Master Apprentice
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Title: Sound of Snow Falling
Author: TheWrongImpressionist
Beta: MerryAmelie
Archive: MasterApprentice, Fanfiction.net
Category: Qui/Obi, Crossover, Alternate Reality, Romance, Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13, possible eventual R
Summary: in which Obi-Wan gets an education in the Living Force (whether he wants it or not), Qui-Gon further embraces his not-so-inner maverick, and Voldemort engages in a little biological warfare.
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated at tukitaka@gmail.com, as writing fiction is very hard for me, and I take great pains to produce quality work.
(back to Chapter 8)
-nine-
-living sin-
Their sentencing doesn't come until several days later; when it does, his Master seems pleased with the results. For the man, Draethos, and droideka – considered living by the castle and therefore by the wizards as well – justifiable homicide as a result of self-defense against deadly force; and for the woman, use of non-deadly self-defense.
“Probation, of a sort,” Qui-Gon comments of the actual ramifications of Obi-Wan's actions, smiling down at his Padawan. Then his mien turns mischievous, and he adds, “We can maneuver around this.”
“Master.” Obi-Wan frowns. His Master laughs, sending his good humor and reassurance along their bond.
Probation turns out to be a rotating slew of several Aurors instructed to faithfully dog their steps around the castle grounds, which they are forbidden to leave. Obi-Wan supposes the idea behind this near-house arrest has more to do with keeping them a secret than any true punishment, as the wizards, in a demonstration of how remarkably accustomed they are to the strange and unbelievable, seem to have accepted his story as truth. It doesn't, however, change the fact that he killed three beings, and they appear quite leery of letting him meander around unaccompanied. He suspects only the insistence of Dumbledore as to the goodness of his character has given them this much leeway.
“We should go,” he says to his Master one evening, secreted away in what have become their chambers, a set of three nondescript rooms located high in a seldom-used tower of the castle, and one of the few places they are allowed any privacy. He sets down his fork, watching his Master look up from the meal Obi-Wan prepared and do the same. His Master says nothing for a long while. Then: “I agree.”
They try to reason with their Auror guard when it's the pink-haired one's shift. She's younger, more playful, and more likely to go along with potential law-breaking than the older, more grizzled guard with the spinning eye.
“Miss Tonks,” Obi-Wan begins. They're in one of several teachers' lounges scattered throughout the castle; the furniture is colored in worn browns and blues, and the window is magic-made, a very creative use of the Force – and one that shouldn't be possible. What is it about this planet that allows such ingenuity?
“Yes?” She turns with a pleasant demeanor. She's been idly changing objects in the room pink, bored perhaps by their continued meditation. Now Obi-Wan rises from his lotus on the floor and comes to stand in front of her, unconfrontationally. His Master remains seated and unmoving. He feels his Master's touch in his mind like the flow of water over smooth stones and green moss.
He wonders what he feels like in his Master's mind.
“You're aware of the Herd's plight?”
She frowns. “Of course I am. Poor things. But what can a person do? Poppy and that Auror mediwitch tried to get in, you know,” she adds conspiratorially, cupping her hand around the side of her mouth. “But they got stuck at the border.” She eyes Obi-Wan. “Very forcefully, they were told by the Herd to stay out. Something about a quarantine, initiated by a certain wizard whom they very much demand to get back. You wouldn't know anything about that, now would you?”
Obi-Wan gives her a small smile. “And would a certain Auror be kind enough to allow us access to the Herd, so that we may continue our work?”
“You know I'd like to,” she sighs, her hair changing to a melancholy gray. “But Kingsley was adamant you don't cause any more commotion, and he reports directly to the Minister. I trust him, and he's doing what he can for you guys. So far you're not in deep legal trouble because Obi-Wan here acted in self-defense and to protect others.” She jerks her head towards Obi-Wan. “And,” she adds emphatically, “Because we've kept your origins a secret. Except for one case, and, well...it's only due to those special circumstances we told you about. But if you start breaking the law deliberately, that's another matter. Kingsley couldn't turn a blind eye to that. You break enough laws badly enough, he won't be able to help you avoid Azkaban.”
Obi-Wan nods slightly. “I see. And is there no way we could speak to the Minister?”
“Scrimgeour?” She makes a face. “He's better than Fudge, but I'll tell you, not by much. He doesn't give a damn about non-humans. It's best to just let Kingsley handle it; he's got Scrimgeour's ear more than just about anyone else.”
Obi-Wan blinks slowly. “I see.”
She sighs again. “Look, I feel for them, I really do, and normally I'd be right there on your side helping you break loose. I would. But Remus's lobby for werewolf equality is in consideration, and the Ministry's just looking for an excuse to turn it down. It's no secret – everyone at the Ministry knows we're dating. If I help you out and I get caught, it'll reflect poorly on him, and then it'll be all werewolves that suffer because of it. Don't make me choose between werewolves and centaurs when they're all just treated so miserably.”
Obi-Wan nods slightly again. “I understand. I will not ask it of you.” He takes a step forward.
Tonks slowly recoils. “I told you I can't help you or your...Master.” Gradual as the coming of the sunset, Obi-Wan gives her a gentle wave of well-being and acceptance. Her eyes become less guarded, but she remains vigilant.
When Obi-Wan takes another step towards her, she draws her wand, warily. “What are you about, now?” she asks authoritatively, but a telltale glance at Qui-Gon, as if asking for back-up, reveals a little bewilderment. Clearly she doesn't want to hurt them, and in fact wants to think well of them. His Master, however, is no help; he sits with eyes closed and is as unmoving as ever, seemingly oblivious.
“I will not ask you to help us,” Obi-Wan repeats clearly, then draws two fingers in an arc through the air. “In fact, you did all you could to keep us from leaving, and if anyone asks, that is what you will say.”
“That's right, I did all I could to keep you from leaving,” she repeats indignantly. Her hair turns a brilliant scarlet.
Obi-Wan nods. “Yes.” Then he calmly touches her forehead; she wavers, and he catches her when she falls, fast asleep. He picks her up and carries her to a couch, previously blue, turned pink, and lays her down.
