Story - Finished!!!
Igenlode Wordsmith
No effort was made to verify the identity of the sender.
--------------------------------------------------------
I've finished my Snapefic! I've finished!
<drops everything, runs up to roof, sings to stars, comes down again
looking a bit embarrassed>
I just managed to squeeze the epilogue into the very last page of the
old journal I'm currently writing in - it fills July 9 to December 31
plus about ten pages at the back, minus four pages I wrote and then tore
out when I decided to skip the Cataclysm Charm sequence :-) Now all I've
got to do is to type it up (anyone who's ever seen a heavily-corrected
longhand manuscript will know just how much of an 'all' this is...)
I would have tried to submit it to the Sugar Quill for beta-reading, but
it turned out that none of the three browsers to which I have access
seem to be able to upload to that site that night - so I'd be obliged if
the newsgroup could beta-read it instead. It's not my best work, but
I'm a good writer, and it can't be much worse than endless netiquette
threads :-(
(Also, it's the first thing I've actually *finished* for about a year
<note to self: /must/ finish that novel some time> so I'm currently in
that euphoric stage you get when the massive responsibility to the story
is all discharged, and the post-natal depression hasn't yet set in. This
is somewhat akin to posting when drunk, except that no intoxicating
substances are required - now you know why I'm a strict abstainer, I
get quite drunk enough already on my own brain chemistry and *very*
silly without the benefit of marijuana!)
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
Richard Eney
Igenlode Wordsmith <Use-Author-Address-Header@[127.1]> wrote:
>I've finished my Snapefic! I've finished!
><drops everything, runs up to roof, sings to stars, comes down again
>looking a bit embarrassed>
Congratulations!
>I would have tried to submit it to the Sugar Quill for beta-reading, but
>it turned out that none of the three browsers to which I have access
>seem to be able to upload to that site that night - so I'd be obliged if
>the newsgroup could beta-read it instead. It's not my best work, but
>I'm a good writer, and it can't be much worse than endless netiquette
>threads :-(
Once you get it typed, can you put it on a website? That would save
bandwidth for the people who don't want to read it.
=Tamar
Igenlode Wordsmith
> In article <2003022520332...@gacracker.org>,
> Igenlode Wordsmith <Use-Author-Address-Header@[127.1]> wrote:
>
> >I've finished my Snapefic! I've finished!
[snip]
> >I would have tried to submit it to the Sugar Quill for beta-reading, but
> >it turned out that none of the three browsers to which I have access
> >seem to be able to upload to that site that night - so I'd be obliged if
> >the newsgroup could beta-read it instead. It's not my best work, but
> >I'm a good writer, and it can't be much worse than endless netiquette
> >threads :-(
>
> Once you get it typed, can you put it on a website? That would save
> bandwidth for the people who don't want to read it.
>
To be honest: yes, via mail2FTP, but I'd rather not because Web access
is much more inconvenient for *me* :-(
It also makes it much harder to get helpful follow-up on Usenet because
it's so much more trouble to quote.
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
- I don't want to 'fit in' any more... - That makes two of us!
Ron D
If you don't want to post it here (to save bandwidth for others...) why not post it on
alt.binaries.harry-potter?? just post it as a txt attachment... There isn't enough traffic (or spam,
either) there for it to be any problem, and it should be available long enough for anyone who wants
it to go get it...
Ron D.
Dragon Friend
news:Kcx7a.288263$be.259728@rwcrnsc53
Except as has been pointed out here on numerous occasions not everyone can
get alt.binaries.harry-potter because it wasn't created properly and many
newservers won't touch it because of that. Which could explain why it
doesn't get a lot of traffic or spam :-)
Dragon Friend
--
"Humanity... so noble, always willing to sacrifice... the other
fellow." ~~ Max von Sydow in NEEDFUL THINGS. "...perhaps all the
dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once
beautiful and brave..." By Rainer Maria Rilke Check out these websites
http://www.maxvonsydow.net http://www.maxvonsydow.da.ru
Ron D
Ah, I had forgotten about that, as I don't have any trouble getting it....
Ron D.
Igenlode Wordsmith
No effort was made to verify the identity of the sender.
--------------------------------------------------------
On 27 Feb 2003 Ron D wrote:
> > On 25 Feb 2003 Tamar wrote:
> >
> > > Igenlode Wordsmith <Use-Author-Address-Header@[127.1]> wrote:
> > >
> > > >I've finished my Snapefic! I've finished!
[snip]
> > > Once you get it typed, can you put it on a website? That would save
> > > bandwidth for the people who don't want to read it.
> If you don't want to post it here (to save bandwidth for others...)
> why not post it on alt.binaries.harry-potter?? just post it as a txt
> attachment... There isn't enough traffic (or spam, either) there for
> it to be any problem, and it should be available long enough for
> anyone who wants it to go get it...
>
I'm afraid I don't have access to a binary newsfeed, and I don't know
how to set up the headers for an attachment either - I have to type my
headers manually as a text file :-)
We'll see how it goes; the reason I haven't posted anything at all is
that I'm still engaged in typing up chapter 7 (the last one, bar the
Epilogue). I know it's slow, but then you haven't seen the state of the
manuscript I'm trying to decode! (Parts of it were written on the train; a
good deal of it was written while walking along, and the rest was
written on my knee - that's why I use a hardbound book.) Checking back
for the accuracy of the transcription just takes so long, and the
transcription errors are *never* an improvement :-(
I don't want to post the start until I've been able to check it for
continuity against the end; I've already picked up a Chaser who became a
Beater and someone who said "Voldemort" when he really shouldn't...
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar
Igenlode Wordsmith
Water-horse
Igenlode Wordsmith
--------
"I am here," began Lachlan MacMartin with great unwillingness, "because
there is something in the loch which may bring you ill-fortune, and--"
"In the loch! What, an /each uisge/, a water-horse?" Ewen was smiling.
"You cannot shoot a water-horse, Lachlan -- not with a charge of
small-shot!"
*The Flight of the Heron*, D.K.Broster (1925)
/Each uisge/ (Gaelic -- 'water-horse'): subspecies of /kelpie/ (q.v.)
related to the /night-horse/ (ref. Cherryh, p27 and passim). The blood,
tail-hairs (when in horse form) and tongue all have applications in
various fields of potion-making and particularly in mind control....
Wizards should note that this creature is classified as a Level 6
predator (see Appendix VIII) and may only be obtained under specific
licence.
*Hoof, Horn & Bone -- the Potion Maker's Guide to Body Parts*, Vol 2
(Heidelburg Press 1991)
--------
Chapter 1 * * * Special Consignment * * *
"Professor Snape?"
The Potions master, marking students' work in a pool of lamplight, failed
to look up. His mouth was drawn into a thin line. The fifth year
Slytherin class was one of the weakest in the House, and despite
impending O.W.L.s, young Tench's Potions work had continued to be poor
enough to drag the entire House average down five points. Snape's lips
thinned further as he scanned the remainder of the essay, his quill
underscoring omissions, inaccuracies and misspellings with jabs of vivid
scarlet. Three inches from the end of the scroll, a large and hopeful
blot had obliterated half a paragraph of the conclusion.
Snape studied this phenomenon, pinched nostrils flaring unpleasantly once
more, and after /'Shoddy work -- 2/10'/ appended the single grim phrase
/'See me'/. From the far end of the dungeon classroom he caught the
intake of breath as the girl nerved herself to speak again.
"Yes, Miss Franklin?" Snape said sharply, not bothering to glance in her
direction. His peripheral night vision had always been excellent.
Ava Franklin, fourth-year Hufflepuff, emitted the predictable suppressed
squeak of dismay that had never once, since her first Potions lesson,
failed to irritate him. She was hovering nervously in the doorway as if
she thought he might be about to stab her with his quill. "Sir -- please,
sir--"
"Yes, Miss Franklin?" Snape allowed the scroll to snap shut and fixed her
with cold black eyes. No coherent explanation appeared to be forthcoming.
"I assume you *do* have some reason for disturbing me at this hour?"
Ava gulped. "Sir -- Professor McGonagall--"
Under his glare, she took visible hold on her message and recited:
"Professor McGonagall's compliments, and would Professor Snape please,
umm, remove his Potions consignment from the entrance hall where it is
causing an obstruction."
Snape sighed and laid down his quill automatically, preparing to get up
and inspect the contents of this new delivery. He disliked being
interrupted in the middle of marking, particularly when it was going
badly, but a Potions consignment was always an event and the prospect of
fresh ingredients was a not unwelcome one.
Then his gaze fell on Ava, and he picked up his quill again, his eyes
glinting slightly in anticipation. "You may go, Miss Franklin. My
compliments to Professor McGonagall, and you may tell her I'll be along
presently."
He reached out one hand for the next scroll and unrolled it with
deliberation, watching the changing expressions on Ava's face with some
enjoyment. It was fifteen years since he'd last found himself in terror
of the sharp side of McGonagall's tongue, but the prospect clearly had
the fourth-year appalled. Snape's thin, unpleasant smile dawned.
"I believe I told you to leave, Miss Franklin. *Out*!"
--------
Some forty-five minutes later, his marking completed and liberally
endorsed with red ink, he encountered Minerva McGonagall, looking
thunderous, in the entrance hall.
"Professor Snape, I distinctly seem to remember requesting--" The faint
Scots intonation in her voice, always a sign of agitation, had become
considerably stronger.
"I was busy," Snape said coldly, cutting across her. Minerva's scoldings
were only one of the various unpleasant situations he had hardened
himself to ignore, over the years.
Removing the dog-eared parchment tacked to the lid of the largest box, he
surveyed the collection of crates and packing-cases, ticking off the
various items one by one first on his mental list and then on the
delivery note in his hand. /Lion whelk/ -- tick. /Shredded mares' nest/
-- tick. /Angusberries, dried; carragheen, dried; distilled lamphrey oil/
-- tick, tick, tick.
The list was twitched from under his nose. "The items are all there,"
Professor McGonagall said, her mouth a tight-pressed line. "If there is
one thing I have had, it is time to check."
Snape's lip curled slightly, as if in disbelief. "*All* there?"
He met her level gaze, which held his for a moment, then slid off
slightly towards one of the larger packing-cases. She gave a brief nod in
that direction. "*All* there."
Despite himself, Snape couldn't hide a touch of relief, mirrored almost
instantly in the relaxing of Professor McGonagall's taut-braced
shoulders. It was not the 'obstruction' in the wide hall -- not at nine
o'clock at night! -- that had left her temper on edge; and it was not the
Deputy Headmistress' habit to monitor every delivery in person. Nor, for
that matter, was it entirely the envisioned disaster of his O.W.L.-year
Slytherins that had worn his own patience thin, these last few weeks, nor
even the antics of a certain set of second-year Gryffindors. The presence
or absence, however, of the one item in this consignment that was *not*
on the list -- that one very dangerous and extremely illegal item that
had only been included on Professor McGonagall's personal authority --
had had a great deal to do with it. Not least, the fact that neither of
them had as yet informed Professor Dumbledore.
"And that cat Mrs Norris was nosing around earlier," Professor McGonagall
was saying shortly as she led the way to the extra packing-case. "*How*
you expect me to--"
"I dare say she would be," Snape cut across smoothly. If he was also
regretting the momentary satisfaction derived from the impulse to keep
her waiting, then he had no intention of showing it.
He inhaled sharply, analysing the most pungent constituent parts of the
aroma from long practice. "The lamphrey oil, unless I'm much mistaken."
Automatically, he had cast a glance around for Filch; but neither the
caretaker nor his cat familiar were anywhere in sight.
McGonagall's pursed lips suggested that she didn't believe anything so
innocent of Mrs Norris for a minute. But she reached the packing-case in
question and indicated it with a tap of her wand. Something moved inside,
and instinctively both of them took a half-step back.
"/Each uisge,/" Professor McGonagall said, a little hoarsely, touching
the crate more cautiously with the very tip of her wand, so that the
seals on the strappings glowed into visibility. "One. Adult. Male, so far
as we can tell. And you can thank your lucky stars, Severus, that we're
north of the border-- " the trace of Scots was making another appearance
in her agitation-- "for I would not have tried to bring that down south
without a permit, not with Grindelwald himself on my heels."
Snape was inspecting the seals, peering between the slats at the dark
shape shifting within. An eye rolled at him, dark with a crimson streak,
and he caught a glimpse of black silky hide. The creature was no larger
than a dog.
"I specifically asked for an adult." His tone was sharp. "Even a common
kelpie should be larger than this--"
McGonagall shook her head. "Containment Curse," she explained. "Believe
me, they don't build bespelled crates big enough to hold an /each uisge/
without."
She directed her wand towards the crate's interior. "/Visio
Encapsulatum!/"
Despite himself, Snape stepped hastily aside as the ghostly image of a
sixteen-hand stallion sprang into being above the crate, night-black hide
rippling over muscles in very un-horse-like places. Its glossy hooves
were cloven, and looked razor-sharp, and the mouth that turned and hissed
at them bore a double row of predatory teeth and a forked and delicate
sandpaper tongue. The /each uisge/ laid back its ears and snapped. The
nearest eye held a glint of red intelligence in its depths.
Professor McGonagall, looking shaken, banished the image with a flick of
her wand, and exchanged glances with Snape. "I trust the spells on that
enclosure Professor Kettleburn has been constructing will prove
adequate."
"So, Minerva," said Snape drily, "do I." The gruesome contents of the
shelves in his office had never disturbed his sleep one whit. Strangely
enough, however, the prospect of having this creature caged within the
same set of rooms as his bedchamber seemed far from conducive to slumber.
"At all costs," McGonagall was saying fervently, "we must keep it out of
the lake."
Snape's lip curled slightly. He had never suspected Professor McGonagall
of a talent for the blindingly obvious. "No, somehow I don't imagine the
news that we had an escaped man-eating water-horse on the grounds would
enhance our student intake...."
Professor McGonagall treated this last sally with all the attention it
deserved; namely none. Confronted with the reality of the /each uisge/,
his colleague had begun to look rather sick. "Severus, are you sure this
is necessary?"
Snape stiffened. "In my professional judgement, the fresh heart's-blood
of an /each uisge/ is essential to the functioning of the mixture, yes.
If you are asking me to judge the desirability of developing a Free-will
Potion, that would depend entirely upon your assessment of the likelihood
of the return of Voldemort -- and your assessment of the undesirability
of that event--" He broke off abruptly, shutting off the memories before
they could rise.
McGonagall was shaking her head helplessly, perhaps trying to drive out
her own memories of those dark days. "We *have* to have something to use
against the Imperius Curse." Her knuckles tightened around her wand. "It
was bad enough last time. To go through that again-- There *has* to be
something we can use to protect against the effects!"
"I'm convinced a Free-will Potion is possible." Snape kept his own voice
soft with an effort. Bitterness stained his words. "Under which
circumstances it is unfortunate, to say the least, that the Headmaster
has seen fit to refuse permission for any further research."
"The risks--"
"The risks are my affair."
"The risks to the school--"
"The only risks to the school would be in the case of my gross
incompetence," Snape said coldly, and McGonagall sighed.
