Chapter 8: A Proposition in the Dungeons
Solim's passion for magic was a deep, focused flame, but it did not burn for everything. He had been immersed in the intricate arts of Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration since childhood, his knowledge honed in the demanding halls of Scuol. Other subjects, however, failed to capture his interest. Flying was one of them.
The idea of straddling a broomstick, with or without a Cushioning Charm, struck him as inherently awkward and undignified. It was a matter of personal preference, not fear. When the schedule revealed that Slytherin's first flying lesson would be shared with Gryffindor that afternoon, Solim had already decided to skip it. He had no time for such distractions. His sister's future, the delicate task of securing Snape's help, and his own magical studies demanded his attention. He had even promised to tutor Neville and Hermione that evening. The thought crossed his mind that what he truly needed was a Time-Turner.
At lunch, he ate quickly and made his way to the Gryffindor table. If he was going to miss the lesson, he needed to ensure Neville was prepared.
He found Neville showing a small, glassy orb to a group of curious Gryffindors. "It's a Remembrall," Neville explained, his voice a mixture of pride and anxiety. "My gran knows I forget things. If you hold it tight and it turns red—oh!" The orb in his palm glowed a bright crimson. "See? It means you've forgotten something."
"That would be me, Neville," Solim said softly from behind him.
Neville spun around so fast Solim winced in sympathy for his neck. "Solim! Oh, Merlin, I remember now!" As he spoke, the Remembrall faded back to a milky white.
"What's a snake doing at our table?" Ron Weasley's voice was a familiar grumble.
"Since you remember, be sure you're prepared. I'll check your work tonight. Don't disappoint your grandmother," Solim said, ignoring Ron completely. He gave Neville's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and nodded to a watchful Hermione before turning to leave. He was confident the clever witch would keep Neville on task.
As he walked away, he heard Ron muttering and Hermione shushing him. He knew she understood the importance of their studies. Lately, thanks to Solim, she and Neville had discovered the castle's many unused classrooms and hidden nooks, far more conducive to serious study than the noisy Gryffindor common room. Her drive to learn, fueled by a clear goal to match his knowledge, was formidable, and her progress was evident every time they met.
The afternoon found the combined classes on the sunny lawns for their flying lesson. The air crackled with excitement. Boys and girls boasted of exaggerated aerial feats, painting themselves as future Quidditch stars. Neville remained silent, his only "flying" experience being the time his Great-Uncle Algie had accidentally dropped him from an upstairs window. Hermione, true to form, had her nose buried in Quidditch Through the Ages, desperately trying to absorb the theory of flight.
"Hermione," Neville whispered, "Solim says flying is more about instinct than theory. He says the book won't help much."
"Well, what am I supposed to do?" she fretted, snapping the book shut. "I'm Muggle-born. I've never been on a broom!"
"I don't think it'll be so bad," Neville offered, trying to sound reassuring as they followed the crowd. "Solim isn't even coming. He hates brooms."
Hermione frowned. She disapproved of Solim's academic selectivity. In her view, every subject at Hogwarts deserved serious attention, not just the ones he deemed important.
The lesson proceeded as chaotically as such lessons often do. True to the original script, a panicked Neville lost control of his broom, suffered a nasty fall, and was escorted to the hospital wing by a concerned Madam Hooch. In the ensuing vacuum, Draco Malfoy spotted the forgotten Remembrall rolling in the grass.
As Draco scooped it up, Harry immediately stepped forward to challenge him. But it was Hermione who spoke, her voice sharp and clear. "If you dare to keep that, Malfoy, I'll tell Solim."
Draco froze, his smug expression faltering. Being threatened by a Muggle-born was a blow to his pride he couldn't stomach. "You filthy Mudblood!" he spat, the ugly word hanging in the air. "You dare threaten me?"
With no professor present, the insult was a lit match tossed into a powder keg. By the time Professor McGonagall came striding across the lawn, a full-blown scuffle had erupted between the two houses. The result was swift and severe: one hundred points deducted from both Gryffindor and Slytherin. And instead of taking Harry to meet Oliver Wood, a furious Professor McGonagall grabbed a struggling Draco by the ear, marching him straight to the dungeons.
Solim looked up in surprise as his conversation with Snape was abruptly interrupted by the office door swinging open. He watched Professor McGonagall drag a mortified Draco inside. Interesting, he thought. The script has changed.
"Professor Snape," Professor McGonagall said, her voice tight with anger, "Mr. Malfoy here used a highly offensive slur during flying lessons, which instigated a brawl between the first-years of our houses. I haven't seen a group fight like that in all my years. I trust you will ensure he understands the gravity of his error." She then noticed Solim standing calmly by the bookshelves. "Mr. Selwyn? Why are you not at flying lessons? Skipping class is not the mark of a diligent student."