Then he turns. “Master.”
In one motion his Master rises. “Well done, Padawan,” he praises quietly. He takes a step closer to Obi-Wan in much the same way as Obi-Wan had walked towards the witch. But he doesn't lift his hand with the intent to induce sleep, merely touches the center space between Obi-Wan's eyes with two fingertips. “You've gotten gentler since I was asleep.”
Obi-Wan isn't sure what to make of that, though the praise makes him feel warm and the touch, warmer.
No doubt sensing his uncertainty, his Master smiles. “Compassion suits you, Padawan.”
Now Obi-Wan understands. “Thank you, Master,” he says, giving a very deep bow to show his complete respect. His Master reaches out to touch his shoulder when Obi-Wan rights himself. But he doesn't say anything, just looks at his Padawan with deep blue eyes, no longer smiling but something increasingly intense in his expression. Obi-Wan watches Qui-Gon's face change. Wants to touch him back-
And can't stand it. “My sabre,” he blurts. His Master blinks, hand going back to his side.
“Obi-Wan?”
“My sabre,” Obi-Wan explains, holding out the tube as if offering it for a long enough duration will coax his Master to accept. “Take it, Master.”
His Master shakes his head. “No, Padawan. The blade is attuned to you; I shouldn't be able to use it.”
Obi-Wan watches a sleek brown strand of his Master's hair tickle across his cheek. He thinks it could be his fingers doing the touching-
No.
“Master, I-” but he breaks off with a slight frown. Qui-Gon's eyes gentle. “Go on.”
“I don't expect you'd have a problem using my sabre,” Obi-Wan explains, watching his Master for a reaction very intently, “as I have had no problem using yours.”
His Master's expression becomes very, very composed, but not before a flash of pleased surprise. That fluttering in his heart returns with full force, distractingly, so that he doesn't pay much attention to Qui-Gon's verbal response; something about similar Force signatures after working so long together.
“-should keep it,” his Master finishes. Obi-Wan blinks. Hesitates, then: “Master?”
Qui-Gon smiles. “You keep it, Obi-Wan,” and here he reaches forward gingerly, wraps his hands around Obi-Wan's and curls them together over the hilt of his sabre. “It's yours, and I trust you to use it well.”
Obi-Wan feels the heat between their hands before Qui-Gon releases him. His Master's smile turns crooked and roguish for a moment, and the blue of his eyes shines dark and deep.
Then his Master turns and begins to walk out of the lounge, pace measured and exact. A step back and to the left, Obi-Wan follows.
~*~
Several days passed with no word from Dumbledore or any of the Order, and Harry was beginning to get restless. So when the week rolled into the weekend, Harry, Ron, and Hermione skipped Hogsmeade in favor of traipsing up to the Headmaster's office. The corridors were mostly empty, and their footsteps echoed up the spiral staircases as they climbed to his tower. At their request, Nearly Headless Nick floated along beside them, chattering away merrily about his last days among the living.
At the gargoyle, however, he bade them adieu and coasted off into the wall, head wobbling a bit unsteadily.
“And now we wait,” Harry said. And they waited.
It wasn't long before the gargoyle cocked its head at them curiously but gracefully stepped to the side, claws clicking on the worn gray stone, forked tongue coming out to flick through the air.
“Awesome,” Ron said appreciatively. They stepped past the gargoyle in time to see Nick rematerialize through the wall and gave him their thanks, to which he nodded regally, head flopping forward to expose his neck. Hermione winced and looked away.
Dumbledore's door was invitingly open, so they let themselves in, the wizard in question greeting them brightly from behind his desk.
“Good morning,” Dumbledore said, smiling and drawing up several chairs with three neat flicks of his wand. “Sir Nicholas said you'd like to speak with me? Have a seat.” As they did, Dumbledore twirled his wand and conjured a plate of crumpets and several mugs of tea, which floated beside each of them enticingly. Harry could swear his cozy green mug winked at him.
“Would anyone care for some refreshment?”
“I'll take one,” Ron enthused, helping himself to a crumpet and, when Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, taking a second. Hermione glanced at him with disapproval when he proceeded to shove as much of one as he could in his mouth.
“Now,” Dumbledore began, steepling his fingers and regarding the three students over his spectacles, “how may I be of assistance?”
“You see,” Harry started when both Ron and Hermione looked at him, “we haven't heard anything about the trial, and we wanted to know what's happened.”
Dumbledore nodded. “Young Obi-Wan was given three counts of justifiable homicide in self-defense, and one count of non-lethal self-defense. Our two Jedi have been under Auror surveillance since the trial, and have not been allowed to leave the castle premises.”
“So...” Harry said, feeling a bit stupid but wanting clarification nonetheless, “are they under arrest or not?”
“No, they're not,” Dumbledore explained, smiling. “They are, however, under strict probation. The Order has decided their tale be kept among us, at least for now.”
“Good,” Harry blurted, then checked himself, a bit embarrassed at showing such obvious disrespect towards the Ministry. But Dumbledore only smiled understandingly.
“Could we speak with them?” Hermione asked with interest. “The two Jedi, I mean.”
“Ah.” Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. “I would grant you such permission, but I'm afraid it's no longer possible.”
Harry frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Why not?” he asked warily.
“Because our Jedi have flown the coop,” Dumbledore concluded merrily, then helped himself to a crumpet, dipping it in his tea and biting into the soggy mess with relish.
~*~
Harry snorted. “So much for submitting themselves to our law.”
They sat gathered around the Gryffindors' common room fireplace late that night, speaking with Remus through the Floo. Hermione brought her knitting and clicked away with her needles as she listened with the attention she gave particularly juicy books; Ron, dressed only in pajama pants (and for whom was he going shirtless, Harry didn't need to guess) idly petted Crookshanks, curled up at his side; and Harry crouched nearest the fireplace, speaking into the crackling flames towards the head of his former professor.
“I'm told they tried to explain to Tonks their intentions, and only knocked her out when she refused to let them go to the Forest. They were clear, though, left a detailed message, and, er, promised to be back,” Lupin explained delicately.
Ron made a face. “You really think they'll be back?”
“I do.”