"Well, it's no secret Albus Dumbledore and I didn't see quite eye to eye
on this one." The corners of the Deputy Headmistress' mouth twitched
slightly as she surveyed the assortment of potent and highly exotic
commodities she had taken steps to acquire, all of which Snape had listed
as equally essential to practical development. Then her lips thinned once
more to a straight line as her gaze returned to the caged /each uisge/.
"How long before you can demonstrate a result that may change Albus'
mind?"
Snape didn't miss a beat. "Three to five days--" he'd worked it out often
enough, calculating theory, allowing for experimental error -- "five, at
the outside."
"Before-- ?"
His smile was less than pleasant. "Before I can produce a result that
warrants asking permission to carry out full tests with the Imperius
Curse, of course. Or did you seriously imagine that it would be possible
to perform a series of Unforgivable Curses in the dungeons at Hogwarts
without ringing alarms everywhere from the Headmaster's office to the
Ministry of Magic?"
McGonagall pointedly ignored that.
"And--" she frowned, her eyes still on the half-seen movements of the
/each uisge/ -- "just where do you plan to send that thing after your
work is over? There's no water near here will be safe--"
"Send it?" Snape stared at her, then laughed, briefly. "Minerva, I
specified *fresh* heart's-blood. We will have exactly one chance at this.
As far as that creature is concerned, there isn't going to be an
'afterwards'."
He caught the expression that crossed her face, and his lip curled. "Come
now, Professor, I'd have thought you'd have been the last person to feel
sentiment over an /each uisge/ -- after what happened to your sister."
Professor McGonagall had gone very white. She was staring at him. "How
did you know?" she whispered. "How could you know...about Catriona?"
"It's amazing what you come across in the course of basic research."
Snape smiled, sourly. "There haven't been many kelpie attacks this
century. The name caught my attention...and it wasn't hard to put two and
two together."
For a moment the hall was silent, save for the liquid shifting of the
caged creature, barely a wand's-length away. "She would have been your
elder sister, I think?" Snape prompted in a low tone, raising an eyebrow.
Professor McGonagall's lips were pressed very tightly together, and she
had her head turned away to the far side of the hall. She said nothing.
After a few seconds she nodded, slowly.
"For what it's worth," Snape said stiffly at last into the long silence
that followed, the unaccustomed words hard to force out, "you have my --
condolences."
Professor McGonagall turned and smiled at him suddenly, her face
resolutely bright. "Oh, it was a long time ago, Severus. A very long
time."
She shook herself briskly. "You'll be wanting an assistant, I take it?"
Snape, momentarily taken aback, pulled himself together. "An assistant --
at least for the initial preparations, yes. One of the older students
will do. The sixth-years have barely started their N.E.W.T.s; they can
easily spare an evening or two."
"Sixth-year Slytherin," McGonagall nodded. "Well, that can be arranged--"
"*Not* Slytherin," Snape snapped. "I don't want Slytherin House
implicated in this. Neither your House nor mine -- we may need an
independent witness."
Fresh lines had appeared on Professor McGonagall's face, but she conceded
the point unhappily. "Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, then. Emma Currion's a
very talented student...I'm sure--"
"I don't care how talented she is at Transfiguration, I'm not having a
hamfisted Hufflepuff near an experiment of this delicacy," Snape said
flatly across her protests. He cast his mind across last year's Ravenclaw
Potions class, trying to separate the competent students from the
troublemakers. "Lovell will do. I'll take Lovell."
"Magnus Lovell?" McGonagall looked surprised. "Don't you think he's a
bit...quiet?"
"The quieter the better," Snape retorted. He had drawn his wand and was
busy levitating packages into a neat queue towards the stairs.
Professor McGonagall sighed, drawing her robes around her as she prepared
to leave. "Very well. I'll have Lovell sent down here. Is there anything
else?"
"I'll keep you informed." Snape didn't spare her a glance, concentrating
on handling three bales of larks-tongues at once. After a moment he heard
the quick rustle of retreating steps, followed by silence.
Igenlode Wordsmith
Chapter 2 * * * First Blood * * *
Reserved and gypsy-dark, Magnus Lovell, now in his sixth year in
Ravenclaw House at Hogwarts, had always been tall for his age. Over the
last year he had finally begun to broaden out to match his gangly height.
During the summer, Snape noted with distaste, he had also taken the
daring step of acquiring a single gold earring. Some feather-witted girl
had probably told him that it made him look piratical and dashing. To
Snape's mind it made him look more like a Muggle garage mechanic.
He stared coldly at Lovell until the boy looked down and began to
shuffle. "If you've quite finished inspecting the hem of your robes, Mr
Lovell...." Snape's voice was silky, but Magnus flushed.
"Professor McGonagall said you needed some stuff moving down to the
dungeons, sir."
"Yes." *Obviously*, Snape's expression implied. He indicated the crate
that held the /each uisge/ with a brief jerk of his wand. "This one
contains livestock. I suggest that you handle it with extreme care."
Another flick of his wand rounded up the levitating small packages and
sent them bobbing ahead of him towards the stairs down to the lower
levels of Hogwarts. He was halfway across the hall when a yelp and crash
from behind him told him that the boy Lovell had managed to drop the
packing-case.
He swung round on his heel, snarling. "I believe I mentioned *extreme
care*, Mr Lovell?"
The seals on the case were unharmed, but Lovell's hand was bleeding. The
denizen of the cage had obviously managed to get in a bite. Snape relaxed
and allowed himself a thin smile.
"I suggest more attention in future when handling hazardous materials,"
he told the boy coldly, watching him take a fresh grip on his burden, and
swept his own load out of the hall and down the stairs.
He passed Lovell several times as the pile of packages in the entrance
hall steadily decreased. The Ravenclaw appeared to be making extremely
slow progress. As Snape came swiftly up the stairs for a third time, the
boy stumbled, missed a step, and almost brought them both crashing to the
ground. A wicked black head, flattened against the inside of the crate,
twisted round and tried to get in a nip at Snape in passing, only to
recoil before a venomous hex.
Snape brushed off his robes, regained his balance and directed a truly
murderous glare at the incompetent Lovell. The boy was almost in tears.
He made another attempt to lift the packing-case, flinching with pain,
and let it slip, holding out both hands in appeal. They were covered with
shallow nips and scrapes and bleeding freely. "Sir -- I can't--"
"Silence!" Snape stared him down. "I would have expected more initiative
from a Ravenclaw of your abilities, Mr Lovell." An almost contemptuous
flick of his wand set a Repulsion hex along the edges of the slats,
bringing a harsh hiss from the dark shape within. He pointed his wand in
the direction of Lovell's hands.
"/Torpeo!/"
Lovell let out a gasp as the Numbing Curse hit, then stared down at his
nerveless extremities in mingled relief and dismay. He fumbled to pick up
the crate with some difficulty.
"Get on with it." Snape turned away sharply. "I'll expect you to bring
down what's left from the Entrance Hall once you've finished. I have work
to do."
But he took care to supervise the creature's transfer to Professor
Kettleburn's enclosure himself, all the same, forcing the horse-demon
across from travelling-crate to sturdy cage without allowing for one
moment the Containment Curse to lapse that held it pent in miniature
form. It was not until the Curse had been firmly anchored in its new
destination, and the protections on every bar of the enclosure checked
over yet again -- he had absolutely no intention of trusting his own
safety to them on the strength of old Kettleburn's assurances -- that he
dismissed Lovell to fetch down the remainder of the supplies and allowed
himself to relax a little.
In the corner of the disused classroom, the /each uisge/ shifted softly,
one dark eye half-visible in the shadows. It whickered gently, projecting
'harmless' and 'glossy black hide, so soft to touch'. Snape gave it a
cold stare and turned his back.
But the process of opening and unpacking all the various bales and crates
of newly-arrived components intrigued him and calmed his temper, as it
always had; there was an unthinking pleasure in breaking open each bundle
and spreading out the delicate contents across the long desks in the
lamplight, in a subtle rainbow of textures and colours and scents, musty
and spicy and sour, with a hint of sharp musk, and the faint, unpleasant
background tang that was the relic of a hundred failed schoolboy potions.
It had hung about all the dungeon classrooms for so long that he barely
even registered it with distaste; it was simply the familiar scent of
Potions...of his domain.
He was in the middle of examining a carefully-graded array of lionfish
spines when Magnus Lovell made a belated reappearance, almost concealed
behind an armful of the remaining packages.
"There's still another couple of boxes up there," he said hastily, before
Snape could speak. He let his armful cascade clumsily onto the end of the
table beside the rest. "I couldn't manage everything all at once. I'll
just go and get them--" He almost bolted from the room.
Snape stared after him, breath hissing sharply between his teeth. But the
boy's feet were clattering up the stairs already, and young Master
Lovell's antics could be tracked down to source later.
Meanwhile...meanwhile, there was the intriguing, bitter scent of crushed
mermaid's-foot seed drifting from the half-opened packet in front of him,
and a whole cornucopia of other treasures to be brought to light....
It was some few minutes later, handling feather-light sheets of gossamer
silk, that he became aware of an unpleasant stickiness in his touch.
Snape wiped one hand down the black of his robes, irritably. Then
frowned, staring at the colour of the faint smudges on the gossamer.
Brought the other hand up slowly, first into the lamplight and then,
cautiously -- gaze going from the reddish smears on his fingertips to
those on the side of the bale he'd been handling -- to his mouth.
The fleeting taste was only a confirmation. Blood-stains. Hand-prints, on
everything the boy had brought down. And the boy himself, standing in the
doorway with the two last boxes clutched to his chest, and a thoroughly
hangdog expression....
"Mr Lovell!" Snape was on his feet, robes billowing around him as if the
shadows themselves were reaching out, and Lovell flinched.
"Have you any idea--" the Potions master's voice had taken on that deadly
intensity that his students knew all too well-- "have you any idea of the
potential consequences, not only to yourself but to anyone careless
enough to use the contaminated material, if this wizard's blood of yours
is allowed to come into contact with work in progress? Have you any hint
of understanding of the Dark Arts implications alone of mingling a
wizard's own blood with a spell?"
He drew a breath. "Because strangely enough, Mr Lovell, I seem to
remember setting an essay on that very subject for your Potions exam --
an examination which you purport to have passed with an ease which now
appears entirely improbable!"
Snape broke off. Not, by any means, because words were about to fail him,
but because the young Ravenclaw didn't appear to have heard a word he was
saying.
"It won't stop..." Lovell whispered, his voice cracking. He held out both
hands towards Snape as if clutching at him, the boxes in his arms fallen
unheeded at his feet. "I went up to the common room to get these--" he
was wearing what might once have been patterned gloves-- "but the blood
just soaks through and through, and it won't stop..."
Snape caught him by the forearm and stripped off one sticky, sodden
glove, ignoring the boy's attempt at protest. The cuts and scrapes
underneath were no more serious than when he had last seen them. But they
were still oozing a thin film of blood.
"Some kind of anti-coagulant, obviously," he observed drily. "Possibly
grounds for an interesting footnote in Whyte's Bestiary, but hardly
life-threatening, Lovell. I would suggest you find a more responsive
audience for your histrionics."
He let the boy's arm drop, wiping his fingers in distaste, and turned on
his heel to leave the room. When he returned from the stores, a jar of
salve in either hand, Magnus Lovell was still standing exactly as he had
left him, the first hint of colour beginning to return to his face.
Snape propelled him by the collar towards a seat at the end of one of the
long tables, dumping the jars down in front of him.
"Wound-Seal. Use it. And I want notes on the varying effects of the two
different recipes."
The boy's mouth opened as he gave a helpless look down at his hands, and
Snape forestalled the inevitable objection with a snarl. "*Mental* notes,
Mr Lovell. I assume you do retain that facility behind the unassuming
ear-ornament you are so modestly sporting?"
He swept back to his own seat without bothering to wait for an answer. In
the blessed silence that followed, it was some time before he even
recalled Lovell's existence to mind again.
--------
A shower of dried palm leaves clattered to the floor as the edge of
Snape's robe brushed against the discarded packaging. Snape stared down
at the mess for a moment, mouth tightening, then turned suddenly and
glared across the room.
"Strange as it may seem, Lovell, I understood that you were here to play
the part of an assistant, not that of a decorative classroom feature. I
can only assume there is some very good reason why you are sitting at
your ease and twiddling your thumbs?"
The Ravenclaw student flushed. "I'm still waiting for this second batch
of salve, sir. I don't think it's working, much."
Snape frowned and got to his feet, sending more wrappings cascading
unheeded beneath the desks. One of those jars had been made to the
standard recipe for the Wound-Seal Salve: the other had been the original
trial batch of a faster-acting variant he'd begun experimenting with some
three years ago. There had been no ill-effects that either he or Madam
Pomfrey had ever been able to detect. It did, however, occur to him
forcibly that one thing he had never considered was a possibility of the
compound's becoming unstable with age.
The sudden dawning of hindsight had never been one of his favourite
experiences.
A couple of strides took him round the end of the desks and along to
Lovell, who was holding out the jar defensively as if he thought Snape
wouldn't believe him. One sniff and taste were enough to confirm his
suspicions. Degraded -- almost beyond use. He'd have to warn Poppy to
clear out her old stock.
His clenched jaw tightened further as a fresh thought occurred to him;
he'd have to submit a cautionary addendum to the account of the new
technique that had made it into publication in last year's British
Philtre Journal, as well. And the boy was staring at him with an
oh-so-innocent expression, as if he didn't understand why Snape should
even *care*--
"Show me your hand. Both hands!" Snape's own bony wrists shot out as he
yanked Lovell's hands towards him. The right hand was clean, bite-marks
and scrapes dried up to thin lines against tanned skin. The left was
still pink and swollen. Snape prodded one of the raised scratch-marks
with a merciless touch, tightening his grip as the boy instinctively
pulled away. The wound didn't -- quite -- split open.
"It'll do. Get to work." He thrust the boy towards the workbench,
indicating the mess with a comprehensive sweep of the arm. "You can start
by clearing that up."
Himself busy sweeping assorted potion ingredients into suitable
containers, Snape kept an eagle eye on the boy; but while Magnus Lovell
had never shone in Potions, he had been a reliable student, and he was
making a competent job of it. Snape left him to it, and began assembling
the rest of what he was going to need.
They worked in silence for a while, with barely a sound save the steady
rustle of the boy's movements and the occasional brush of Snape's robes
as the Potions master moved softly around the classroom like a shadow in
a candle-flame, first reaching high then stooping low without warning.
From the corner, almost hidden in the darkness save for one glinting eye,
the /each uisge/ watched.
--------
Snape set an alembic of isinglass down on the desktop with a rap that
made his assistant look up in surprise.
"That's enough for tonight, Mr Lovell. I'll expect to see you here again
after dinner tomorrow. Is that clear?"
Magnus Lovell nodded, looking for a moment as if he would have liked to
ask a question. Snape eyed him coldly, and after a few seconds he
subsided.
Reaching for a fresh scrap of parchment, Snape began to dip his quill;
then stopped. The time had grown late enough to cause trouble if any
student were to be found wandering the corridors of Hogwarts out of
hours. But a permission note from Severus Snape might cause even more
trouble, later, if things went badly. He had absolutely no intention of
trusting Lovell to dispose of it.
He laid the pen down with decision. "Straighten your robes, Mr Lovell. I
have business upstairs. I'll take you up to the common room myself."