"My apologies, Professor McGonagall," Solim said, his tone perfectly respectful. "I had a pressing matter to discuss with Professor Snape. It won't happen again." He knew better than to argue. When an authority figure called you out, the smartest move was a swift and sincere apology.
Once Professor McGonagall had swept out, Snape turned his dark gaze first onto a cowering Draco. "Do not let there be a next time," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He then pointed a long finger towards the door. Draco scurried out without a backward glance.
The door clicked shut, leaving the two of them alone in the dim, potion-scented office. Snape returned to his desk, a black bat settling back into its cave.
"As I was saying, Professor," Solim began again, "I require your assistance."
He had spent days pondering how to approach the notoriously unapproachable Potions Master. His grandfather's latest letter had confirmed his fears: the skilled potioneers in his network were all unavailable, tied up in long-term, secretive work. The potion Solim needed—one that could rejuvenate a dormant magical core in a Squib—didn't exist. It had to be created. And for that, he needed a master. Snape was the only one within reach.
The initial refusal had been expected. Solim was prepared. To sway Severus Snape, one had to aim for the heart, not the head.
"The Killing Curse is a remarkable piece of magic, Professor," Solim began, his voice conversational. "Potter was hit directly. He didn't die. A blood protection, fueled by Lily Evans's sacrifice, saved him." He paused, letting the name hang in the air. He saw the minute tightening around Snape's eyes. "But the madman who gave you that," Solim gestured subtly towards Snape's left forearm, "why didn't he die? Do you know why, Professor?"
"This is irrelevant," Snape bit out, his face a mask of cold Occlumency.
"Is it?" Solim pressed gently. "Do you know what a Horcrux is?"
A flicker of something—recognition, revulsion—crossed Snape's features before the mask slammed back down.
"A wizard who creates a Horcrux cannot be killed until it is destroyed," Solim continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "So, you see... he will be back. I don't believe the Headmaster has shared that particular detail with you."
Snape's hand twitched, his fingers brushing against his covered forearm.
"Do you think an aging Dumbledore can single-handedly stop the Dark Lord, protect Potter, hunt down his Horcruxes, and deliver the final blow?" Solim shook his head. "I have my doubts. I'm not proposing I do it. That is the Headmaster's burden. But I am saying I can help you protect Potter."
Snape's lip curled. "Why would you imagine I care for Potter's life?"
"Professor," Solim said, taking a step closer to the desk. "Let's not play these games. Don't mistake me for one of the children out there. I know more than you think." He leaned forward, placing his hands on the edge of the cluttered desk, meeting Snape's black, empty gaze. "I'll make you one final offer. You help me brew this potion, and in return, I will grant you an audience."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"With Lily Evans."
Snape jerked to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. The Occlumency shields shattered, revealing a torrent of raw, agonized hope in his eyes.
"Professor, such a crude Legilimency probe could have turned my brain to pudding," Solim chided mildly, though he didn't look away. "Aren't you concerned?"
"She is dead," Snape whispered, the words a tortured breath.
"Oh, of course she is," Solim agreed, straightening up. "Surviving the Killing Curse is one thing; surviving a sacrificial blood protection is quite another. It is an impossibility." He gestured for the stunned professor to sit back down. "Let us move past the magic for a moment and speak of life itself."
He glanced around the cramped office. "Before we continue, Professor, might I trouble you for a chair? One with a backrest, if it's not too much trouble." Transfiguring one from the air was still beyond his skill.
With a flick of his wand, Snape conjured a simple wooden chair. Solim sat, grateful for the support.
"Thank you. Now, on the subject of life." He steepled his fingers. "Most wizards confine their studies to the body and the soul. But I have studied the work of a sorcerer named Ralde. He posits that a complete life is a triad: the body, the soul, and the consciousness. The body houses the soul, and the soul houses the consciousness. Ghosts, for instance, are not souls, but lingering consciousness, imprinted upon this world."
He leaned forward. "When the body fails, the soul departs. But the consciousness, the will, the essence of a person... it does not vanish instantly. It fades, like an echo. Lily Evans sacrificed her body to power a blood protection. Her body is gone. But her will, her conscious love for her son... that was the fuel. That force still exists. It protected Harry. It lingers."
He met Snape's gaze, which was now fixed on him with an intensity that was almost frightening.
"Ordinary people communicate through flesh and voice. But that is merely the mechanism. The true exchange is consciousness to consciousness. We can communicate through writing, through a look. So, if Lily's consciousness, her will, still persists, then communication is possible. It simply requires a means to bridge the gap between the living and the... echoes of the dead."
Solim reached into his robes and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He placed it gently on the desk between them.
"So, Professor Snape," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You help me perfect this potion, you ensure it works, and I will give you a chance to speak with the echo of Lily Evans."
He stood, looking down at the Potions Master, whose face was no longer a mask of cold indifference, but a canvas of struggling emotion.
"Professor," Solim said, moving towards the door. "When you see her... depends entirely on when you give me my potion."