Surprised, Ron turned to Hermione. “You do?” Crookshanks let out a snoring growl at Ron's shifting.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “No matter what else may or may not be true, nothing Obi-Wan ever said to us – well, except his name, of course – was a lie. If he wanted to throw us off the scent, he would simply have left gaps in his letter. But it sounds like he was quite clear, right, Professor?”
Lupin smiled. “I think they'll be back, too.”
“Aren't you a little bit mad at them?” Ron asked Lupin, leaning forward on his elbows. “I mean, they did knock out your girlfriend and all.”
“Am I pleased? No,” Lupin responded honestly. “But do I understand where they're coming from? Yes. And they did her no lasting harm. Left her sleeping on a couch, so I've been told.”
“Do we really want them back?” Harry asked doubtfully. “I mean, the guy said he's killed people before. Kind of a Dark thing to do, don't you think?”
“Killing someone doesn't necessarily make you Dark,” Lupin said gently.
Harry frowned. “Yes it does. If you kill you're just as bad as the person trying to kill you.”
Lupin looked at him with kind eyes. “It seems you've thought about this before, Harry.”
Harry looked away. “Well – yeah. I have.” He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn't help it. Of course he'd thought about it before; he had a right to, didn't he, with Voldemort always breathing down his neck?
And he'd already decided he would never be a killer. Not even to Voldemort. “Killing is wrong,” he repeated firmly. “No matter the reason.”
Lupin smiled. He looked for a moment like he wanted to ruffle Harry's hair, though he couldn't. Instead his tone became quiet and he said, “I'm glad to hear you say that, Harry.”
Hesitantly, Harry smiled, too.
Then Ron let loose a loud sneeze and both Harry and Lupin jumped. He'd almost forgotten Ron and Hermione were there.
“Sorry,” Ron muttered, looking a bit red in the cheeks. Hermione, meanwhile, glanced back and forth between Harry and Lupin, biting her lip and looking quite emotional.
Harry cleared his throat. “Er. It's okay.” And he looked around awkwardly for a moment, embarrassed to have been caught having what Hermione would call a 'moment.'
“As for Obi-Wan,” Lupin continued musingly, as if they'd never stopped talking about the Jedi, “Perhaps it's because I'm a werewolf, but I am inclined to give most people second chances. The life of a Jedi does not sound kind. Obi-Wan may not have had much choice-”
“There's always a choice,” Harry interrupted vehemently. “Not having much of a choice is still having a choice.”
Lupin just made a sympathetic face and didn't answer.
“I do expect,” Hermione put in gingerly, causing Harry to turn and look at her, “that having Mr. Jinn out cold would cause him considerable stress. People do things they normally wouldn't do when they're under strain....”
“He's twenty,” Harry groused. “He doesn't need Jinn around to hold his hand. He can take care of himself.”
Lupin laughed. “Twenty...you're all so young. And that's Mr. Jinn,” he added. Then, musingly, “Or Master Jinn, I suppose.”
“I'm not calling him Master.” Harry's tone was flat. He looked to Ron for support; stalwartly, Ron nodded.
“Not your Master,” Hermione chimed in, sounding much more composed now, “but Master, as in, Master of a subject. Like Professor Snape is a Potions Master-” seeing Harry's face, she changed her wording quickly, “or Professor McGonagall is a Master of Transfigurations; technically, we could call her Master McGonagall.”
Ron made a sour face. “Not going to happen.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course not, Ron. In Jedi culture, however, 'Master' seems to be a much more common honorific. Remember Masters Pavrell and Kor Vollei?”
“Um, they were fake, Hermione.”
“Will you let me finish?” she exclaimed, but she was smiling and so was Ron. “It may not be a bad idea to address him as Master Jinn, that's all I'm saying,” she explained, “as a way to further cooperative relations between wizards and Jedi.”
“A valid point,” Lupin commented noncommittally. Harry threw his former professor a look.
“I get what you're saying,” he reluctantly conceded, “and if Dumbledore insists upon it, I'll call him Master Jinn to his face. But I don't have to like it.”
“Don't have to, mate,” Ron said solidly. “I don't like it either.”
“Professor,” Hermione began, setting down her needles, facing Lupin and ignoring Harry and Ron in favor of her obvious curiosity, “what do you suppose defines the Jedi relationship of Master and Padawan? Obviously it's not actual slavery,” she added firmly, a look out the corner of her eyes at Harry and Ron, “But Obi-Wan gives Master Jinn clear deference. Do you think it's a lifelong commitment, to be someone's Master, or will Obi-Wan grow out of it, as if it's a sort of apprenticeship? When do you suppose Master Jinn first took Obi-Wan as his charge – and who decided that, Obi-Wan or Master Jinn? Or someone else? And do you think-”
Lupin's hands showed in the fireplace when he held them up, chuckling. “What I think,” he said, “is that you'll have to go to the source to get information like that.”
“You think he'd answer?” Harry asked doubtfully. “I mean, if he were here?”
Lupin smiled enigmatically, tiredly rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Only one way to find out.”
~*~
Standing up gracefully from the side of an adolescent paint filly, his Master stretches out his back.
“You're getting to be how old now, Master?” Obi-Wan asks politely. He stamps his feet to shake off some snow; without the Force keeping him warm, he feels the cold much more deeply than before.
But his Master is warm, and so Obi-Wan sticks to his Master like a burr. Perhaps sensing his Padawan's need, like a living heater his Master sends a wave of warmth both physically and along their bond.
Obi-Wan accepts the heat and does his best not to shiver.
Addressing his comment, Qui-Gon shoots him a look, but he's clearly amused, as was Obi-Wan's intent. “Quiet, Padawan.” The filly glances between them both, looking uncomprehending but ready to join in whatever was so funny. A little healthy flush has returned to her cheeks since his Master's ministrations, and the Force-induced warming of the area has only helped.
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan responds just as blandly.
His Master chuckles and kindly shoos the filly back to where her family waits on the other side of the clearing, mistrustful to the end. Obi-Wan feels the wave of good intent his Master gently sends their way as they turn to leave. Then his Master sobers. “We'll meet with the Herdleaders now. I know no more than you about how this disease is transmitted, and I don't believe they'll like hearing this. You have a rapport with two of them already; will you do the talking, Padawan?”