Correctly interpreting the young Ravenclaw's expression, Snape allowed
his lip to curl unpleasantly. "Believe it or not, despite being Head of
Slytherin I *am* sufficiently acquainted with your common room's location
to do so...."
In fact, as it happened, the Ravenclaw common room was not a hundred
miles removed from Argus Filch's office. And there had been the small
matter of one item which he had discovered to be missing out of the
delivery manifest. Given its nature and the earlier presence of Mrs
Norris, he had a strong suspicion that Filch knew the answer.
He was right. Long practice enabled him to pick the reek of burnt
ambergris out of the air before he even reached the caretaker's office on
his way down from delivering Lovell -- unseen and hence unquestioned --
back into the tender care of Ravenclaw House.
Waiting for Filch's shuffling steps to answer his rap on the door, Snape
occupied himself detecting the other ingredients of the potion Filch had
been trying to brew, although he had already guessed its nature without a
shadow of doubt. His mouth twisted a little in private amusement. He'd
tried that one himself, when he was seventeen. It had taken nearly half a
year for his hair to grow back in, let alone back to anything like a
natural colour -- and needless to say, the smooth glossy locks the
tempting nostrum promised had never materialised. He'd suffered enough
from ribaldry in that time to leave it severely alone ever since.
Judging by the smell of burnt potion, Filch hadn't even got that far.
Unsurprising, since the caretaker was a Squib.
Contrary to many students' -- and, he suspected, adult wizards' --
belief, creating a successful potion required rather more magical power
than mere Muggle chemistry. Without the necessary talent, mixing up
Granny's old Love Philtre in the garden shed was more likely to poison
the victim than render her receptive. Mediaeval doctors had inadvertently
proved this point beyond all reasonable doubt during the period when
well-meaning wizards had attempted to introduce some of the minor Healing
Potions into the Muggle world.
It hadn't stopped the Muggles hopefully boiling red-haired dogs and
infusing worms in pigs'-marrow for several hundred years, though. Nor
from continuing to kill off their sick with the useless results.
If the Ministry of Magic had any sense, they'd spend less time regulating
cauldron thickness and far more in clamping down on unlicensed
potion-making -- and, most of all, on the quack firms that circulated
sheets of Seven Easy Nostrums or Potions '89 for Dummies to encourage
people like Filch to waste time and ingredients in trying.
He didn't *like* Filch. He didn't even, exactly, pity him. But the man
had an uncanny nose for rule-breakers and miscreants that had proved
extremely useful in the past, and a thoroughly laudable zeal for seeing
them punished. Under the circumstances, Snape was able to ignore the
Squib's conviction that enough experiment would enable him to unlock his
powers, and was even able to extend a degree of tolerance to the
abstraction of basic ingredients for yet another attempt at
potion-concoction -- tolerance that would have amazed those students who
had run foul of Professor Snape's legendary watch over the contents of
the Potions store cupboard.
None of that, however, implied liking. He stared down coldly at Filch's
hunched figure as the door finally opened. The scent of burnt musk wafted
pungently about them both, and Snape's nostrils twitched. "I think you
know what I want, Filch."
Filch ducked his head in a sort of nod. "Just a few grains,
Professor...it was just a few grains, and I was going to bring it over to
your office special-like...."
Beyond him, in the centre of the cramped little room, a small cauldron
was smouldering. Mrs Norris was watching it intently with large pale
eyes, her whiskers quivering. Snape stalked in, uninvited, on the
caretaker's heels, and stared around at the litter of parchments on every
surface as Filch dug among them for the missing jar.
"You're wasting your time, Filch." He crumpled the nearest sheet -- Goody
Furbelow's Guaranteed Complexion Enhancer -- and let it drop. "None of
this dross is worth the sheepskin it's written on, even for a qualified
wizard. And none of it is ever -- *ever* -- going to work without magic."
"Ah, but I thought of that, di'nt I?" Filch squinted at him,
straightening up with the open jar in his hand. "I took what you told me
to heart, Professor. Sent off for a course that'll set me right--"
If there was one thing Snape detested, it was Argus Filch's attempts to
be ingratiating.
"No doubt." His tone did little to conceal his own opinion of such an
eventuality. "And until that happy arrival, perhaps you could restrain
your depredations upon my supplies. Thank you." He had removed the jar
from the caretaker's grasp and stoppered it, in one swift movement.
In the doorway, he paused. "Incidentally, the effects of ambergris fumes
can be particularly injurious to cats. I suggest you apply to the
Headmaster for additional ventilation."
Filch's eyes had begun to bulge, and Snape allowed himself a small,
unpleasant smile. "Good night."
It was less than welcome, therefore, to find that his own rooms had
become suffused with a stale, ammoniacal reek in his absence. Not that
the source was hard to find. Snape stared across the dungeon at the /each
uisge/, a softly-moving shadow behind the bars. He could just discern the
outline of pricked ears and one, sidelong, eye. The creature whickered,
horse-like. It was watching him.
Thin lips tightening, Snape slammed the door and set a locking spell on
it. He checked the other disused classrooms. Nothing there. Nothing in
any of the main dungeons, or the corridors, or his own office. Nothing,
save for the scent of damp and decay, and the faint clinging odour of
stale water.
Lying awake, later that night, in the silent blackness that filled his
bedchamber after the candle had been blown out, he could almost feel the
air thickening around him. Sliding, slow and stagnant, beneath the door
and past his wards like the ghostly roll of thunder in the hills, and
pooling in the room. Lapping higher and higher along the walls, deadening
movement, smothering all sound, rising silently across mouth and nose--
Snape shot bolt upright in bed, gasping, one hand sliding instinctively
in search of his wand. For a second or two he was unsure even if he was
awake.
"I've faced Voldemort," he said softly into the empty room between
clenched teeth. "I've seen more Dark Arts than the years that have flowed
through your river. I'll not play your mind-games."
He slid his hand out from underneath the bolster, holding his wand.
"/Ventilare vegetus!/"
Snape held the wand straight out in the darkness for an instant; then
brought it across in front of him in a steady line. And the night-breeze
followed in its wake.
Cold and clean, like a draught of ice-water-- He took a deep breath,
feeling his head clear almost instantly, and let his wand fall, ending
the charm. For the first time, in the moments that followed, he became
aware of the beads of moisture that had gathered on his face.
But the air had changed. The thick, stagnant taste that had filled the
room had been swept free. He let himself sink back slowly onto his
pillow, alert in the dark; but he could detect nothing, save the faint
leaf-mould tang that had always, for him, accompanied the Fresh-Air
Charm.
And -- he yawned and suddenly rolled over, sliding his wand back under
the bolster as he did so -- for the first time he felt as if he could
rest. Whatever the sense of menace that had weighed upon him, it was
gone, at least for tonight.
Five minutes later, there was nothing stirring in the dungeons at all.
Igenlode Wordsmith
"Professor Snape--"
The interruption came from the small, straw-haired boy in one of the
front desks. It was a reedy but penetrating voice, and it had already
been raised far too many times for Snape's liking. He had arbitrarily
changed this morning's fourth-year Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw Potions class
from a practical lesson to an exercise in theory in order to give himself
time to think, and was not anticipating the ensuing pile of earnest
compositions on '/The Use of the Bezoar in Muggle Persia/' with any
degree of enjoyment at all.
A glare failed to quell the questioner, who was now bouncing up and down
in his seat, one hand waving. "Professor Snape -- Professor Snape, how do
you spell 'becunia'?"
"In your case, Mr Benham--" Snape's lip curled-- "I would suggest *very
carefully*. Sit down!" He rose and directed a cold black stare out over
the rest of the class, most of whom appeared suddenly to have discovered
serious faults in their work, and to be bent studiously over their
scrolls in an attempt to amend them. "Five points from Ravenclaw. Any
further interruptions will lose ten points for that House."
Two long strides brought him down to hover ominously over the shoulder of
a lanky boy who had just muttered "Typical!" under his breath. "I beg
your pardon?" Snape enquired very softly.
"Nothing." It was mumbled into the desk. The Hufflepuff didn't meet his
eyes. "Nothing, sir."
"Ten points from Hufflepuff for insolence." Snape turned on his heel,
robes flaring, surveying the room in a manner which reduced it
momentarily to complete silence. As he returned to his place at the front
of the class, the soft scratching of quills broke out again, accompanied
by adenoidal breathing supposedly indicative of intense intellectual
effort. There was no further sound.
Snape, who had woken late and then found himself obliged to spend his
entire preparation hour in performing repeated Fresh-Air Charms to clear
the betraying traces of the /each uisge/ from the main part of the
dungeon, eyed his class with immense dislike and closed his eyes briefly,
trying to recapture his train of thought.
No-one knew, that was the trouble; no-one in any of the texts knew how
the Unforgivable Curses actually worked. Those who used them cared
nothing for scholarship and very little more for any abstract knowledge;
those who might have made such things their study had been barred from
research by the pusillanimous Dark Arts laws. There had been no study
made of the effects of the curse on so much as a guinea-pig, far less
upon the human brain.
Of course -- a muscle twitched, high on Snape's cheek -- of course, there
had been a time when he'd had the raw materials for such a study
literally spread out in front of him. When scores of Muggles and wizards
had died under the effects of the Imperius Curse, leaping from buildings
or flinging themselves under trains, their shattered skulls laid out like
trophies at the Death Eaters' feet. A time when a younger Severus Snape
had been seduced with undreamed-of freedom to carry out all the
experiments that had been forbidden at Hogwarts, to nurture the talents
they'd none of them been willing to acknowledge, to pay back every petty
slight and self-righteous sneer--
A trickle of sweat slid down his temple.
And then, following the Death Eaters, gobbling forbidden knowledge from
the remnants they left, like a bird bolting down the scraps from a
stripped carcase, he'd come to Voldemort's own attention. To his
*personal* attention.
Another bead of sweat clung...and slid free. And another.
His Dark Lord had been interested in his work; very interested. He'd had
a taste of real power, with wizards three times his age hanging on his
words, paying court to beg him to drop just a hint in his Master's ear on
their behalf, eager to test as many poisons and potions and
counter-philtres as he could give. More heady even than that had been
praise from the Master himself.
Voldemort's favour had been a drug more intoxicating, more deadly, than
any he could brew. A dangerous, exhilarating chasm to walk, between
excruciation and dark ecstasy, as the inner circle schemed and vied one
against the other to please their Dark Master's whim. Any day could
bring a fatal slip: a word, a glance, a touch misplaced, that ran counter
to Lord Voldemort's momentary desire. And yet nothing could equal those
instants when the Master's presence washed over him like a burning aura,
and that cold, cold voice spoke of talent, and of power, and of reward.
There were no curbs on his experiments now. No scroll forbidden; no
substance prohibited, no test too inhumane. Prisoners were his for the
asking, and his to dispose of -- no need to ration his tests or calculate
beforehand what the subject could bear. There were always more, as many
and more than he could use; and if they begged and grovelled, if some of
them were faces he had known and some had called him by name, then
ascendancy was all the sweeter.
To roam with the Death Eaters across the land, laughing and killing and
tormenting those who fled, borne along upon the wash of Voldemort's great
wind, was a freedom beyond any he had ever known. He had done -- Snape's
hand clenched -- he had done terrible things. In the name of knowledge,
in the name of his own skill, he had plumbed the darkest abyss of magic
and touched on sights that no man's sanity should be asked to bear. And
his Master's laughter had followed him all the way.
--------
The class shifted uneasily. The Potions master's sallow face had taken on
an unhealthy greyish tint, and his breathing was fevered and harsh.
Ava Franklin, in the front row, traded a cautious glance with her friend
in the next desk, indicating their teacher. "D'you think he's OK?" she
pantomimed.
Edie took one look at Snape's expression and sought refuge in her scroll,
turning one shoulder pointedly so that all her friend could glimpse was a
curtain of hair hiding her face.
Ava stole another glance upwards and shivered. Edie had a point. Keeping
your head down *definitely* seemed like a good idea....
--------
Like all the others, Snape told himself bitterly, he'd thought he could
/use/ Voldemort. Oh, not in so many words; not in so much as a coherent
thought, let alone any kind of conscious intent -- those foolish enough
to nurse any such ambition had lasted less long than any, and died the
most horribly, at the hands of a Lord who outmatched their feeble
understanding by more than they could dream.
Far, far more than they could dream. Loyal Death-Eaters -- fools and
minions -- they'd all modelled a Voldemort after their own image: petty
tyrant, manipulator supreme, icon of greed or of lust or of sadistic
hate. And their Master, caring nothing, had let them play their little
games, each using the Dark Lord's name to gain what he wanted for
himself.
Severus Snape had been blind as all the rest. He'd sought to drink at
Voldemort, as at a fount of forbidden learning. He'd clung upon his
master's coat-tails to wreak paltry revenge. He'd acknowledged no
constraints ruling even his slightest whim. And he'd abased himself
before the Dark Lord as the embodiment of all the power and knowledge
he'd ever worked for, the only worthy recipient of everything he'd
learned.
He couldn't remember when the young man he'd once been had begun to
recognise the truth; when it had dawned on him that the Dark Lord's only
pleasure in his experiments was in wastefulness and wanton pain. When
he'd glimpsed the ravening mindless hunger that was his master's soul.
When he'd understood that Voldemort's grasp would destroy *everything*;
not just the roses and puppies and flowers of spring which mocked at his
own ugliness and hate, but the stones and traditions and deep quiet
places of the world itself, until the darkest woods were ashes and the
scrolls of ages no more than tatters blowing in the wind. What Voldemort
could not use -- had no value. What had no value -- would cease to exist.
And he himself, Severus Snape, and all that he knew and all that he had
gained, would be no more than a mote dancing in the breath of the Dark
Lord's empty maw, for just so long as it should please those jaws not to
close. Nothing left. Nothing but hunger, and naked power, and despair.
He had run. Not to save what he could, for he had no hope, knowing the
length of Voldemort's reach. Not in search of escape, for in Voldemort's
victory there would be no place to hide. He had run without thinking and
without any plan, on instinct alone -- and instinct, by some strange
twist of fate, had delivered him into the hands of a man he'd hated, and
who'd had more than enough cause since, in the years that had passed, to
hate him in turn. The Headmaster of Hogwarts: Albus Dumbledore.
"Severus." Dumbledore's tone had been mild, almost pleased: as if, Snape
had thought since, he had somehow been expecting their meeting. "I take
it you've left the Death Eaters? Dear me, you look dreadful. Do sit
down."
He had given him one of the piercing blue stares Snape had disliked so
much at school. "You won't be needing that wand, Mr Snape," he had said
softly. "You need help; and we need all the help you can give."
Somehow, Snape's raised wand had been slipped from his grasp.
Dumbledore's hand had enveloped his shoulder, pressing him gently but
inexorably downwards into a high-backed chair. "My goodness, you're very
thin. We'll have to do something about that...."
The inconsequential words rambled on unheeded as Dumbledore busied
himself about the room, pulling up a footstool, dragging over another
chair from behind the desk, and settling himself down at Snape's side
with two large cups of cocoa from the saucepan he'd been stirring with
the tip of his wand when the younger wizard had stumbled in.
