken away to my distant destination.
I open my eyes to find myself standing on a desolate, rocky shore. Nothing, save the lapping waves and freezing wind, stirs as far as the eye can see. The gray clouds reflect down upon the gray-blue water, and for a moment I wonder at the mirrored images of earth and sky, with only this tiny rocky island in between. Above me on the rocky cliff, I spy the lighthouse. As I climb the steep, rough path, I can make out its detailed structure. The dark windows stare out like empty eye sockets, and the sides of the building are so smooth and unblemished that it appears as though the entire lighthouse was magically called into being. Despite its pristine exterior, the building exudes an air of abandonment. An involuntary shiver runs through my body, though I know it isn't haunted.
"Not even a ghost would be able to survive this much isolation," I say aloud, trying to reassure myself.
Perhaps talking to myself is a sign that something is terribly wrong, but the sound of my voice soothes me. I finally reach the top of the path and stop to lean against the lighthouse's door frame to catch my breath. The door is unlocked, and I sit on a bench located just inside to remove my boots. A pair of wellies and a rain slicker hang across from me, their bright yellow exteriors dull with dust. It's been a long time since this lighthouse has been in use, but I am up for the challenge.
For the next three years, this will be home. And, when I am not attending to my duties, I will have time to address...other matters.
But those can wait.
I stomp around the bottom section of the lighthouse, acquainting myself with the keeper's quarters. A small living area is built around the spiral staircase that leads to the top of the tower. I feel as though I am circling through a nautilus shell as I move through the entryway into a small bedroom and toss my bag onto the dusty bed. A quick charm banishes the dust, but it still retains a musty smell that requires me to air out the rooms properly. A glance at the darkening skies outside tells me that I should hurry.
A survey of the pantry and a small alcove with a well off the side of the kitchen assures that I will not starve. I grab a cord of wood from the cellar and start a fire in the kitchen stove. Then, I sit at the tiny wood table and warm myself a bit, as it is deathly cold with the windows open. Soon enough, though, the cheery fire has brightened my spirits enough for me to close all windows save for the one over the kitchen sink, which I leave cracked for airflow, and make my way up the spiral staircase to the top of the lighthouse.
The lamp is even more enormous than I first assumed it would be. It sits silent and cold in its home at the center of the lantern room. In place of a bulb, a strange, clear stone sits in a metal housing at the center of the lens. The runes that ring the room are etched into the stone floor at my feet in gold and inlaid with abalone shells. The spell is more of a song than it is an incantation, and I breathe deeply before I begin. The stone begins to flicker, growing brighter and brighter with each verse. Finally, it is so bright, I must turn away, and then I can hear the machinery of the lamp begin to turn. A thrum inside of my magical core responds in kind. I can feel the lamp moving within me, though this is merely a function of the magic. The spell requires my proximity and must be refreshed daily.
I spy the widow's walk outside, and though I am certain the view is breathtaking, fat raindrops on the glass of the lantern room are enough to send me down the spiral staircase to ensure that all of the windows on the landings are properly secured. After a quick, spartan meal, I feel my eyes grow heavy and ready myself for sleep.
You stupid girl. I never asked for this.
I awaken with a start. For a moment, I'm disoriented, and then I realize that I'm sitting on the bench at the front entranceway. My hands are wet and quivering. I look down to see that my wellies are caked with mud and sand. The rain slicker drips on the hook across from where I sit and I watch the puddle underneath it grow larger with a sense of rising dread and confusion boiling in my belly.
"The last thing I remember is going to bed," I say aloud, my voice echoing up the spiral staircase. "I…how did I get here?"
A shudder runs through me as I look down at my hand and see the paint brush. I look down to see a can of white paint placed neatly near the side of the bench. Did I go outside in the storm to the tool shed? Why would I do that? I cannot think of a reason.
"I've come here to heal," I remind myself. "There are no ghosts here. I'm just overly tired. That's all."
I clean myself up and climb under the frayed quilts. I worry that I may not be able to sleep, but I'm out as soon as my head hits the pillow.