He half-bows. “Of course, Master.”
The scent of pine is strong in the crisp, cold air as they make their way to the three centaur Herdleaders, who appear to be arguing once again, if the stiff backs and crossed arms are anything to go by. Upon their arrival, however, all three glance at the two Jedi and go silent.
“Well?” The elder asks demandingly, stamping a hoof. “What news have you, wizards?”
Obi-Wan steps beside his Master from his customary place back and to the left. He sees the younger pair, although with a surprised glance at Qui-Gon, transfer their attention from the senior to the junior. The older stallion does as well, much more grudgingly.
“Herdleaders Callidora and Tanos.” He bows. “Elder Herdleader Magorian.” He bows again, careful to give the same amount of reverence. “My Master and I haven't yet identified a cure for the disease,” he states plainly, arms crossed gently across his torso with his hands resting in the folds of his sleeves. “My Master has healed the worst of the cases and aided many of the others. The Healers, especially, we've made sure are hale.”
“Just your Master?” The mare looks at him with a hint of confusion.
“Yes.” Without shame, Obi-Wan elaborates. “I have over-extended myself and can act, for the time being, only as my Master's assistant while I recover.”
“You don't look very sick,” the elder mutters angrily, stamping a hoof.
“Ah.” The mare ignores her elder, expression clearing. “I wish you well in that regard, young wizard, for all our sakes.” Beside her, her husband nods in agreement, looking much healthier himself since Obi-Wan's seen him last. It's a heartening sign.
“I wish to offer our condolences for the deaths we were unable to prevent while held at the castle,” Obi-Wan continues softly, letting his genuine sorrow color his voice. “I am told you lobbied for our return to the Forest, and for that I am very grateful.”
The elder snorts and looks to the side. The mare and younger stallion only nod, gravely.
“Thank you,” the mare says quietly.
“What will you do now?” her husband asks, watching Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan bows, has a peripheral sense of his Master doing the same. “We must leave.”
The elder lets out a disgusted snort. “Again you run,” he states thinly, taking a step closer to Obi-Wan, threateningly. “I hate having you here, wizard, but I hate your inconsistency more. Either help the Herd or leave for good.”
“It does not have to be so black and white as that,” the mare protests, facing the elder. “I am sure they have a good reason for their actions.” She glances pointedly at Obi-Wan.
“Of course,” he steps into the cue gracefully. “As you know, many of those who were sick once already have become sick again. It is clear our solution can only help temporarily. If we leave, we hope to make contact with more of our order and ask for their thoughts, and perhaps receive additional aid from them as well. We will be simultaneously investigating the origins of the recent attack on the school, which we believe may have connections to the disease.”
“And you've done as much as you can to prepare the Herd for your absence?” the younger male asks with a hint of tiredness. “Please understand, we cannot stand to lose more loved ones. Perhaps only one of you can go while the other stays?”
Truly regretfully, Obi-Wan shakes his head. “We act as a team, one that functions best when it is whole. Part of the reason I am unable to help now is because, without my Master's presence, I became overburdened. Were he to stay alone, the same would eventually happen to him. And as my Master, he has knowledge and access to knowledge that I do not; were I to journey northward alone, I should not be able to piece together potentially vital information.”
“And you?” the younger stallion asks, turning towards his Master. “As the Master, have you nothing to say?”
Obi-Wan doesn't look, but he can feel his Master's gentle smile.
“My Padawan's voice is also my own.”
~*~
After he was done teaching potions to the last lot of unappreciative, miserable little brats, Snape retired to his chambers and got ready for his second job. The candles placed around the darkened walls of his rooms lit with merely a glance and a thought; the sparse furnishings of his quarters came into view, threadbare and worn. He strode to his back room and his potions cabinet – modestly sized, but with seven times its length on the inside. One of the few pieces on which he spent hard-earned money.
Choosing a few potions, Snape downed them with practiced efficiency, able to blot out the atrocious taste with sheer force of will. Next he cast several strengthening and protecting spells upon himself, augmenting the potions. Reinforcing his Occlumency shields came next. Finally, he drank a bottle of Polyjuice potion, shrinking and turning into a nondescript, brown-haired Slytherin student who graduated three years prior, and who hadn't been anything remarkable then, either.
He looked through the one-way view of the portrait guarding his chambers. Waited for a cluster of students to pass; then climbed out the hole and locked it behind him. From there it was an easy walk out the front doors of the castle into the evening chill. With other students scattered on the grounds before curfew, Snape drew little attention.
When he passed the school gates, he apparated to the Dark Lord's meeting place.
Almost instantly three wands were at his throat. “Brute the betrayer,” he hissed in annoyance, and the wands were removed, though kept at the ready.
“Severus?” one of the Death Eaters asked; Goyle, by the thick sound of his voice.
“Obviously,” Snape snarled, taking out a small vial from inside his school cloak and drinking the counter-Polyjuice potion. When he regained his usual appearance, he ignored the guards and made his way inside the trap that was Malfoy Manor.
A half hour later, he met Lucius Malfoy in the antechamber to the Dark Lord.
“Severus,” Malfoy greeted thinly. Snape gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
“Lucius.”
“The Dark Lord is in quite the mood today,” Malfoy remarked with satisfaction. “He'll play with you tonight.” His narrowed eyes glimmered.
“Grand,” Snape drawled irritably. Malfoy only smiled condescendingly, and Snape wanted to hurt him enough that that smile would never again turn his way.
But he didn't. Instead, he brushed past Malfoy, performed the complicated series of spells and passwords necessary to enter the Dark Lord's chambers, and pushed open the door without further invitation.
Annoyingly, Lucius strode in behind him.
Inside the finely accoutered room, the Dark Lord sat on his gold-flecked chair, the snake Nagini at his side. His dark red eyes watched Snape's progress without surprise. Snape kneeled several paces away from the Dark Lord, whose eyes flicked to Lucius and back.
“Leave, Lucius,” he remarked conversationally.