"Cocoa," he explained cheerfully, thrusting the second mug into Snape's
unresisting hand. "Just the thing after an overdose of Dark Magic, I
find...." But all the while, those bright, bright eyes were watching him,
not inconsequential and not senile at all; less burning than Voldemort's
gaze yet somehow piercing even deeper.
"We need all the help you can give, Severus," Dumbledore had said again,
very softly, leaning forward so that their hands almost met. "For you
*can* give help...."
And his eyes had met the black depths of the other man's own and held
them there, stripping away layer upon layer of self and laying it bare
for them both to see. Accepting him, for what he was. For what he had
done. For what he could do.
"You have a place here, Severus." The words were almost too soft to hear.
"You can come back. It's not too late. It's never too late -- for those
with the courage to learn."
A faint chuckle. "And however biased you may have thought me at school,
young Slytherin--" his eyes began to twinkle-- "oh, we teachers get to
hear these things, you know -- I hope you'll grant at least that, as a
Gryffindor, I'm qualified to judge courage when I see it." He had touched
the young man quietly on the shoulder, and stood up.
"Besides," he added cheerfully a minute or two later, through a mouthful
of cocoa, "learning is the one thing I've never known you shirk." His
eyes had begun to twinkle again at Snape's expression. "Drink up your
cocoa, Severus. Trust me, it'll do you good."
'Trust me'.... Snape's mouth twisted rather bitterly. It had been the
theme of the next few years; but only Dumbledore had offered him absolute
trust in return. It had been almost pleasant, for once, to be on the
receiving end of that unquestioning defence from which Dumbledore's
Gryffindors had so often benefited, in Hogwarts. Almost. If it had not
been for the relentless suspicions and hostility of their other so-called
allies, which had so often required it.
"No-one need face Voldemort alone," Dumbledore had promised him when he
had woken screaming, those first few nights. "Listen, Severus. No-one --
no-one here -- need face him alone...."
But Snape had gone back, as they had both known he must. Back, to do the
task that no-one but he could do, where none save one who bore the Dark
Mark could go. Back into the inner councils of the Master he had
betrayed.
"You have no idea, Alastor," Dumbledore had exploded finally on one
occasion, "how much Severus is risking, every day, every hour he spends
in there! You have no idea what just one slip in his cover could cost--"
"Much the same as it costs innocent men and women every day," the Auror
growled, glaring at Snape. "Only it's a touch harder to trust that
turncoat spy of yours when him and his Death Eater friends are riding out
masked-up and none of us know which of the bodies to lay to his account."
"It's as well for *your* side," Snape cut in coldly, "that some of us can
do what's expedient. I doubt your scruples would weigh very heavily with
the Dark Lord...."
Alastor snorted. " 'Dark Lord', is it, now? You slip into that other role
of yours very easily these days, Snape. Too easily, some might say."
Snape drew breath with a sudden hiss; but Dumbledore was before him, one
hand gripping the Death Eater's arm hard enough to inflict a Dark Mark of
his own.
"Severus." Only the one word. But it was enough.
"One slip out of that role at the wrong moment, Alastor," Dumbledore said
softly in warning, "and we lose the best source of information on
Voldemort's intentions that we have. The one advantage we have that he
does not -- a friend in the enemy's camp."
"Yeah -- unless what you take for a 'friend' is a spy in your own camp."
The Auror coughed, and fumbled for his hip-flask, pointedly ignoring the
glitter of fury in Snape's eyes. "Once a traitor, always a traitor. You
know what I say--"
"And you know what I say." Dumbledore's tone was uncharacteristically
sharp, and his grasp bit into Snape's arm like a vice, compelling
silence. "The only way to get trust is to give it. Distrust a man, and
he'll live down to your expectations."
Alastor coughed again, and drank. "I know what I expect." But it was
growled under his breath, and after a moment he turned, and stumped out.
Snape wrenched himself free, snarling. "I can fight my own battles,
Dumbledore."
"Yes." Dumbledore had been smiling rather sadly. "Yes. That's what I'm
afraid of. I need you both, you see."
--------
And so he'd swallowed his pride. A vein was throbbing painfully, high up
on Snape's temple.
And so he'd grovelled to both sides. Kissed the dust before the handful
of holier-than-thou Aurors delegated to take his information, and abased
himself at Voldemort's feet, fawning for favour, begging to be allowed
close once more. And all the time, at the last, he'd been searching:
searching for a place and a way to set up the triggers for Dumbledore's
final spell. The spell that would trap Voldemort where he was weakest, in
his vanity and his pride, and then spread outwards, fuelled by sacrifice,
to shred away even immortality, undoing the Dark Lord as if he had never
been. A spell, Dumbledore had explained calmly, that would also destroy
the caster, powered by his life-force itself.
"Sacrifice -- willing sacrifice -- is the most powerful force of magic
that we know." Dumbledore's voice had been as matter-of-fact as if he had
been discussing the theory of Transfiguration. "More, it is the one thing
against which Voldemort cannot defend. There is no doubt at all in my
heart that it will work."
He sighed. "I shan't be aware of much beyond the first few moments, of
course. But I hope I'll live long enough to witness a great evil pass
from the world."
A smile, at Snape's expression. "I've lived a long life, Severus. When
you reach my age, you'll find that death is not so fearful a prospect
after all. If my last few hours can serve to rid the world of Voldemort,
then I'm entirely content."
"And the trigger spell?" It had come out more harshly than Snape had
intended, but Dumbledore had simply nodded, accepting.
"There will be some risk for the caster, yes, if things go badly. If I
lose control." Blue eyes met black across the gulf of a lifetime. "That's
why I won't order you, or any man, to take that risk, however slight."
He held up a hand as Snape began a sharp movement of protest. "But I will
*ask*.... Severus, we both know you're the only one with even a chance of
getting in there. Will you do this for me?" He had scanned the younger
man's face for a moment, as if searching for something unspoken. "Will
you set the spell?"
"We don't have a choice. You know I must." Snape turned away from those
eyes, impatiently.
"If it goes wrong, Voldemort is going to know almost instantly who set
the spell that trapped him," he added over his shoulder after a moment.
"Under those circumstances, I doubt that endangering my survival is
likely to be much of a problem."
"No," Dumbledore said softly. "No, I don't suppose it would...."
There was a moment's silence. Snape swung round. "And if you do win?" he
shot at the old wizard. "If you do win? Had you planned for anyone ever
to know?"
Dumbledore blinked at him, briefly; then grinned, looking suddenly fifty
years younger. "A true Slytherin question, Severus. Salazar would be
proud of you. Yes, I have sounded out my plans with two or three of my
intimates -- all of whom," he added with a twinkle, "have been
absolutely horrified -- but on the whole, I rather thought I'd leave a
letter. At the Ministry might be best; I'm not quite sure what effect
the spell will have on my possessions."
He had smiled at Snape. "But I promise you this, Severus. For as long as
Voldemort is remembered in the wizarding world, my name will be spoken in
the same breath -- as will yours." He'd walked over, touched Snape
briefly on the arm.
"You'll need somewhere to go, when all this is over. If you can bring
yourself to return, there will be a place for your talents at Hogwarts --
I think I can make sure of that." He held up a hand in the familiar
gesture, forestalling a refusal. "No need to decide now. We still have
time...."
Time.... Snape's mouth twisted savagely, now, remembering. Oh, indeed
they'd had time. Months and months of it, wasted on trying to find some
way, any way, to get under Voldemort's guard without arousing his
suspicions. Carefully constructing the perfect set-up on which to risk
the one throw that would win all. Setting up the vital triggers, step by
step, in secret...while Voldemort's confidence grew, and day by day his
burning eyes seared deeper into a certain Death Eater's heart, seeking
out the betrayal he could not quite sense.
While *someone* in Dumbledore's camp, it became increasingly clear, was
passing information to the Enemy; and while Snape risked his life every
day, unseen, unthanked, just to send warning, that *someone* had betrayed
the biggest secret in his pitiful power and sent Voldemort down to
Godric's Hollow, to brush aside a potential threat. And in so doing --
Snape's breath was coming in great harsh gasps through clenched teeth --
in so doing had destroyed not only the Master he claimed to serve, but
everything for which he, Severus Snape, had spent a year and a half in
hell.
Everything he'd risked, everything he'd suffered, and every insult he'd
endured had all been rendered useless -- pointless -- in the course of
one night. Because thanks to Sirius Black -- thanks yet again in his life
to the unthinking petty malice of Sirius Black -- it had not been
Dumbledore's great spell, in the end, that had brought Lord Voldemort
down. All the glory that should have been Snape's, the recognition at
last that he'd always deserved and that had finally been within his
grasp, had gone, because Black had stepped in his way, to a *baby*. A
howling, stinking, dribbling, helpless, useless *baby*--
--------
The hoarse sound that had forced its way from Snape's throat was more
akin to an animal cry than a groan. Someone was pulling at him, tugging
his arm. A face full of cow-like concern, looming over his shoulder.
"Sir -- Professor Snape -- are you all right?"
"Get away from me." A ragged snarl that sent Ava Franklin stumbling back.
Every student in the classroom was staring openly, their eyes unbearable.
Curiosity -- pity -- glee--
"Get out." He took a deep breath and channelled it into icy control.
"Out. All of you. Now. Out!"
"But sir--" Someone in the middle rows was holding up a scroll
uncertainly, and Snape turned on him.
"I'll expect an extra six inches of essay from all of you to make up for
the rest of the lesson. Ten points from any pupil, and that includes you,
Mr Benham, who fails to hand it in on time. Do I make myself quite
clear?"
He stalked over to the door, flung it wide, and hovered there, holding it
open, like a bird of ill-omen, while Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws alike
shuffled quills and books hastily into bags and ducked for the exit. Only
when the last echoes of the fourth-years' feet had died away up the
stairs did he permit himself to approach that other, locked door, and
test the strength of the spells laid there.
Locked and warded, as he had left it. Snape's mouth thinned. No trace of
the Dark Arts -- nothing could have got through, nothing to have had such
an effect--
Eyes narrowing suddenly, he stripped the spells back strand by strand, to
the bare wood; but there was no resistance. No hidden trap. The door
yielded to a single touch.
In the disused classroom beyond, everything was as it had been last
night, with no sign that so much as a grain of dust had been stirred
since he or the boy Lovell had left. Nothing out of the ordinary at all,
save for the imprisoned shape of the /each uisge/ cringing from the light
of his wand; and the faint, faint scent of stale water.
Snape dragged one sleeve of his robes roughly across his face, where a
sheen of sweat still clung, and played the light all around the room,
sending shadows fleeing up the walls. But he was already certain that he
would find nothing. Nothing, but that accursed horse-thing, huddled there
behind its bars like a starving cur....
He would *not* allow that creature to manipulate him. He would not allow
anything to deflect him from the research he had sworn to McGonagall that
he could achieve -- and he'd been exploring an idea, back before he'd let
himself be caught in memory's trap. Skulls -- heads -- brains --
*minds*--
Snape's eyes glittered suddenly. All at once, he had a very good hunch as
to which books in the Restricted Section, unpromising as they might seem,
might just prove to hold exactly the information he was looking for.
[I *still* think this is the best chapter :-/ I.W.]
Igenlode Wordsmith
> I've finished my Snapefic! I've finished!
[snip]
> I would have tried to submit it to the Sugar Quill for beta-reading,
> but it turned out that none of the three browsers to which I have
> access seem to be able to upload to that site that night - so I'd be
> obliged if the newsgroup could beta-read it instead. It's not my best
> work, but I'm a good writer, and it can't be much worse than endless
> netiquette threads :-(
>
Well, here goes... I don't think I can do much more to this now, it
needs someone else to take a look at it. I've been checking and
rechecking it until I'm almost cross-eyed.
Pen Name: Igenlode Wordsmith
Email Address: Igen...@nym.alias.net
The title of my story/fan art is: Water-horse
My story is rated (G, PG, PG-13, R): Probably PG.
Comments to your beta-reader(Do you have any special messages for your
beta-reader?): This story is set in the first weeks of Harry's second
year - but it deals with older students in the other Houses, so don't
expect to see any of the regulars other than in passing. Tench, Franklin
and Lovell will appear again later.
Please enter a brief summary(one or two sentences, please! This will
appear on your author page when the story is archived): Professor Snape
discovers that the blood of a water-horse is a very dangerous Potions
ingredient.
The main characters in my story are:(please tell us who the main
characters in the story are, as well as any relationship pairings, for
example: Harry, Ron, Hermione, R/H): Professor Snape, Professor
McGonagall, Magnus Lovell (OC), Professor Dumbledore, cameos from
various other Original Characters plus Alastor Moody. No romantic
pairings.
Warning: *everything* in this story is filtered through the perceptions
of one or other of the characters. Don't be too quick to judge what you
appear to be seeing :-)
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
* Never assume malice when ignorance is a possibility *
Michelle Smith
>of cocoa, "l
wouldn't it have gotten all over?
Fab
You are not what happens to you.
Moderator, DIScussion board, http://www.dishub.com
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Igenlode Wordsmith
Chapter 5 * * * Resistance * * *
"And then what?" Professor McGonagall said sharply. The last few
stragglers from her Transfiguration class brushed past them in the
doorway, glancing curiously; but she took no notice. "What else happened
last night?"
Magnus Lovell, accosted unexpectedly in the corridor on his way back from
his afternoon Arithmancy lesson, gave her a look almost as puzzled as
those of her earlier class. "What else? Well, we worked -- at least,
after he'd done with telling me off for daring to talk to his pet pony,
*I* did the work, heating up water, wiping out cauldrons, holding this
and that, while Professor high-and-mighty Snape did his usual stir and
sniff wonder chef act--"
Appalled, Magnus had dropped his bag and clamped both hands over his
mouth instinctively, trying to stem the truculent flow. He hardly dared
meet Professor McGonagall's eyes. "Professor, I didn't mean...I don't
know what...."
But to his relief, Professor McGonagall's eyes were twinkling behind her
glasses. "Oh, I think I've a pretty fair idea what, Lovell, and it'll
wear off in a day or two at the latest. Professor Snape tested his potion
on you, didn't he?"
Magnus nodded, mutely, barely trusting his own voice. "We brewed up three
or four different versions--" he gained confidence -- "and he tested them
all. And then he told me to drink one, and made me stand over the other
side of the room, and gave me orders. All sorts of silly things I was
supposed to do, and half the time when I got it right he'd shout at me,
and tell me to do something else. I did the best I could, honestly I did,
but nothing I tried was good enough."
To his horror, Magnus found the hot tears he thought he'd finally
outgrown prickling again at the back of his eyes, as they had not even
under Snape's relentless humiliation. He swallowed, hard.
"Professor Snape was furious. He made me drink the other potions--" his
mouth twisted in remembered revulsion -- and then go through the whole
thing all over again. And he kept saying," Magnus swallowed again,
"horrible things. All the while. Horrible things...."
Professor McGonagall made a small movement, as if on the verge of
reaching out, but checked herself. "And?" she prompted, very gently.
"And...." Magnus hesitated for a moment, flushing.
"I just couldn't take it any more. Something came over me, and I told him
if he didn't like the way I did his silly tricks then that was too bad,
because I wasn't going to waste any more time trying to get them right,
and he could just put that in his cauldron and boil it. And stick in his
own head while he was at it, because it didn't matter what he washed it
in, it could only be an improvement--"
He broke off. Professor McGonagall, her head buried in her hands, had
made a queer choking noise. It might have been a sob.