The smell of smoke fills my nose. I'm running through the forest, choking and coughing, my wand in hand. Dread pools in my bowels, but I push on. I enter the Shrieking Shack, glancing with worry at the black smoke rising from the roof. The coppery tang of blood is thick in the air. I try not to retch at the wretched state of his body, but it gives me hope. He's sprawled on his belly, arms grasping towards the open doorway, his sides heaving jaggedly as he struggles to breathe. I grab him under his arms, feeling something wet and wrong squish against my chest. I can't allow myself to think about the ruin of his throat just yet. I pull his dead weight out the door and trip backwards off the spindly porch, landing hard on my back in the mud. He lands on top of me.
I gently roll him off of me so he is facing the smoke-filled night sky above.
He isn't breathing.
I ready my tools.
My eyes fly open and I nearly pitch forward into open air. Luckily, the metal railing on the widow's walk catches against my chest and I cling to it for dear life until I can catch my bearings. A wave of salty air hits my face, even though I am far above the violent waves below. At least the rain has stopped, though I hear thunder rumbling. I rack my brain, thinking back. I was cooking breakfast, and then…
It's all a blank.
I think back to that first gap in time. I'd gone out to check the perimeter of the lighthouse that afternoon. As I stepped outside the entry door, I'd found rocks arranged to form the following words:
I AM HERE.
A tense search of the area with my wand drawn had yielded nothing.
Now, I detect an evil flavor in my mouth, and I spit over the edge, disturbed by its brownish color. Something down on the platform catches my eye and I bend to pick it up.
A hand-rolled cigarette?
I hold the awful thing between my thumb and forefinger like an insect I'm planning to crush. The ashy tip is still warm.
'Someone was here recently,' I think.
My tongue tastes like ash and tar. I've never had the inclination to smoke, and the pounding pressure in my head reminds me of an article I once read about the after-effects of the Imperius curse. I whirl around, but the widow's walk is empty. Before I head down the stairs, though, I note the freshly-patched and painted wall that I'd marked down for maintenance earlier in the week.
"Who ever heard of a ghost doing chores?" I scoff aloud, despite the lingering chill down my spine.
The ritual circle is somewhat uneven due to the mud, but I've done my best. I have placed his hands out like the points on a compass, a fat, half-melted ivory candle cradled in each. At his feet, I carefully set down a thick, black pillar candle with a red wick. His pale forehead is adorned with a hastily-made crown of herbs wrapped with silver wire. I can only hope dried ingredients will work.
I take a small silver knife, then carefully make a cut on his leg, catching sluggishly oozing red liquid in a small bowl with care. Wiping it clean on my sleeve, I cut into my forearm, and swirl the bowl in a clockwise motion, allowing our blood to mix. I dip my fingertip and draw the rune for "soul" on his bare chest, then I open my shirt and do the same to myself. It's messy work without a mirror, but I go slowly.
He's still not breathing and hasn't been for some time.
My stomach churns.
I have to ignore it.
I steady the book in my hand and begin the incantation.
Time begins slipping more and more as the weeks go by. At first, I'm sure I'm going mad. I haven't discounted the possibility, but even so, the need to know the shape of it consumes me just as strongly as the daily rhythm of duties I must perform to keep the lighthouse lit. Strangely enough, my lapses in time do not lead to a lapse in duty.
When I come back to myself, the bed is neatly made (though in a military-perfect style I never would have used), the dishes are done (each utensil sorted and neatly placed on the drying rack), and the light in the tower continues to blaze. Sometimes my papers or books are out and open to pages I cannot remember turning them to. The side of my left hand is stained gray with ink, but I have only ever written with my right. And, more worrying, I cannot find the parchment upon which I must have written. I am, and not for the last time, thankful that I brought my precious never-ending inkwell with me.
The only evidence I have been able to find are small, strange notes written in a spidery hand in the margins of my books that prickle at my memory, but I can't quite recall where I've seen them. My focus on this mystery is all-consuming. There is no time for me to reminisce about the pain in my past.
"After all," I say, brushing my fingertips over a small note that reads 'Space-Time paradox?', "I am here to heal, not to fall to pieces."
His chest rises once. A horrible rattle escapes his lips and I see something pulsing in the air above him. I cannot see it when I look at it directly, but from the corner of my eye, I can perceive something like an oily bubble of softly shimmering light pulse above his chest.