“As you wish.” The sound of booted heels clicking on ornate flooring; a door opening, then closing with a heavy thump. Eyes narrowed just a fraction in distaste for his colleague, Snape expertly cleared the expression from his face when the Dark Lord's attention returned to him.
“So, Severus.”
“My Lord?” he replied smoothly.
“You may rise,” Voldemort replied without interest, waving his long, pale fingers negligently. “Draw yourself a chair. We haven't had a chat in a long while.”
Snape rose, flicking his wand. A plain black armchair appeared in the room, looking shabby and poor next to all the gilded decorations. The Dark Lord's lips curled in amusement. Snape sat anyway.
“Of what would you like to speak, my Lord?”
“Of an attack on Hogwarts.” The Dark Lord pet Nagini's angular head when she rose from her place at his feet, hissing lowly at Snape, as she always did to anyone not Voldemort. Snape ignored her.
“The one in which multiple Gryffindors were injured? Certainly. I was there when the Jedi themselves told their story-”
“Jedi?” the Dark Lord interrupted. Snape couldn't make out the inflection in his voice.
“Yes, my Lord. Members of a spiritualistic order who claim to have crash-landed on Earth from space.”
“And do you believe them?”
Snape paused. “...Yes.”
Voldemort made no reply, only watched him unblinkingly, red eyes glowing faintly. Snape let his hands steeple in his lap. After sufficient silence, he continued without prompt, giving a general overview of events as he saw them, returning to the subject of the Jedi often and with as much detail as he could as he tried to feel out the direction of the Dark Lord's interest. When he finished, the Dark Lord wasn't looking at him. Snape bore the ensuing silence with impatience, though he was careful not to let it show on his face or in his thoughts.
“This Master Pavrell...describe him to me,” Voldemort eventually murmured.
“Short, pale, and red-haired. Completely human, if we are to believe the Auror's autopsy. Mustached, as well.”
While he spoke, Voldemort's air of unconcern steadily vanished. When Snape was finished, the Dark Lord's face twisted into blatant fury. “A worthless fool,” he spat with disgust. “Incapable of following through on even the simplest of promises, even with a capable machine at his disposal-”
Snape let the Dark Lord rant, being very careful not to move. Sometimes when Voldemort was like this, if he was still enough the Dark Lord would rage himself out before he remembered Snape was there, and he would escape feeling the punishment the Dark Lord truly wished to dole out to whatever poor fool disappointed him this time but, for whatever reason, couldn't be punished.
Tonight was not one such night.
~*~
The Obi-Wan of a year ago sits in a cell without light, sound, or smell, and it is slowly driving him mad. His only consolation is the small trickle of liquid, flowing soundlessly into the cell, that has a faint metal taste and the consistency of water.
He misses Qui-Gon.
Jedi crèchelings play little games of concentration to practice mindfulness, and this is how he's kept his sanity. He's measured his intakes of breath in simple meditation. He's turned bits of air into water and back. It's no longer enough; his concentration rasps away like skin from a raw wound, and he finds himself drifting with no remembrance of the passage of time.
He needs something. He can't make it through this if he doesn't have something, and normally that something would be his Master, but his Master is on the opposite pole of Yachta and Obi-Wan can't feel him but he does feel very cold. If he is to survive, he needs something.
He thinks he spends several days brainstorming on this problem, but he isn't sure. It could be weeks. His lotus has gone wilted and stiff, so that when he uncurls from meditation his back creaks like an antique door hinge. And then one day, running through archaic Jedi histories in an effort to focus his mind, he has the idea.
Jitong. The earliest Jedi were actually spiritual mediums who, among other things, practiced artful, elaborate ritual scarring called Jitong. Any significant point or portion of a Jedi's life was forever remembered by being burned or engraved into the skin in deliberate patterns and images; done in a symbolic sense as a means of spiritual healing, the scars were never made with the intent to injure. Rather, the oldest Jedi had bodies that told the stories of their lives. Though similar to tattooing, Jitong was eventually considered a more barbaric and unhealthy practice. It was banned.
And for some time that is as far as his thoughts take him. It doesn't last.
Without recalling precisely when or why, his thoughts return to Jitong, and it comes to him that...maybe Jitong is something he can do. It can give his mind a focus, his body sensory input, and him proof of this half-life he lives, hidden away in the earth and left to die. He can make it so he will never forget what he has had to endure; for if this imprisonment is not grimly significant, he doesn't know what is.
Jitong.
To soothe himself, he will start it again. He takes his hand over his arm and concentrates on destroying the tissue.
Months later, he's scarred but sane. And that's what matters, he tells himself. Jitong is keeping him alive; he needs it....
He misses Qui-Gon so much. Each day he forgets a little more of him, and it tears at him inside until the only thing he can do is take that destructive sense of loss and turn it outward on himself, adding with the precision of a draftsman little details here and there, reluctant to make any one area of scarring too obvious in case he ever gets out of this hell. The Jedi on Coruscant will think him in need of a Mind-Healer. Maybe he is; he doesn't know. He's just doing what he can to survive.
Then the chamber opens.
He cries out in pain at the return of light and sensation, closing his eyes firmly shut. The hands that hold him lift him to his feet, but his atrophied muscles barely support his weight, and instead he's allowed to rest on what he supposes must be someone's side. The warmth and softness of a robe wraps around his body.
Whoever is there talks to him with increased franticness, but Obi-Wan can't focus on the sound. It all jumbles together in his head indistinctly; he used to talk aloud to himself to remain familiar with human speech, but he has long since gone silent, and he simply forgets for the moment how to speak.
A hand over his closed eyes; he cries out again and jerks away, weakly. The hand returns, but instead of the pain he expects, Obi-Wan feels a cool, soothing, green light winding its way gently around the sensitive nerves. A second tendril of green reaches out to a place that hasn't felt a kind touch in what he will later learn is over ten months. And he knows then who it is that holds him so tenderly, as if he were made of butterfly wings instead of flesh and bone.
“Master.”