"Oh dear," she said, emerging after a moment, her voice unsteady. She
removed her spectacles and mopped at her eyes. "And what did Professor
Snape do then?"
Magnus shivered. "For a second he looked -- well, you can guess how he
looked." Joseph Lovell, his father's adored elder brother, had been burnt
to death by supporters of He Who Must Not Be Named, using the Immolation
Curse, when Magnus was only a child. He could still remember the night
they'd brought the news, the first and last night he'd ever seen his
father cry.... In those instants facing Snape, still numb from the
unbelievable things he'd just heard himself say, he'd seen the black
murder in the other man's eyes and known suddenly that hate like that
must have been what Uncle Joseph had seen, in those last endless moments
as they burned him alive.
He'd been too scared to cry out, let alone to run. But then--
"Then he got this really weird look," Magnus said slowly. "He told me
he'd have me expelled, and I said I didn't care, and he -- I think he
looked *pleased*...." He shivered again, remembering that queer look of
satisfaction, and ambition, and pitiless interest, as if he'd been held
up in a jar for inspection like one of those specimens in Snape's
office...and yet somewhere, he'd swear, in the whole unreadable mixture,
there'd been approval and even a touch of respect.
"Yes, he would look pleased," Professor McGonagall said, smiling as
Magnus jumped at the sound of her voice. "It's all right, Lovell. You
reacted exactly as Professor Snape wanted. I don't suppose that potion
would have been enough to let you throw off the Imperius Curse--" Magnus
flushed, wondering if the story of his last week's disastrous Defence
Against the Dark Arts lesson had been circulating around the entire
staffroom -- "but it strengthened your will enough to allow you to defy
authority, perhaps for the first time in your life."
She smiled at him again, her rather severe face betraying a hint of
affection. "I've no fault to find with your work, Magnus, you're an
excellent student. But if there's one thing I've always said to Professor
Flitwick, it's that you're almost too sweet-tempered for your own good.
If you of all people found the will to stand up to Snape -- not that I
advise a repeat performance," she added hastily, clearing her throat--
"then a true Free-will Potion is a possibility. A definite possibility."
She looked excited. Magnus, putting two and two together, supposed he
probably ought to be feeling excited too. It was just that right now, the
idea of being anywhere *near* a Snape who was playing around with the
Imperius Curse gave him a sinking feeling as if a broomstick had dropped
out from under him. "Does that mean...he's going to want me back after
all? Tonight?"
The words spilled out as a goat-like bleat of dismay before he could stop
them, and Professor McGonagall gave him a sharp look. "You mean he's said
nothing? You've not seen him at all today?"
"Not since he told me to get out and get back up to the Ravenloft at ten
o'clock last night...." Magnus said, feeling the words spill out of his
mouth with a sort of astonishment at his own daring. "Why -- is something
wrong?"
"No," Professor McGonagall said quickly. But she was frowning. "Nothing
at all. It's just-- I'd assumed--"
She sighed. "Professor Snape hasn't been to the staffroom in two days, or
the teachers' table at Hall, or eaten anything at all so far as I can
make out. I've known him like this before, mind, when he's been
working...but by all accounts I don't believe he's sleeping well either.
This morning, now, he turned up half an hour late for the first lesson
looking like death warmed over, and scared a class of first-years into
fits. I had to restore a hundred and seventy points to Hufflepuff alone
-- and even by Severus' standards--"
The Deputy Headmistress broke off suddenly with a glance at Magnus. Two
spots of colour had appeared high on her cheeks. "Well, that's neither
here nor there, Mr Lovell. I'd assumed that the two of you at least would
be talking, that was all. With Professor Snape not himself -- and Dark
Magic in question--"
She broke off again, looking worried. "When will you next see him?"
"Not before tonight -- even assuming he does want me again." /And
assuming I want to go back, that is/. But the rebellious thought didn't
make it out. Magnus sighed. "I've got homework for my N.E.W.T.s,
Professor -- I can't spend all my free time down in the dungeons--"
"Of course not," Professor McGonagall agreed briskly, sounding for a
moment much more like herself. "But after supper I want you to go and
offer your assistance as normal, just as if nothing had happened. I'm
sure there will be no awkwardness at all."
Magnus found himself wondering if even she believed that, or if she was
trying to persuade herself as much as him; but he capitulated with a
sigh. "Yes, Professor."
"Good boy." Professor McGonagall looked extremely relieved. "I know
Severus likes to work alone...but just now I'd be much happier if I knew
there was someone else down there with him."
She sighed. "And no doubt he'll be missing Hall again tonight. I've a
good mind to have a plate sent down there from the kitchens, though I
know well he'll call it 'interfering'...."
For a ghastly moment Magnus thought she was about to ask him to make
certain that Professor Snape ate up his supper, but mercifully, if she'd
had it in mind, she thought better of it.
"And you'll be sure to let me know how the work is coming along?" she
said instead, laying a delaying hand on his sleeve.
"I think Professor Snape would be much happier if he was the one to tell
you that himself," Magnus managed, with another little spurt of saving
defiance.
Professor McGonagall's lips thinned, and she stared at him very hard from
behind her glasses; but after a moment she relaxed. "I'm sorry, Lovell.
You're quite right, and Professor Snape would not thank me for it. I'll
see him myself this evening."
She shut the door to the Transfiguration classroom firmly behind her, but
hesitated, looking back at Magnus before he had made it more than a few
steps down the corridor. "You'll have guessed what we're working on, I
suppose?"
"The Imperius Curse," Magnus said cautiously, watching her expression.
"Resisting...the Imperius Curse--"
Professor McGonagall cut him off. "It might be best if you don't talk
about it. Not unless you're asked."
"Even to Professor Dumbledore?" Magnus said involuntarily, and saw her
face close down. For one wild moment he almost expected the Deputy
Headmistress to say "Especially Professor Dumbledore"; but instead she
simply frowned and said, rather sharply, "Naturally -- if you're asked. I
do hope you can see that the last thing we want is irresponsible rumours
flying around the school -- particularly after last year."
Magnus nodded. It must have been emphatic enough, evidently, because
Professor McGonagall smiled in reassurance. "It *is* only rumours, so
far, Lovell. If this works...we'll have a defence in reserve, that's
all."
Suddenly brisk once more, she pulled herself to her full height and
gathered her robes around her. "And now, young man, I for one have work
to do."
A swift nod of farewell later, and she was gone, her footsteps tapping
rapidly away into the echo along the corridor. Magnus followed, more
slowly. Despite himself, he was thinking of Uncle Joseph's fate again,
and remembering stories of things Dark wizards were said to have done
with the Imperius Curse.
--------
Judging by the tray and empty plate, Magnus Lovell decided that evening,
Professor McGonagall had evidently fulfilled her threat of having Snape's
meals sent down to him. It didn't seem to have improved the man's foul
mood, though.
In the course of the last two hours Snape had managed to find fault with
just about everything his assistant had done, whether under his direct
instructions or not. For the first time in his life, it had occurred to
Magnus to wonder, rebelliously, just how much difference it really made
to have measured out five and a quarter drachms of powdered forkroot
instead of five and a half, or sixteen grains of cobweb in place of
fourteen. It wasn't Snape, after all, who was going to be affected if the
fire burned for a few seconds less than the stipulated time before the
cauldron was swung off the heat -- somehow he really didn't see the
Potions master administering experimental dosages to himself. And it
wasn't as if Snape had any practical basis for the absurd precision of
those figures, save for the endless sheets of notes he'd been scrawling
over for days. Magnus stole a few moments away from his dutiful
observation of the slow, viscid surface of the potion, now on the point
of boiling, to slide a sidelong glance at the other man.
Snape was scowling yet again over his own cramped writing in the
lamplight, looking as if he wanted to murder the parchment -- possibly by
stabbing it to death with the hooked blade of his own overlarge nose,
judging by the way he was bringing it closer and closer to his face.
Magnus couldn't help a grin at the thought. It was unfortunate that it
was at this precise moment that the cauldron finally came to the boil.
Snape swung round on the instant, his stare taking in Magnus'
hastily-fading grin and the all-too-obviously unattended cauldron and
narrowing to a spear of pure ice.
"I suggest that you add the steeped speedwell *now*, Mr Lovell--" Magnus
had begun to slide the dragonsmane mat under the base of the cauldron in
an instinctive attempt to look busy-- "*now*. And pray -- if there is any
Deity that will deign to listen to you -- that it is not too late!"
The little four-lobed flowers certainly gave off a distinctly unpleasant
smell, even by Potions standards, as they slid wetly over the rim of the
flask and met the hot liquid. Magnus, leaning gingerly over the potion to
see if it was clarifying or not, had to conjure a hasty Shielding Charm
to ward off the fumes.
Snape, who had arrived at his elbow with his customary silent and
unwelcome rapidity, was manipulating the dragonsmane diffusing mat
between the cauldron and the flame, handling the scorching metal sides
with a tight-lipped urgency that had to be costing him in burns, even
through the callus-marks of long years of practice. His voice hissed
through clenched teeth. "I have allowed you a great deal of leeway this
evening, Mr Lovell, much against my inclination, because I am aware that
your abnormal behaviour is resulting from observable side-effects of the
potions to which you were exposed last night. I would remind you that my
patience is far from infinite, and that you are treading very, very close
to the limits of its extent."
He released the dragonsmane weave, which was starting to diffuse a gentle
simmering heat into the cauldron above, where the liquid had begun to
take on a deep, clear reddish hue.
"One more unforced error from you now could cost all the work that has
been put into this project from the beginning," Snape said softly,
staring down into the potion's depths as if Magnus, barely eight inches
away, did not even exist. "There will be no second chances for anyone in
this. But if you give me cause to lay that failure at *your* door -- then
believe me, Lovell, you will spend the rest of your time at Hogwarts
wishing you had never been born." That last word was spat out like a
dagger, the icy black of Snape's stare swinging suddenly upwards to
pinion Magnus without warning, and despite himself the boy flinched.
But Snape had already turned on his heel and stalked off, back to his
piles of research and his notes, a faint beading of sweat standing out on
the unhealthy sheen of his skin. 'Looking like death warmed over': Magnus
remembered Professor McGonagall's words with a jolt. And she'd hinted at
Dark Magic. Professor Snape looked like a man who'd spent the last few
days fighting off the Imperius curse -- or fighting the worst part of
himself.
All sorts of unpleasant thoughts were flooding through his mind, as if a
tap somewhere outside had been turned suddenly on. Professor McGonagall's
veiled warnings. Dark mutterings from his own father about the war years.
The caged creature in the corner, uncleaned, unfed. The unwitting use he
himself had been made of by Snape last night. The realisation, cold and
uncomfortable, that *no-one from Ravenclaw knew he was here*--
"Don't be daft," Magnus told himself under his breath. The Deputy
Headmistress had practically sent him down here herself, hadn't she? And
nothing of that sort could be going on at Hogwarts anyway. It would be
*stupid* -- and, as years of students had discovered to their cost, the
one fault Professor Snape had never been accused of was lack of
intelligence.
Giving himself a firm mental shake, Magnus peered down into the cauldron
and breathed a sigh of relief. By luck or by judgment, the last
ingredients had evidently been added just in time.
The liquid now simmering gently on the diffused heat had cleared to a
dark, almost crystalline red, like the deepest crimson silk. In the ray
of light that he sent down into the depths from the end of his wand, as
he'd been taught, translucent veils shifted like ghosts of draperies in
the heat, promising secrets, hiding truths. Magnus caught his breath,
remembering what, in the past few days, he had almost forgotten. He'd not
only been good at Potions; he'd loved it, once.
That childhood glamour had worn off, some time during his second year, to
be replaced by the patient reality of researching, measuring and testing.
But it had never been quite lost, and classes in the dungeon had been the
brighter for it.
Small thanks to Snape -- the thought stole in for the first time, as if
through a stranger's eyes, with a jolt. Small thanks to Professor Snape,
who'd bullied and hectored them through the work with thinly-disguised
contempt and the scantiest of praise. While Magnus Lovell had kept his
head down, obeyed without complaint, and been grateful for whatever
scraps of commendation the master chose to toss his way, like a good,
obedient little student....
Magnus flushed, trying to quash the image. But it had lodged itself in
the corners of his mind like the insinuations of an anonymous letter.
"Sir, it's ready," he told Snape hastily, as if to disown the thought.
For a moment Snape gave no sign of having heard him; then he straightened
up abruptly, letting the scroll he'd been studying snap shut, and nodded.
"All right, Lovell." The words were harsh. "You know what to do."
Magnus nodded in turn, with reluctance. Blood magic was one of the
strongest forces there was, and even without Snape's notes he could guess
at why this was necessary. He made his way slowly towards the barred
enclosure, drawing his wand, and began to set the Controlling Charm that
would keep the animal helpless on its last, short journey. It seemed to
him that there was very little difference between what they were doing
now, and the Dark Arts they were supposedly working to combat.
The /each uisge/ watched his movements with a bright, dark eye, pressing
up against the bars and snorting softly against the surreptitious hand he
had slipped down to fondle its nose. The black hide was sleek and glossy,
like an otter's pelt.
He rubbed round its muzzle, feeling the ridges of teeth behind soft lips,
and remembering his own nips and bites ruefully. But the creature no
longer showed any signs of fear or resentment, and its gentle breath was
warm against his fingers....
"Don't be such a fool." Snape's voice in his ear was icy cold, and Magnus
sprang back without thinking, his hand cracking painfully against the
bars. "Haven't you learned anything at all, Mr Lovell? Or do you think
you know it all where soft, sweet, lovable animals are concerned?"
For a moment they stared at each other like images in a
distorting-mirror, two dark faces across an abyss; Magnus' still
sun-browned from the summer, Snape's sallow skin faded to a yellowish
underground pallor. Black gaze met black -- and this year, for the first
time, Magnus realised with a sort of queer shock, it was Snape who had to
look up. It was hard to comprehend, even now, that the years had brought
change -- that he himself had grown taller, broader, stronger than the
older man who had loomed over him in his mind's eye for so long.
"No, sir," he said quietly, backing off, still hugging the new perception
to his breast like a tiny flame. He watched Snape unlocking the cage.
"No, sir, I don't know it all."
Snape was removing the charms that sealed the gate, now, his back to
Magnus. The /each uisge/ had shrunk away at his approach. Its ears were
back, and it made as if to nip at Snape's wrist, only to be brought up
short by the Controlling Charm.
Magnus held onto the leash of that magic, grimly, depriving the creature
of even the most token defiance during the few seconds that Snape would
need as he released the final binding charms. He couldn't seem to think
very clearly. He couldn't seem to remember why Snape had been so adamant
about what they were doing; all he could think of was the /each uisge/'s
rolling, desperate eyes -- and the sudden knowledge that at this instant,
for these few moments, Snape's safety was entirely in his hands. He'd
never thought of it that way before. But there was a strange pleasure in
it -- in holding the ultimate power over another human being.
He tested the limits of his magic, carefully, keeping his wand trained
steadily on the side of the cage. He could feel weak power struggling
against his as the creature fought, trying to balk as it was forced out
of the the enclosure. Snape's face was twisted unpleasantly in
concentration, his lips constantly moving.