"Return, return," I croon, and the bubble sways from side to side as though in indecision.
It starts to sink, then, and I see it curl into the shape of the rune at his chest.
"My blood as my bond," I chant, then. "Tether this soul in the name of my power and my love."
Do I love him? Maybe, in time, I would. But I want to save him more than anything else in the world, and that has to count for something…
…Right?
His body flies to its feet with a gurgling gasp, and the light in his eyes is unnaturally bright with horror.
"What have you done?" he wheezes, then collapses forward. Without thinking, I lunge into the circle to catch him, and his chest presses against mine, skin to skin.
No. More than skin, I realize, as the bloody marks rub together and a jolt forks through my chest. A wave of pain and ecstasy fills me and the world spins as my vision washes out.
I can't breathe! I panic, my limbs flailing uselessly.
A bony hand grips mine, but I cannot see a thing.
Icy darkness pulls me down, and then there is nothing at all.
"Hello, Hermione," says my voice. "I'm dispensing with the formalities considering the utter cock-up these past few months have been. Did you do any research at all, or did you simply look for the first spell that had the word soul bond in it to make things even worse for everyone involved?"
I blink in shock and stare at myself sitting at the wooden desk in the keeper's quarters. Glancing down, I realize that my hands are translucent. A chalk circle rings the floor and I spy some familiar runes and herbs scattered strategically in each cardinal direction.
"You!" I cry out, leaping forward and slamming against an invisible wall. No matter how hard I try, I cannot breach it. After a few attempts, I collapse to my knees and sob.
My body stares at me with an arched eyebrow until I finally calm myself down to sniffling with the occasional wet hiccup. "There. Are you quite done?"
"Yes," I say, feeling utterly foolish under that sharp gaze. His sharp gaze.
"Good. Then I suppose you know that if this continues, we are both dead." My wand twirls in my body's left hand, but the body language is all his own.
"Professor," I say, "I'm so—"
"Let me stop you right there, Hermione." Severus Snape's strict tone hisses from between my body's lips, and I reel backwards. "You do not get to pull my spirit from my body and bind it to yours, then drive both of us half-mad by forcing us to share your magical core only to say that you are sorry. 'Sorry' is for turning in a paper late or disappointing your friends, not for giving me this cursed half-life that will also kill you if I try to remove the anchor you have created."
I—he—pinches the bridge of my body's nose, and I realize that the dark circles under my eyes are much deeper than I can ever remember them being.
"How long has it been this time?" I ask, my voice hollow with shock.
"I've been keeping up with the duties if that's what you're asking," he says, "but it was necessary. I needed uninterrupted time to study how to fix this problem. Your magical core was beginning to fracture, especially with the toll that the lighting spell takes on it in addition to this damnable soul bond. Just what were you thinking?"
I want to cry again, but I can't seem to summon the strength. "I wanted…I wanted to save you. I should have, and I just…I left you."
"I should have died," he says quietly. "My body did die. And this isn't living."
"That's not true!"
I watch my body's eyes narrow. "Hermione, I am basically a parasite."
"Why do you think it worked?" I say stubbornly. "It's because I wanted to save your life."
"You don't know anything about me," he says, standing and taking a step towards the circle. I notice that my body is still wearing the linen smock used to clean the lantern room, and my hair is filled with dust and grime. He's been diligent, but then again, he always has been.
"I know you, Severus Snape," I say, pronouncing his name slowly and deliberately. A thrill runs through me as he flinches. "I would do this all again if it meant saving you."
"You stupid girl," he mutters. "Fine. There isn't much time left, but I need your consent. It would be unfair not to include you in this decision."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Because of your…foolishness…our bond is permanent," he says, and I can see pity in my body's eyes. "However, there is a way to re-tether my spirit and save your life from being cut tragically short. It's easiest to do so to a place of power, but you must remain nearby to replenish the tether intermittently."
"You mean the lighthouse, don't you?" I ask.
I stand right at the invisible barrier and place my palm against it.
"You said it yourself. This lighthouse does not have a ghost." My body steps up to the circle and mirrors my spectral form. When I open my eyes, I can see Severus Snape's spirit glowing around my body as he speaks. "The haunted one is you."