~*~
They make good progress, taking various modes of transportation, gently passing through the minds of people they cannot pay but always leaving something behind; a repaired filament in the back room of a train; warmth for the joints of the older woman whose taxi they take; quietly healing the lingering cough of a man who lets them ride in the back of his pickup. At nightfall, they continue their progress on foot, neither having any money to rent a car and not about to trick an innocent into loaning one; the streets are all but empty. The countryside stretches out long and vast.
His Master pauses at dawn, to cast him a glance. Obi-Wan sees the question in it and nods. They continue.
At noon, however, Obi-Wan calls a halt. Without the Force to aid him, he's tiring much more quickly than usual. It's somewhat irritating – but he remembers his Master's advice and the reasons he's abstaining, and so releases his frustration as best as he can. Instead he sidles up cautiously to his Master's mental presence, creeping closer until he's sure he has permission through lack of protest; then he lets the Force Qui-Gon touches touch him too, gently, like falling petals upon his mind.
He looks up at his Master, sees him with his eyes closed. Waits, unsure. He can't quite make out the expression on his Master's face, but he can see the fine tremble work its way up his Master's back.
Then his Master's watching him with the kind, careful blue eyes Obi-Wan's been seeing more and more often, and though it hurts – because who else does he have to be careful around but his own Padawan, around whom he should feel most comfortable? - Obi-Wan only smiles faintly and makes a small gesture. His Master nods, and begins walking again, then jogging with Force-enhanced speed.
A step back and to the left, in the slipstream of his Master's Force-speed, Obi-Wan follows.
As evening falls his Master slows. Obi-Wan follows suit. They walk for a while, quietly, the cold air turning their breath into miniature clouds, until the small town they're in yields a hotel.
His Master books a room while Obi-Wan gently calms the innkeep's mind and walks into the hotel's kitchen, also calming the minds of the chef and assistant. Appearing as nothing more than a handyman, he fixes the uneven heating of the stove and the microwave that won't rotate, then quiets the clicking noise in the commercial refrigerator. Next, he goes upstairs and into the innkeep's study, debugging his computer with the ease of sorting younglings' building blocks.
When he's done all these things, he follows the link in his Master's mind to their room. Stands outside it for just a moment; then palms open the door. Inside, it's smallish and decorated in green and off-white, with soft floral patterns on the curtains and a pair of compact four-poster beds. There's one window, which overlooks several buildings, streetlights, and a few bare trees. It's dark outside, and the snow reflects as a muted silver glow.
His Master stands by the window, looking into the night, his face lit by subtle moonlight that softens the contours of his face. He's shucked his robe, outer tunic, and boots, and the sight is so disarmingly familiar and so desperately wanted as of late that Obi-Wan has to take a moment to compose himself. His Master cannot see it but Obi-Wan knows he feels it when he releases a wave of quiet sadness and deep relief to the Force. For a long time, Obi-Wan wasn't sure he'd ever get to see this sight again.
Along their bond, his Master sends reassurance, soft as falling snow.
He lets out a quiet breath, settles onto the end of the bed closest to the door and takes off his boots, setting them to the side, then stands again and discards his robe, flicking it neatly to smooth it before he folds it with practiced ease. His eyes search out his Master's robe, hung lopsidedly on one of the bed posts. He frowns, goes to it, picks it up from the post, flicks it out and folds it, too, placing it next to his own on the small white table. He wants to give his Master's robe a fond caress – but doesn't.
When Obi-Wan removes his outer tunic, he hears Qui-Gon suck in a breath. He turns, holding his tunic in one hand, unaware of when his Master turned to watch him, and when he got so close.
“Master?”
“Your arms, Obi-Wan,” he says with a fragile, soft sadness, reaching out to touch, gently, the arm closest to him. Immediately Obi-Wan tenses. His Master lets his fingertips trail down Obi-Wan's skin, making it tickle and a shiver rise in his spine. One fingertip traces the gentle hills and valleys of a scar. Obi-Wan trembles minutely; he shifts away so that his Master touches only air. Qui-Gon's hand withdraws, but it doesn't rest across his torso with his other arm in his usual pose of serenity. His arms hang at his sides, hands empty. Obi-Wan doesn't meet his Master's eyes.
“You've been doing Jitong again.”
Obi-Wan's shoulders hunch inward. “...I had to, Master,” he whispers. “I had to have something. You couldn't be there so I had to do what I could.”
His Master sighs quietly, then chooses a place on the bed nearest him, feet flat on the floor, palms flat on his thighs, in a patch of moonlight. He nods to Obi-Wan, who reluctantly follows suit, settling rigidly into the single armchair in a corner of the room. “I know we haven't had much time to talk about Yachta, Padawan,” his Master begins gently, “but know that I am always here for you.” He feels his Master's eyes on him. They pull Obi-Wan's gaze until he swallows and meets them. The silver of his Master's hair seems extra prominent, shining like shooting stars through earthy brown.
Qui-Gon looks again at Obi-Wan's arms and his expression becomes pinched, and he reaches outward once more, then pauses. Obi-Wan tries hard not to recoil from that hand. Jitong is his; it is private, even from his Master.
“May I see what you have chosen?” his Master asks. Obi-Wan's arms cross defensively over his stomach.
“I-” but he doesn't finish the sentence, only looks to the side, and the floor, a little unhappy and a little heartbroken. He can't stand to see that look on his Master's face, but to show his scars is to expose a part of his soul of which he's not particularly proud. In fact, Jitong brings him much secret shame. What will the other Jedi think when they finally make it back to Coruscant? It is one thing to be hurt in battle; another to hurt oneself to deal with the tortures of battle. To distort Jitong's original purpose. He's never known of any others who act as he does.
“You may see,” he says instead and thrusts out his arms before he can lose his nerve. Qui-Gon takes one arm in both hands after gently pushing the other arm back to Obi-Wan's side. He takes a step closer, and again Obi-Wan wants to shiver but he thinks he manages to stave it off. His Master glances at him quickly, just a flicker of the eyes, then looks away. His hands hold Obi-Wan's arm very carefully.
Obi-Wan is acutely aware of all the places their skin touches.
Several moments is all Obi-Wan can handle. “I'm sorry, Master,” he says, then pulls his arm back towards himself. Qui-Gon offers no resistance, but watches him retreat into the chair with faint worry etching lines around his eyes.