It would be so easy -- the thought, slipping in from the edges of Magnus'
awareness, was almost irresistible -- so easy to let the Controlling
Charm slip by just a fraction. Just enough to get one really good nip in
on Snape.... Nothing happened.
He took a couple of steps closer, unseen. Reaching out to touch a slick
black neck as the ground seemed to recede, dream-like, far beneath him.
Trying, all of a sudden, to clutch back the vestiges of his fractured
Charm, as the first fringes of howling fear slid across his understanding
-- too little, too late -- and the feeble fluttering power that had
aroused such pity swelled up, and up, vast and hungry and *old*. Roaring
free through the opening he had made, like a river in spate. Sweeping
away all words and protections, shattering the Containment Curse that had
held it pent.
The /each uisge/, a flame of crimson hatred flickering in its eyes,
devoured the last fragments of his mind that still remained his own, its
own jaw lolling slack in ghastly parody. In the next instant it had
turned, razor-swift, upon Snape.
Igenlode Wordsmith
Chapter 4 * * * Student Unrest * * *
"Here's that other volume of Adler you asked for, Professor." Madam
Pince, with a deeply disapproving expression, thumped a cracked volume
down to join the pile at Snape's elbow. Snape, immersed in blurred
blackletter type barely two inches from his prominent nose, had given no
sign of even acknowledging the librarian's presence; but the cloud of
dust and shredded beetle-wings that rose as the covers hit the table
proved impossible to ignore. He emerged suddenly from the pages of "Totem
and Taboo", looking furious, then disappeared equally abruptly behind a
curtain of lank hair in the throes of an uncontrollable sneeze. Even
Madam Pince, despite her librarian's immunity to dusty tomes, caught her
breath for a moment and had to blink several times before she could
continue.
She poked at the spine with a bony finger. "Muggle binding," she observed
darkly, as if this were the worst that could be said of any object, book
or not. "Look at the state of it...and not even a hundred years old yet."
"I should be more interested," Snape said coldly, having produced a large
greyish handkerchief from one sleeve and used it to mop streaming eyes,
"to know where the volume I requested has been for the last--"
He glanced up at the clockface above the centre of the bay opposite,
currently displaying a small owl in the act of stooping on a long tuft of
grass, frowned, and looked again, more closely.
"...for the last *three hours*?"
His chair, thrust back hurriedly, caught on the table and almost spilled
a large morocco-bound Viennese volume onto the floor. Madam Pince frowned
and caught it.
"Your requested volume, Professor, had been mis-shelved some fifty years
ago by my esteemed predecessor, under 'Harmonica'. Under the
circumstances, I feel that to have located it at all--"
She turned, and huffed indignantly. Not only was Professor Snape, as
usual, not listening, this time he was no longer even in the room.
--------
The mixed crowd of fifth-year students milling outside the dungeon,
O.W.L.s or no O.W.L.s, had clearly reached the optimistic stage of
wondering if their teacher had been waylaid by an unexpected Venus
Man-Trap or otherwise prevented from turning up for the lesson at all.
One group of Slytherins, hovering eagerly at the foot of the staircase
with occasional backward glances, were all too evidently on the verge of
abandoning any intention of attending Potions whatsoever. Their faces
fell almost comically when they caught sight of their Head of House
sweeping down the stairs.
Snape checked his pace for a moment at the sight of the little group.
"Well, well. Anyone might be excused for thinking that young Tench had a
compelling reason to wish to avoid today's Potions class...."
Tench, a hulking youth with close-cropped fair hair and hands like hams,
was looking acutely uncomfortable. His four friends, eyes fixed on the
flagstones at their feet, were attempting to shuffle back towards the
main group without being too obvious. It was not a very convincing
performance.
But curious Gryffindors were drifting up from the corridor below, clearly
agog, and Snape had no intention of giving out the dressing-down his
weakest student so richly deserved in their hearing. "I'll see you -- and
that disgraceful essay -- after the lesson, Mr Tench," he said softly,
with what might have passed for a smile, and glided past the little group
of Slytherins without a backward glance.
It was not a good start to the afternoon; and having arrived for the
class almost ten minutes late, he then had to waste further time in
getting the restive students back under control. Several of the
Gryffindors, cocky as ever, were attempting to finish a game of
Parrel-Sticks they had started out in the corridor, under cover of
unpacking their cauldrons. A selection of items of personal adornment
were confiscated from those girls who had been unwise enough to pass them
around in the belief that his back was momentarily turned.
And no less than three separate students claimed to have forgotten to
replenish the dried cactus-berries in their potions-making kit over the
summer, and had to sign for temporary supplies from the Stores. The level
of suppressed commotion and discussion accompanying this last episode was
such that Snape was left with no doubt at all as to the nefarious intent
of the perpetrators; but since his utmost efforts were not enough to
detect the nature of the planned denouement, he was reduced to dishing
out pre-emptive detentions with a liberal hand, left, right and centre.
As for his wretched fifth-year Slytherins...the only thing to be said in
their favour was that they created no trouble, and even that was hardly
to their credit. Even 'high spirits' of the Gryffindor variety would have
been preferable to the lumpen faces sprinkled around the dungeon,
displaying, as usual, neither interest nor aptitude for their subject. If
this class had not already been specifically responsible for endangering
Slytherin's performance in the House Championship and he had not been
Head of House, he would have been bitterly tempted to strip ten points
apiece from the lot of them.
As it was, he was barely in time to strike Adela Scrimshaw's hand away
from her cauldron before the girl managed to ruin her entire brew with an
elementary first-year mistake. "The secondary infusion should boil
*clear* before the berries are added, Miss Scrimshaw." He controlled
himself with an effort. "I'm sure you won't make such an error again...."
On the contrary, however, he told himself grimly, conducting an ominous
prowl among two dozen murky-looking cauldrons, if there were no further
catastrophes during the course of the lesson he would be extremely
surprised. Not to speak of the fact that he was finding it increasingly
difficult to ignore his having not, as yet, found time to take any meals
since the previous night, a situation which did not go to improve either
his concentration or his mood.
--------
Augustin Tench was miserably conscious of being, as his indulgent father
put it, 'a complete duffer in the brains department'; and the prowess in
Quidditch that was a cause of such pride in the paternal breast was, as
he was only too well aware, a matter of complete indifference to his
Potions master, of whose biting tongue he had been quite frankly in
terror for years. It was therefore some time before it dawned on him that
Snape's heart really didn't seem to be in the scathing lecture that his
Head of House was reading him.
Admittedly, over the last four years, he'd already been subjected to just
about everything uncomplimentary under the sun that could be said about
his written work in particular and Potions work in general. But somehow
that had never stopped Snape managing to come up with new ways to
categorise his incompetence before.
Even Tench, however, couldn't help noticing that Snape kept losing track
of his sentences, and glancing back into the depths of the dungeon as if
he had something else on his mind.
"Umm, I could come back another time, maybe?" The suggestion was
ingenuous. "I mean if you're busy, sir, that is...."
He trailed off, grand stratagem deserting him altogether, as his
interrogator's full attention returned to him with a snap, and found
himself blurting out: "Only it's House Quidditch practice in half an
hour, and--"
"Ah yes." The black surface of Snape's eyes glittered for a moment, as if
something had leapt within. "Quidditch. And I believe it was Quidditch
last week, was it not, when your wrist was so unfortunately strained? And
Quidditch to which we were invited to ascribe your lamentable performance
last summer, during the entirety of the exam term? If the prospect of
practising on your new broom has such an adverse effect on your
concentration, Mr Tench, as Head of House it seems to me that Slytherin
team might to their advantage do without your services for one afternoon.
In fact--" he overrode an appalled protest from Tench-- "the prospects
for your O.W.L.s might very well benefit if you were dropped from the
team altogether..."
Tench stared up into Snape's widening smile, the unthinkable vision of a
whole year with no Quidditch in term-time beginning to stretch out before
him. Snape couldn't mean -- he *wouldn't*--
"But the House--"
"I believe the House will survive the loss of your services as Chaser for
one practice session," Snape said coldly. A gesture indicated the row of
empty desks. "And perhaps you would care to spend that time producing a
summary of today's work sufficient to demonstrate to me that your
Quidditch responsibilities are not, after all, interfering with more
important aspects of your schooling?"
Grasping at this straw of hope, Tench nodded eagerly and bolted back to
his seat, scrabbling for a clean quill. Maybe if he wrote very quickly--
"The *front* row." Snape's yellowish fingers beckoned, and Tench,
swallowing, shuffled up to the desks immediately beneath the master's
eye. He tried to wipe inky fingers, surreptitiously, on his robes, but
only managed to smudge his page. Snape, who had taken up his own quill
again, sent a line sputtering across under a rapidly-scribbled set of
figures and stared at him in a manner that did not bode well for his
future sporting prospects.
Gulping, Tench ducked his head, and began to do his level best by the
blank parchment in a sprawling, laborious hand. A few feet above him,
Snape's pen was scratching steadily across sheet after sheet of notes,
phrases and numbers jotted at random across the page or linked with rings
and jagged lines. He showed no disposition whatsoever to release his
victim in time for the second half of the scheduled team practice.
Miserably, Tench prepared to struggle on.
--------
"Professor Snape?"
The dungeon door, left ajar, creaked open slightly, and a dark head
appeared around it, cautiously. "Professor? It's me, Lovell. You told me
to come after Hall was over...."
Given that Professor Snape had spent much of the past hour since finally
relenting towards the unhappy Tench regretting, with increasing force,
his stubborn choice to cut Hall and spend the remaining time to bring his
theories to the stage of practical experiment, this was possibly not the
most tactful of introductions. Snape's mouth tightened.
"Stop hanging round the doorway, Lovell. Come here -- take this--"
'This' was a long slip of parchment, almost filled with a list in cramped
lettering. Lovell took it obediently, and shot him a puzzled look.
"I want everything on that list prepared -- in order -- and laid out."
Snape's voice was soft. "From the top. You'll find everything you need in
the other room, where we worked yesterday. Is that quite clear?"
The boy nodded, and disappeared, and Snape bent again to his
calculations, frowning. It would have to be *either* speedwell *or*
dragonwort; use both and you'd end up with a powerful euphoric
side-effect, doubtless resulting in more and not less suggestibility when
administered to the weak-willed. Use dragonwort, and you'd have to try
newts'-brain instead of rats', or risk losing the whole thing when the
mermaid's-foot fern went in. Use speedwell, and you'd need to raise the
temperature for the second stage of boiling, at the risk of degrading the
solution -- unless you delayed clarification until the heart's-blood
itself was added. And that, of course, had so many other implications as
to make it an essentially independent problem on its own....
Taking a deep breath, he drew yet another sheet of parchment across the
desk, and began jotting down a fresh set of variables, the demands of his
tired, hungry body once again forgotten. Every ten minutes' extra
preparation at this stage could save hours of wasted work; but there was
only a certain amount of theoretical preparation that could be done.
Beyond that, it was going to be a matter of instinct, and judgment, and
taking risks. With McGonagall waiting impatiently for results, Snape had
every intention of getting it right.
--------
It was almost an hour later when Snape came softly into the other
dungeon, and found Magnus Lovell over in the far corner, leaning against
the bars of the enclosure and chirruping gently to the /each uisge/.
"And just what, Mr Lovell, do you think you're doing?" Snape's voice was
deadly, and the boy sprang back from the bars, instinctive guilt flushing
his face.
"Everything's finished, sir--" the words came out tumbling over each
other-- "except the fernseed and the other things that need to steep, I
mean." He indicated with a gesture the long rows of substances which had
been powdered, crushed, shredded, peeled, infused, stewed and even
pickled, then laid out at the front of the room, in exact accordance with
Snape's instructions.
"I just wondered if this poor creature had had any water since last
night, that was all...."
"It's lack of water that's keeping it in there, you fool!" Gliding across
the room like a stooping hawk, Snape caught the young Ravenclaw by the
shoulder of his robes and yanked him away from the cage. "Once let an
/each uisge/ touch water and you'll never keep it behind bars -- and
believe me, Mr Lovell, you don't want that to happen, you really don't."
The boy pulled free, staring at him. "But...you can't keep a creature
locked up without water. Even in Azkaban--"
Snape's thin lips curled.
"There's no place for sentimentality in Potions. Had it never occurred to
you how dragon heartstrings, or bull's-blood, or gruntle teeth are
obtained?" He dropped his voice suddenly, to a low hiss, compelling
Lovell's attention.
"Now listen to me: I'm going to spell this out just once for your
benefit, as you seem to need the reminder. That creature--" a jerk of his
chin, sideways, towards the enclosure-- "is here for one purpose only, to
provide fresh blood at a crucial moment. Until that moment arrives, the
weaker it is the safer, for both of us, Mr Lovell, and for Hogsmeade and
for the rest of the school and for all the country around!"
His voice had risen almost to a scream, and Lovell jerked back, a shocked
expression spreading on the young face. Snape bared uneven teeth in a
death's-head grin. "I do hope you understand, Lovell, for both our sakes.
Because whatever it might try to make you think, that *thing* over there
is not the shaggy little pony your auntie gave you to ride when you were
eight years old. That is a vicious, carnivorous predator, older and
larger and stronger than you have any idea."
With a sudden movement, he caught the boy by the forearm, holding it up
so that the sleeve of his robes fell back, displaying the faint marks of
healed scrapes and scratches on the hand and wrist held captive. "And if
you've forgotten already what gave you *these*--" he traced one faint
mark down the back of Lovell's wrist with the point of a fingernail--
"then you might want to ask yourself what else an /each uisge/ can do to
your mind that you don't understand."
He released the boy, thrusting him in the direction of the workbench.
"You don't pity it, you don't play with it and you don't pet it," Snape
said softly, fixing his assistant with an unforgiving stare. "And I
suggest you remember that.... Now, get those cauldrons ready."
He kept a close eye on Lovell for a few moments as the boy moved, gaze
downcast, to do as he was told. But the young Ravenclaw's head was bent
closely over his work, and he showed no signs of glancing back.
Satisfied, Snape swung round to take up his own place at the end of the
long rows of equipment that had been prepared. He hesitated barely a
second, hand outstretched over the jars, before making his selection. A
few grains of ambergris were followed by a pinch of scarab powder,
staining the clear infusion a deep ochre as it sifted into the flask.
Snape shook the solution slightly, swirling it around the glass, and set
the flask aside on the bench, already reaching for the long strands of
saffron to his right. The first test of the many, many that would be
needed was underway.
It was some twenty minutes later that Snape, glancing again into the
enclosure, caught sight of fresh fur and blood upon the glossy black
muzzle, and remembered an earlier half-stifled squeak that had doubtless
marked some unhappy rodent's demise. Possibly more than one; the /each
uisge/ ran a long tongue along its chops, displaying an admirable array
of teeth, and yawned in satisfaction.
So much for keeping the creature weak, Snape reflected bitterly. He said
nothing, however, to Lovell. The realisation that the hunger pangs that
had been so lately knotting his own belly had apparently also vanished
was not a pleasant one, under the circumstances; and he was far from
convinced that it was merely the sight of that grisly meal that had been
responsible.
From the shadows, light gleamed back softly from a liquid eye. The /each
uisge/ was watching in silence, as always.
Igenlode Wordsmith
"Slytherin in possession... Chaser Augustin Tench diving like an eagle
towards the goal-posts, but here comes Gryffindor Chaser Johnson -- she's
going to tackle -- oh, but Pucey has moved in for a really aggressive
blocking play, and Madam Hooch is turning a blind eye -- OUCH --
Slytherin still in possession after that open foul--"
Even the blatantly biased commentary from Gryffindor student Lee Jordan
couldn't change the facts of what was happening on the Quidditch pitch.
After the humiliations of the previous year, Gryffindor versus Slytherin
was always going to be a grudge match, and the Slytherin team had a lot
to prove. Thanks to a complete set of new brooms, and a new and doubtless
talented Seeker, they were engaged in wiping the ground with the
Gryffindor team in no mean style.
"And Tench scores! Gryffindor Keeper Wood is looking pretty sick, and no
wonder -- Gryffindor have yet to make their mark on the game, and
Slytherin are in the lead fifty points to zero--"
Despite everything, Snape allowed himself a smile. Quidditch, in his
view, hardly ranked high on a list of productive pastimes; but the
inter-house rivalry was intense, and Slytherin had traditionally
excelled. If he had to sit out here as Head of House in incipient rain --
a particularly cold and heavy drop went down the back of his neck at that
moment, and he sketched out an impatient Shielding Charm -- then it was a
considerable satisfaction to be able to anticipate the triumphant looks
Slytherin would be bestowing on the less-favoured Houses tomorrow.
"-- and finally, gallant Gryffindor get possession!" A roar went up from
the crowd, from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw as well as from the Gryffindor
supporters, and Snape's lip tightened. The Slytherins around him burst
into angry boos and jeers in response as the Gryffindor Chaser Katie Bell
swerved out from under the Slytherin team captain, Flint, and streaked
off down the pitch with a Bludger in hot pursuit.
"Tench tries to tackle -- Flint coming up fast from behind -- but they're
no match for talented Katie. Slytherin Keeper moving out now to protect
the hoops -- they've got her walled in -- she can't score -- YES! -- what
a pass, what a pass.... As fellow Chaser Angelina Johnson now has a clear
run at goal -- look out, Johnson -- oh no.... Excellent swerve there to
dodge the Bludger, but she's lost her chance at goal, and Slytherin
Augustin Tench has taken the Quaffle -- some brutal work by the Slytherin
Beaters on that Bludger, Chaser Bell can't get through -- where are the
Weasley brothers for Gryffindor?"
Behind Snape, a tidal wave of shuffling announced itself. He turned,
sharply. The Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, was making his way along the
stand through the ever-increasing drizzle towards him.
"Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero," Jordan was announcing glumly in
the distance, as Tench scored again and Dumbledore slid into the vacant
place at Snape's left-hand side.
"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said in mild greeting as the referee's whistle
blew. He wiped droplets of rain from his half-moon glasses.
Snape, scowling, dutifully extended his Shielding Charm outwards to cover
his neighbour. "And to what do we owe this honour, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore *never* deigned to watch the game from the Slytherin stands.
If he was here now, it could only be because he wanted something from
Snape...in full view of the rest of the school.... Snape wondered,
sharply, if it was about the business with that cat of Filch's. The whole
disgraceful affair had been a nine-days'-wonder, and the school was still
talking of nothing else; and it had been clear as crystal, to Snape at
least, that a certain cocky young Gryffindor had told them far less than
he knew. Maybe the Headmaster had finally come to his senses--
"Ah yes." Dumbledore had taken his glasses off, and was polishing them.
He looked up, bright eyes suddenly very intense without their
bespectacled shield, and fixed a piercing gaze on Snape. "I was wondering
if you recalled the outcome of a certain discussion among the governors
at the beginning of term, Severus. About the potential return of
Voldemort, and the possibility of a Free-will Potion...."
Snape kept his face schooled to a rigid mask with an effort as an icy
shock of betrayal shot through him. If McGonagall had talked...even she
wouldn't have been such a self-righteous fool...would she? He'd kept an
eagle eye on the Ravenclaw Lovell in the weeks that had followed that
botched night in the dungeons, but to all intents and purposes the boy
appeared to remember little or nothing -- less than surprising, given
that the damned /each uisge/ had to have been working on the young oaf
almost from the moment it had given up on Snape himself. If anything,
Lovell had looked even quieter than usual, studying harder than ever.
No, it must have been McGonagall and that stiff-necked conscience of
hers. She'd have been quick enough to claim the credit, he made no doubt,
if between them they'd managed to pull off the coup of the century. With
proper facilities -- with proper safeguards -- he was still convinced he
would have been able to do it.... But instead Professor Prim-and-Proper
had let something slip in Dumbledore's hearing, and an abyss he'd thought
safely past was yawning again before his feet.
The Headmaster had refused permission for the research. He'd specifically
forbidden the experiments on the grounds of risk -- risks Snape had
deliberately chosen to dismiss as mere scaremongering. That had almost
cost a student his life. It had nearly cost Hogwarts the lives of its
Potions master and Deputy Headmistress. If, afterwards, the water-horse,
bloated with power, had run loose among the upper corridors of the
school, hundreds of children could have died, horribly.
And the governors wouldn't care that it had been the weak-willed soft
touch of a boy, Lovell, who'd been criminally stupid enough to let the
mind-predator into his head, despite all warnings -- to think he knew
best. Oh no. It would be Snape, who'd had to pull the whole sorry mess
together as usual, who'd had to risk his own skin to undo what Lovell had
done, who would get the chop. And Dumbledore, who'd promised him a place
at Hogwarts for as long as he needed it, who'd been the only one to offer
him sanctuary from the jackals on both sides baying for his blood, would
preside over the meeting with that saintly, faintly-pained look in his
eyes, and toss his subordinate to the waiting jaws....
The rain was sheeting down harder now, enclosing them with slanting
silver bars, and Dumbledore, beside him, had him pinned with that bright
expectant stare that could draw a response out of the most stubborn
silence. Snape could feel the cage drawing in around him. One slip -- one
admission-- A muscle in his jaw twitched, his control threatening to
crack, and he took a deep breath, forced his features into a mask of mild
interest, and nodded.
"The possibility of a Free-will Potion? Yes, I looked into that. My field
of interest, as I'm sure you'll understand...."
Dumbledore was nodding in return, eyes still locked with Snape's own in a
twinkle that gave nothing away. But Snape could have sworn they had
sharpened. "Go on, Severus."
"I was over-optimistic," Snape said smoothly, evading that gaze. Out on
the pitch, the players were barely visible through the rain. All around
them Slytherins were starting to fidget and complain. "I did the
preliminary research, to see what would be involved. But the
complications were enormous. I don't think any living wizard could do it,
Headmaster. Back in the days of old Erasmus Montague, perhaps...."
Dumbledore was giving him a somewhat puzzled look, tinged with amusement.
"Come, Severus, I thought you rated yourself higher than that. Only last
winter you were telling me how hide-bound those old philtrists were,
compared to modern scholarship--"
"Oh yes, their legend outranked their learning -- and that's what you'd
need to pull this off, a living legend," Snape snapped bitterly,
deliberately burying his own reputation with every word. /Whatever you've
heard, Dumbledore, it must have been mistaken. Nothing of that sort could
have been going on at Hogwarts, you see; your humble Potions master never
would have had the ability..../
Resentment had him by the throat, thickening his words until they almost
choked him. But reluctance itself could only serve to carry more
conviction. He knew how to play a part. He'd learned it in Dumbledore's
own service, when his very life had hung upon dissimulation.
Despite himself, his face twisted as he set the last nail in the coffin.
"A Free-will Potion is beyond my powers, Headmaster -- now or ever."
"Are you sure?" Mild disappointment, baited to draw him oh-so-delicately
into what had to be a trap. "After all, if you've already done--"
/admitted,/ Snape thought, seething-- "the preliminary work...."
"Quite enough work to tell me what I can and can't achieve!" And every
ragged edge of fury in that was real.
Dumbledore sighed, looking suddenly weary. "A pity. Things have changed,
and faster than I'd ever dreamed. Petrification is Dark Magic of the most
advanced level, and with something -- or someone -- of that nature loose
in the school...next time, it may be more than just a cat...."
As if to punctuate his words, a yell of dismay rose from the rain-soaked
Quidditch stands beyond. Snape glanced round to see a blurred figure
heading for the ground, a Gryffindor player obviously out of control in
the distant haze of rain. It barely registered. The implications of
Dumbledore's words were breaking over him in an icy wave, rewriting
everything he'd thought he understood. The world gave a sickening lurch.
"You mean -- you want--"
Dumbledore was settling his glasses back on his nose. He didn't look up.
"I've changed my mind, Severus. Minerva McGonagall was right. Resisting
the Imperius Curse is going to be more important than ever." The old
wizard sighed again. "I was hoping to discuss--"
And then he was drowned out by the great tide of whistles and shouts
rising all round the pitch, as first Gryffindor and then Hufflepuff and
Ravenclaw rose to their feet. The Golden Snitch glinted from the mud.
Dumbledore himself had made a motion to rise, only to check himself in a
perfunctory gesture towards the ominous silence spreading around him in
the Slytherin stands, as the House that had dominated the entire match
saw victory snatched suddenly from their rightful grasp. But the impulse
of consideration was short-lived. The Gryffindor Seeker was still on the
ground, and figures were starting to run out onto the pitch towards him.
Dumbledore got up hastily. "If you'll excuse me, Severus -- I think--"
"Headmaster, the Free-will Potion--" Snape hardly knew what he was
saying. The chasm had opened up, not in front of him but under what he'd
thought was firm ground, and he was falling....
"Oh yes. I was going to give you permission to do that practical research
you wanted, of course. But it's all academic now. A pity. I'd been rather
counting on your talents...." And with that he was gone, thrusting his
way through the stands down towards the Quidditch pitch with barely more
than a brief distracted smile to spare for Snape as he tried in vain to
detain him.
"Damn you," Snape whispered, watching the crowd beginning to form around
the prone scarlet figure below. He was shaking. All around him, Slytherin
supporters were ebbing away. "Damn you, Harry Potter...."
Igenlode Wordsmith
The worst of it had always been that Catriona should have known -- *must*
have known -- what she was doing. She had been at Hogwarts three years
already that summer; she was no longer a child but a young lady, with her
hair up and her skirts down, and a new-found distaste for freckled cheeks
and scratched arms that had never seemed to worry her before.
But for all her reluctance to join in their old romps, Riona was still
the best companion her little sister had ever had. She could skip pebbles
across the burn with two -- three -- four bounces. She could tell the
most blood-curdling stories of ghosties at bed-time you ever heard, until
Minerva was curled up in such pleasurable terror she would squeak if so
much as a spider brushed her. She could stitch a whole miniature
trousseau for Minerva's beloved, battered china-doll Jane, and set in
ruffles along each hem with tiny doll-stitches more delicate than
anything old Morag could manage, even for Mother's own clothes. She could
play at Snap and Tell-Me and spillikins in the schoolroom, and then chess
and even bridge downstairs with Uncle Jamie and the others in the
evenings; when little girls were put to bed, and scolded by Morag when
she caught them peeping through the bannisters.
Uncle Jamie was perhaps both the girls' favourite guest. Tall and bony,
with bright blue eyes and sandy whiskers, he was Mother's youngest
brother and still unmarried; he'd spent years out in Rhodesia, and could
spin the most hair-raising yarns of cursed diamonds and Apparating
elephants, but that summer he'd come back to stay with friends over at
the big house by the loch, and came over to see Mother and the girls
almost every day.
The picnic had been Uncle Jamie's idea. The moor had been Mother's. The
walk along the burn, when the hamper was empty and the grown-ups were
dozing in the shade, had been Minerva's own idea, and she'd tugged and
pulled at Riona to come, until Uncle Jamie had opened an eye and told
Catriona for pity's sake to take the child away, before their ears all
expired of exhaustion. But he'd said it in that special joky way he had,
and winked at Minerva when Mother couldn't see.
It *had* been very hot, though. They'd taken off their boots to paddle
among the stones, and then gone on again, with the dry grass prickling
Minerva's feet, and a persistent fly buzzing round her nose. She tried to
huff it away, but it wouldn't go. Riona told her if she didn't look out
she'd end up stuck with both eyes squinting at the end of her nose, so
Minerva stuck out her tongue and ran ahead. And when she'd looked back,
the horse had been there.
Not a big horse -- not then. Just a sturdy little black beast that might
have come from any crofter's barn, and the only thing odd about it was
that it hadn't been there before. Minerva had been too little to know any
better. But Catriona -- Catriona had spent three years in Defence Against
the Dark Arts. She *must* have known....
The horse lowered its head and snuffled against her pockets, like old
Donald in the stables at home, and Riona laughed and rubbed its nose.
"Sorry, old girl, no sugar today. Where did you learn that trick, then?
I'll bet someone's out looking for you -- daft old thing, you'll have
them all worried."
"Mother says you shouldn't talk to strange horses -- or dogs," Minerva
said, standing on one foot and rubbing the other against her knee, where
she'd got a thorn in it. Riona was carrying their boots; but she wasn't
quite sure about going that close to a strange horse.
"Mother says little girls shouldn't stick their tongues out," Riona
retorted, putting one arm across the horse's back and stroking its smooth
black neck. The animal snorted and nudged her, ears pricked, and she
leaned against it, rubbing her cheek in its mane.
"Anyway, this horse isn't going to bite me -- are you, my lass?" She
swung herself onto its back as nimbly as a boy. "She's just looking for
someone to take her home...."
"Riona?" Minerva said as her sister's voice trailed away. She took a step
closer. Riona was looking at her in a strange way. So was the horse.
Riona looked...not there. The horse looked *hungry*.
"Riona?" Her voice rose. The horse seemed to be getting bigger and
bigger, and the sun had gone all cold and thin. "Riona, stop it, I'm
scared!"
Her sister was still staring at her, but her eyes had gone a funny
colour, as if all the white had disappeared, and the blue part was being
swallowed up by the black. The horse licked its lips. It had a forked
tongue, like a snake, and its teeth looked extraordinarily sharp.
Minerva's lip trembled. "*Mother*--" The wail turned into a scream as the
fangs flashed out towards her, striking for the throat. She turned to run
and slipped on the dry grass, coming crashing down just as those dreadful
teeth clipped together, blood streaming from her shoulder. She hardly had
enough breath left to cry with. "*Mama*!"
She could hear Uncle Jamie's voice shouting as she scrambled, sobbing, to
her feet among raking hooves, and caught at Riona's arm as the creature
swung round, towering over her. Riona was slumped on its neck, eyes
blank, one hand trailing, and she didn't move when Minerva touched her.
Then the child was running, barefoot, over grass and heather, with
nightmare on her heels, and it was just like a dream because no matter
how fast she went the monster was coming faster, and she couldn't wake
up--
She didn't know how she'd got to the top of the rocks. She thought she
must have flown, because she didn't remember touching them at all. She
wasn't big enough to have climbed that high, no matter *how* scared she
was...but she was there, huddled on the grey stone with tears running
down her face, and blood on her dress where her shoulder *hurt*. The bad
horse was prowling round and round, trying to scramble up; but its hooves
couldn't hold on, and it was hissing and snapping at her and making a
horrible bubbling noise in its throat. It didn't move like a horse. It
didn't even look much like a horse any more. She didn't understand how
Riona could ever have made such a terrible mistake....