Obi-Wan can't stand that, either, so he blurts, “And you, Master? What of your hair?”
His Master doesn't raise a hand to touch his silvered hair as Obi-Wan half expected him to, nor does he appear surprised. “I have caused my hair to go silver twice since Yachta,” he says steadily, still watching Obi-Wan shrink into himself. “I understand the draw of self-destruction, Padawan. I have wanted to silver my hair much more often than I have. We are reluctant to give up coping methods precisely because they are effective.” His voice is quiet and soft as a bird's wingbeat. “But effective is not always the same as healthy. I have confidence that time and healing will rid me of my method. I...” he hesitates, and Obi-Wan cringes and looks away, “...am concerned that you are not finding the same relief.”
Obi-Wan doesn't have a response to that, so he stays quiet.
“Talk to me, Obi-Wan,” his Master gently urges. “I am here for you.”
But how can he talk to his Master about Jitong?
“I didn't mean to make it like this,” he finally says, so quiet as to be nearly inaudible. “I was just going to use it like Jedi used to, to tell a story....” That is all he offers for a long while, but Qui-Gon doesn't move from his spot on the bed. He continues to watch his Padawan without impatience, and it is this devotion that eventually gets Obi-Wan to make his second admittance:
“I don't know what to do.”
His Master just dips his chin once in a small nod. Another long stretch of silence.
“...I have to have something, Master,” he whispers, “in case you ever leave me again.” He looks at the floor.
“Obi-Wan.” Said with compassion, so much that it hurts him to hear it. He doesn't look up. A rustle of robes and the creak of the bed, and his Master is kneeling at his side. He still doesn't look.
“Even when you thought I was gone,” his Master says quietly, “I was always with you, Obi-Wan, and I always will be. Our connection may be dampened again by torture or distance, but no matter what, no one can take away that we are Padawan and Master. No one can take that from us.”
He feels the beginning of tears in his eyes. He raises a hand to cover his face, quietly falling apart. Qui-Gon gently pulls it down from his eyes. Obi-Wan lets him.
“I will always be with you, Obi-Wan, just as you shall always be with me.”
When Obi-Wan starts to sob silently, his Master keeps his hand warm in his, and doesn't leave his side.
~*~
A week passes in shades of white and bright golden dawns. When the boat they're on drops them off at the research station, they continue into the wilds of the snow with threats of imminent death from the resident scientists. Clustered together like a pair of bushy-tailed squirrels, his Master bears the brunt of the whistling wind and snow, the Force a cocoon of warmth emanating from him like a miniature arctic sun. Pressed in close behind, Obi-Wan keeps his head down and takes in that warmth like a reptile warming itself in the sunlight, letting echoes of the Force touch him from along the bond with his Master. Each contact brings him the heat and the Force he needs to stay alive.
For several days his Master follows his instincts while Obi-Wan follows his Master. Sometimes Qui-Gon halts and, panther-like, peers off into the distance with coiled energy and keenly focused intent. When he picks up the trail on which the Force leads them, they hunker down against the wind and become but one blue-violet shadow again.
Then one morning the long flat expanse of white is broken up by bits of ocean, lapping at the sides of the ice. As they progress the land on which they walk becomes thinner, the ice thicker, and the ocean more common. Soon they're leaping from floe to floe with Force-enhanced leaps, following the trail of runoff from a series of huge glaciers several hours away. The sun shines bright overhead, making everything a blinding white that tears at the eyes.
That evening, they reach the glaciers, and his Master stops by one no different than the rest. Obi-Wan catches his breath, the physical exertion with little to no aid from the Force making him clearer-headed than he can remember being for a long time. He can still feel the black creep of Dark in his veins, but in the crisp northern air it is harder to get sucked in by its insidious pull, clinging and alluring.
“This one,” his Master says, reaching out to trace a gloved hand down the side of the glacier, fondly, like stroking a favorite plant. “This is the nursery. Can you feel the Living Force in it, Padawan?”
Obi-Wan concentrates. “...Yes, Master, but it's very faint.”
His Master nods. “Were you accessing the Force right now, you would feel it without any doubt. No Jedi could pass this place by without feeling its pull, even the least Force-sensitive, so strong is the sense of hidden life.” He strokes the ice once more, and Obi-Wan sees him close his eyes and his chest rise and fall, slowly, with a deep breath. When he opens his eyes, they're a deep, cobalt blue, and Obi-Wan can't look away.
“Let's go.”
They wind through the ice like a pair of supple-spined snakes, getting ever more firmly embedded in the glacier, going into caves and crevices with nothing more than the Force as their guide. The farther they go the more fantastic the caves become, glittering and glimmering with the beginnings of reds, blues, greens, and purple crystals, mere specks upon the ice-white walls of the caves. There is no more wind, and the air around them has gained a little more warmth as their body heat warms the narrow spaces.
After an hour or so, they enter what can only be a crystal nursery.
“What do you think, Padawan?” His Master stands in the middle of the open space, back to Obi-Wan, surrounded on all sides by crystals growing out of the walls, ceiling, and floor, faceted like gemstones and beautifully irregular, bright like fireflies hibernating in the sheets of ice. His Master reaches out to touch a cluster of green crystals, hard as diamonds but giving the impression of a cluster of leaves, vibrant and alive. The green glow reflects off his Master's face as he turns first towards the crystals, expression full of respectful wonder, then looks to his Padawan.
Obi-Wan sucks in a breath. “Beautiful.”
His Master smiles. “Yes.”
Obi-Wan only nods and covers his true thoughts that much more carefully.
“May we meditate here, Master?” is all he asks, instead. “I feel this place will be...good, for me.”
Qui-Gon looks pleasantly surprised. “Of course, Padawan. Your instincts guide you well.”
His Master settles on the floor of ice in graceful lotus, choosing one of the few locations where the ice is smooth and clear of crystals. Obi-Wan picks his way over the crystals and seats himself next to a green and blue cluster. He reaches out to touch them, taking off his gloves. They feel like his Master; alive.
~*~
But then the vision comes, and with a violent lurch Obi-Wan is thrown back into the present, the calmness of meditation torn aside by images of his Master's body, lit aflame in a pyre. There's a hand on his shoulder; someone's shaking him.
“...Wan. Obi-Wan. Come out of it, Padawan-”
“I am fine, Master,” he breathes quietly, taking in long gulps of air to soothe his racing heart and hair-trigger nerves. The hand stays on his shoulder.
“The Unifying Force?”
Obi-Wan lets out another breath. “Yes, Master.”
Qui-Gon gives him a long, deep look. Obi-Wan looks back, guilelessly, but wordlessly, too. This, he is not willing to share.
And his Master realizes this, and accepts it, and his gaze moves from his Padawan. “Come. We're almost there.”
They pass through many more crystal caves, some clearly just at the start of their growth, others in full bloom. All are spectacular. Finally, they reach the end of one cave and see a smooth metal door, nearly invisible due to the camouflaging effect of the multiple reflected colors. His Master identifies a small control panel and keys in a code. The door hums open quietly, and they enter.
Inside, the room is silvery-blue and gray, shining and clean but empty. Onto the walls are stapled multiple rows of cables, which string around the chamber like a garland. There is a center control panel with two chairs, one of which is tipped over, and a set of basic repair tools on the counter. Two other doorways lead into hallways that twist out of sight.
“Padawan,” his Master says.
“Yes, Master?”
His Master leans a bit against the metal counter behind him. His eyes are calm and unworried, and his hands are draped easily across his chest, folds of cloth spilling over like waterfalls.
Watching Obi-Wan, his Master opens his mouth; hesitates, uncharacteristically, then looks in the direction of his Padawan braid. His eyes soften a moment; Obi-Wan feels something flutter in his chest. Then his Master looks back at him, and smiles, and the sweet anticipatory feeling grows worse, because it is a feeling Obi-Wan shouldn't have, cannot accept, and certainly cannot act upon.
“You know what to do,” is all his Master says, quietly. Obi-Wan bows.
“Yes, Master.”
They separate, Qui-Gon heading down one of the smaller corridors, Obi-Wan remaining in the main chamber. He begins his search for a transmitter of any kind, finding one after only a few minutes. Sitting in the communications chair, he tries to activate the machine. Nothing. So he pulls open the paneling and looks at the tangled wires underneath, and knows the Force has guided him to be present at this moment. He has a deft hand with machinery; his Master does not.
Several hours later his Master returns, stretching his back with his hands on his hips. “What news, Padawan?”
Obi-Wan looks at his Master from his position on the floor, on his back, then extricates himself from beneath the paneling, sitting cross-legged on the cool metal floor, palms flat on his thighs. “I've had the transmitter running for at least an hour now,” he says. “I've been trying to increase the signal range. Whether or not we'll get through to Coruscant, I cannot say.”
Qui-Gon only nods, looking a bit distracted.
“Master?”
“...I feel something,” his Master explains slowly, visibly refocusing upon Obi-Wan. “For all that we are surrounded by the Living Force, I can't help but believe something is very wrong here, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan frowns. “Something amiss in the Living Force?”
“I believe so.” Qui-Gon looks about himself once more, and Obi-Wan can feel the ghost-like touches of the Living Force as his Master probes the area again. When he only hums in thought a few moments later, Obi-Wan knows he's found nothing new.
“If it would be a help,” Obi-Wan begins, “I can reconnect with the Unifying Force to see what it tells me.”
His Master looks at him. “No, Obi-Wan. It is not so dire a feeling as that; I would have you healed first.”
Obi-Wan's frown deepens. “Master, I am not injured.” He tries not to sound too offended.
His Master only smiles with good humor, then his tone becomes calm and earnest once more. “I think you are.”
Was he really going to do this? “Master,” Obi-Wan explains again, patience firmly in place, “I am not injured. All damages I suffered during the droideka attack have been healed. Jitong...I have experienced some catharsis, recently.” This is no lie; merely admitting his actions to his Master has lifted a suffocating weight from his chest. “And the state of my connection with the Force-”
“-is very much an open wound.” His Master's eyes lock calmly onto Obi-Wan's own and he takes a few steps closer until he can crouch down next to his Padawan and speak on an even level. Obi-Wan continues to frown.
“I can feel it, Padawan – the Living Force draws me to you as only the hurt do. You've been healing on your own as we journeyed, but lately your progress has slowed, and within the past few days, all but halted. I am concerned for your psychic health. I am not a Healer, but my instincts tell me the Force bleeds inside you. You are conflicted, and until this fight is resolved the Dark will linger.” Then, softly: “I cannot help you if I do not know what it is you fight.”
Obi-Wan stares, then looks away mutely, shakes his head, and doesn't reply.
His Master doesn't sigh or demand his attention, simply rises, steps closer, and places a palm on the nape of Obi-Wan's neck. Obi-Wan is keenly aware of the touch, and goes very still, holding his breath. “Never forget that I am here for you, Obi-Wan, and I always will be,” his Master says quietly. Then he removes his hand and takes a step back. For a moment, desperate irritation flares in Obi-Wan – how can his Master be there for him, when what troubles him is his Master? There is no way out of his confusion, and no other Jedi to advise him on the matter. Even were he able to reach someone on Coruscant, who could he trust with the kind of information he wished to impart? That he lov-
No. Thinking of it in those terms would only compound the problem. For the more he admits his feelings using that word, the greater the chance his Master will be taken away, perhaps temporarily, perhaps forever, and that frightens him with a kind of deep-rooted, trembling, black fear he's never felt before.
And if already he feels fear, from there his attachment can only bring about hate, suffering and, eventually, the Dark Side. He can think of nothing except detriments. The Council frowns upon love too much to ever let him stay with his Master, and maybe they'd be right.
He releases these frustrations, the air around him momentarily raising in temperature. He knows Qui-Gon feels both the release and its physical manifestation, but he doesn't comment, for which Obi-Wan is grateful.
All his Master says is, “Let me know when you have achieved sufficient range for Coruscant.” And he walks out the door and Obi-Wan wants to call him back, but he can't. He can't.