And then she screamed. Because Riona had sat up on the creature's back,
like some kind of doll. Her eyes were all blank and her teeth were
showing just the same way the creature's teeth were showing, in a sort of
laugh that wasn't funny at all, but more as if it was starving and going
to bite you, and she was pulling out her wand. One by one, she was
pointing at the stones that were keeping Minerva up out of reach, and
they were starting to go soft and squishy like butter in the sun, and
slip downwards. Minerva tried to scramble higher, but there wasn't any
higher for her to go. And all the time her sister was smiling that
dreadful smile, with eyes like something dead, as she pulled down the
rocks to let the monster feed.
--------
"Minerva? Catriona?"
Uncle Jamie's long legs had carried him swiftly up the side of the burn.
He had his wand drawn. Mother was at his heels, running almost as fast,
the coils of her hair tumbling unheeded in great wisps down over her
shoulders.
Minerva set up a desperate wail and Uncle Jamie swung round, catching
sight of the rocks and the creature that snarled there. "Dear God,
Mary--" he used Mother's name, as if they'd been alone together-- "it's
an /each uisge/--"
Mother cried out as the creature turned. "Riona!" It was almost a sob;
but she had her wand out and aimed steadily, backing away now as she and
Jamie tried to force the kelpie away from the water, away from the
child....
"/Professor McGonagall--/"
It wasn't going to work, Minerva knew. In a moment the /each uisge/ was
going to turn and bolt, knocking Mother to the ground.
"/ --Minerva McGonagall--/"
It was going to disappear into the stream as swiftly as raindrops from a
summer shower, beyond the reach of any magic the kelpie-hunters would
muster in the days to come.
"/ --Minerva--/"
And the last sight the seven-year-old child would ever have of her
sister, endlessly replayed, would be of the gutted shell of a body,
tossed like a rag, as the /each uisge/'s teeth ripped through its rider's
soft belly and entrails before dragging her down to the watery hell that
was its home....
"*/Minerva!/*"
Magic hit her, hard, across the face, jolting starved lungs into a great
sobbing breath, and Professor McGonagall choked and flung out a hand as
awareness came flooding back. She could barely even feel the fingers of
the other hand where they clutched the vial. The movement wrenched the
predator's jaws in the mangled wound in her shoulder just as the /each
uisge/ shifted its grip, reaching for the throat, and the agony of it had
her senses swimming again.
"Minerva--" The remorseless demand of Snape's voice dragged her back,
even as it had penetrated her dream, and she caught a glimpse of him --
finally -- too late -- framed in the doorway. His wand was aimed directly
at her.
She shut her eyes. Better that way than to end like Catriona. /Severus,
make it quick/....
But it was a Numbing Curse that struck her. Ragged at the edges with
Snape's own exhaustion, it broke like a splash of ice-water, draining
away all sensation in her shoulder -- all pain-- For a moment the release
was so great that she gasped. Her mind had cleared as if by a charm.
Carrion breath was hot in her face as the vicious jaws slackened an
instant before closing for the last time. Her wand arm hung numbly,
useless fingers trailing. In her other hand, the glass of the tiny bottle
was slick in her grasp. Now or never. One last chance. Minerva McGonagall
brought the Desiccating Potion up in a clumsy overarm blow.
The vial flew free at the top of its arc, and shattered against the
gleaming black neck, with a terrible sound like sizzling meat. The /each
uisge/ screamed, rearing back, twisting, as a few drops of thick liquid
oozed free, and Minerva, flung aside, almost fell. Despite everything,
the sound of that agony made her feel sick.
She clawed for the doorway with numb hands, rolling free as the thrashing
hooves came down. A black flicker in the shadows, as Snape's ungentle
grasp helped drag her back to the doorway and a moment's safety. The
fumes from the cauldron there made them both cough.
"It's ready." Snape's voice had ebbed to little more than a croak. He
coughed again, his wand pointed at the hovering potion, which rose a
little further, as if with an effort. Beyond them, the /each uisge/ was
still writhing, biting at the seeping wound on its neck.
The potion had come to a wavering halt. Sweat was standing out on Snape's
forehead, and Minerva set her teeth and struggled to aim her own wand at
the cauldron. She could barely feel what she was doing. Blood had begun
to soak her robes, and her hand was trembling despite everything she
could do.
A ridiculous, hysterical laugh threatened to overwhelm her. Two trained
wizards -- and they were going to die because between them they couldn't
even muster the strength to levitate a cauldron... /Light-headed/. A
tiny, detached part of her mind was still analysing objectively. /Shock
-- blood-loss/--
"Too much blood." Snape was staring at her, grimly.
The cauldron fell as he glanced over his shoulder into the dungeon and
pulled her closer, dragging aside what was left of the high collar of her
robes. Breath hissed between his teeth at the sight. "Stand *still* -- we
haven't got long--"
/Entirely typical of dear Severus not to bother to mention "this is going
to hurt"..../ Minerva's throat tightened as she recognised the first
words of the Hot-Poker Hex and felt the instant heat of his raised wand.
It should have been white-hot. But for this, the fading cherry-red glow
was going to be more than enough.... And then it was all she could do not
to cry out as the burning heat touched mangled flesh; despite the Numbing
Curse, all she could do to stay on her feet. Her mouth watered,
instinctively, at the scent of seared flesh, and that was very nearly the
last straw.
Minerva McGonagall clung against the side of the cauldron, struggling for
control, and saw the /each uisge/ coming towards them like a cresting
wave, in the moment when hunger and fury finally overcame fear and
blooming pain. Snape must have seen it too.
The metal quivered and stirred a little beneath her cheek, trying to
lift, and she caught at the doorframe to drag herself to her feet,
relieving him of that weight at least. But whatever dregs of power he'd
had left earlier had been swallowed in the decision to risk that last
hex. Snape's breath was coming in harsh gasps of effort, and the cauldron
had barely risen enough to hover above the ground. It wasn't going to
*work*--
Her own wand had slipped, useless, from limp fingers to roll beneath the
cauldron's base. Instinctively she groped for it with her good hand in
the seconds that remained to her; felt the potion lurch against her
grasp.... She gasped in sudden understanding.
"Severus!"
A moment earlier, she'd thought she barely had the strength to stand. She
got a firm grasp on the cauldron's weight and heaved.
Snape caught his breath in a sharp hiss, releasing his own grip, as the
thick fluid slopped across the rim; but in the next instant he had
dropped down beside her at the back of the cauldron, thin shoulders
braced against hers and straining. The potion lifted, unsteadily.
"One -- two--" His voice cracked as the /each uisge/ came through the
doorway in a black cloud of magic. "*Three*--"
Minerva flung everything she had into that last effort, heedless of
darkness or pain; felt the weight flying upwards in a great gout of
liquid as the nightmare creature came back for the kill. Heard the
screams, both boy and horse, as the Desiccating Potion splashed out in a
tidal wave that broke over the /each uisge/'s power, boiling, burning,
eating at glossy hide and unclean water alike....
Trying to drag them both back, she found herself on the ground, spatters
of potion smoking on her robes as a great acrid cloud seemed to swell
beyond the empty cauldron. Snape was struggling to his feet, one arm
cradled at a weird angle, staggering *forward*-- And then a limp shape
was flying towards them out of the cloud, Snape silhouetted trying to
break its fall, and she forced herself to her knees to brace him as the
rag-doll limbs came down.
--------
Lovell's lifeless body was heavier than Minerva McGonagall had ever
imagined. Snape went down hard despite all she could do, the boy
spreadeagled in his arms as they hit the ground, and for a moment neither
moved. Behind them in the doorway, a formless heap lay near the
overturned cauldron, a thin wisp of smoke still rising.
It had tried to shift shape at the last, she realised finally,
swallowing. What was left...bore very little relation now to a horse of
any kind. Or to any living thing. Even as she stared, the side of the
mound fell in, with a little puff of dust.
Movement at her side, as Snape struggled for breath, thrusting Lovell's
sprawling weight roughly towards her. Professor McGonagall caught the
boy's head before it could hit the ground, dragging him free with her
good arm so that his shoulders were cradled in her lap, and bent over the
blistered body. Everywhere his robes had been touched by Anhydraserum,
the skin beneath was reddened and peeling. Memories of Death Eater
atrocities rose and were choked down.
Snape silently produced a handful of glass shards from inside his robes,
and held out the largest in front of the boy's lips. Nothing happened.
And then, a long second later, the curved glass clouded over with Magnus'
breath, and Minerva McGonagall found her eyes blurring with a sudden,
unexpected rush of tears. She bent her head to hide them, holding the boy
closer, and felt him stir.
"He'll live." Snape's voice, little more now than a harsh whisper, had
lost none of its bitter edge. He tossed aside the remnants of glass, and
reached out to tip the young Ravenclaw's head over to the side, thumbing
one eyelid open.
"He'll live." He didn't look particularly enthused at the prospect. "I
won't answer for how much is left of his mind. If he's lucky he'll
remember nothing -- which is more than he deserves. He was warned, and
warned again; if justice were done, he'd spend the rest of his life
raving...."
"If justice were done, few indeed of us would be where we are today,"
Professor McGonagall said sharply, setting Lovell down gently and
climbing to her feet. She reached, automatically, for her wand to conjure
a stretcher, swayed, and almost fell.
"You need to get that shoulder wound to the hospital wing," Snape
observed, pulling himself to his own feet one-handed and stooping to pick
up her wand. He passed it to her without a word.
"I can manage." Professor McGonagall's lips tightened. The Numbing Curse
was wearing off. It took her four attempts to create a stretcher for
Lovell, and another three to get him on it, with Snape's black gaze on
her every step of the way, and by the end she didn't know whether to bite
his head off or admit that he was right. Her teeth were clenched tightly
together.
Poppy would take care of the young Ravenclaw without too many questions.
The Matron never probed where students were concerned. But Minerva
McGonagall was far from certain if Madam Pomfrey's discretion extended to
cover one of her colleagues turning up with not only the marks where
something had tried to tear out her throat, but where someone else had
tried to stop her bleeding to death by using a Death Eater hex on her....
"Incidentally, Severus--" she had managed to get the stretcher drifting
in more or less the right direction towards the door, despite a wand that
had begun to feel as if it were made of lead-- "just for my curiosity --
where *did* you learn such...creative use of the Dark Arts? Not at
Hogwarts, to my certain knowledge. And--"
She broke off. And -- not, she was almost sure, among the followers of He
Who Must Not Be Named. *That* was one master who had no interest in
employing swords as ploughshares, or in saving lives among the acolytes
he'd beguiled into his train. But she had never spoken of Severus' past.
Every Slytherin of that year had been lost to Voldemort; one, at least,
had returned to them. He was what he was...and what he had been was
better left to rest in silence.
But the lines of exhaustion in Snape's face had twisted in what was
almost amusement. "I believe you were -- briefly -- acquainted with my
dear departed mother?"
"Ah." It had slipped out before she could help it, and the corners of his
mouth twitched wryly in response.
"Ah indeed. As you can imagine, running home to Mother with a grazed knee
or a gryphon-bite wasn't really an option. We learned to improvise...with
what was available."
And what had been available, to any child of Verilla's, had been above
all the Dark Arts. By all accounts, that had been the least of it. A
bitter taste dried in her mouth. Few women had deserved their fate more
richly than Verilla -- and few could have been mourned less. She glanced
back, at the closed face of Verilla's own son, and saw nothing there but
sour memory; and something else.
Professor McGonagall frowned, remembering him leaning awkwardly to
retrieve her wand. The way he held himself.... "Severus, what's wrong
with your arm?"
For a moment she thought he would deny it; then something flickered
behind the black eyes. Snape turned slightly, bringing both hands into
the light, and shook back his sleeve. Both hand and forearm were mottled
scarlet and white.
"Anhydraserum -- when the cauldron spilled." He flexed and closed the
fingers with a sharp hiss of breath, glancing a moment towards the dried
mound that had once been an /each uisge/. "Now, if you would kindly deal
with your own injuries, Professor, and leave me to salve mine...."
"Poppy should see that," Professor McGonagall said, and Snape cut her off.
"*No*. I can ma--" An echo of her own words, bitten short abruptly as
they both heard it. He'd drawn his hands back into the shadow of his
robes. "I'm more than capable of dealing with a simple burn. It isn't the
first time I've been...careless." He didn't specify what he considered to
be a lack of care; but somehow she didn't think he was referring to the
handling of cauldrons. Their eyes met.
"After this fiasco," Snape said softly, taking bitter stock of the ruin
that was all the /each uisge/'s onslaught has left of his research, "the
last thing either of us is going to want is anything linking both our
names to tonight."
And it wouldn't just be Poppy Pomfrey making the connection. There was a
deep chill ebbing into her bones at the realisation, now, of just how
close their private project had come to disaster; at the sheer blind
arrogance of the risk they'd -- she'd -- taken.
"I can't let you go on," she said abruptly, yielding the point unspoken.
"You know that. Even if the potion could be made--"
"Agreed." Snape jerked his head in unwilling assent and turned away,
moving stiffly to set the room to rights. Professor McGonagall stared at
his back for a minute, searching for the right words; but Lovell, behind
her, moaned, stirring on the stretcher, and with a sigh she stooped down
beside him.
The room swam alarmingly around her as she moved, in a brutal reminder of
just how badly she'd been hurt. She put out one hand for support,
blindly, and found the boy's arm. The young fingers curled and clung to
hers. "Professor?..."
"Lie still, Lovell. I'll get you up to the hospital wing." Minerva
McGonagall managed a fair approximation of her usual brisk tones around
the sudden lump in her throat. For a moment, through dizzy eyes, it could
have been her sister lying there, ashen-grey in a sprawl of dark hair.
*Catriona*....
"You're very lucky to be alive, young man," she told him severely. "No,
don't try to talk. I expect Madam Pomfrey will want to keep you in bed
for a day or two. I'll come and see you in the morning."
She disentangled their fingers, giving his arm a final pat, and brought
up her wand with an effort once more to guide the stretcher towards the
door. She could still feel the imprint of the /each uisge/'s jaws in the
grinding agony that had begun to envelop her shoulder; still hear the
echo of Snape's desperation calling her back. But it was not the right
moment. It never was, with Severus.
She looked back, once, from the doorway; caught only the brief flicker as
he turned away into the shadows. /Dear God, man--/ for a moment she could
have shaken him-- /would it be so hard, just for once, to show some grace
in the face of gratitude? To acknowledge at least that you saved my
life?/
A sigh. Enough, perhaps, to know that she could trust him with her life.
Too much to expect him to be gracious about it. He was what he was.
Professor McGonagall went wearily up the stairs, to a reckoning with
Madam Pomfrey and blessed, pain-free sleep.
Sky Rider
I've been looking - can't see it anywhere :((((
On Sat, 01 Mar 2003 15:08:12 GMT, Igenlode Wordsmith
<Use-Author-Address-Header@[127.1]> did something a little strange and
wrote:
--
Skyrider
Visit the Online Dictionary of Playground Slang,
and leave *your* favourites!
http://www.odps.org
Igenlode Wordsmith
Chapter 6 * * * Beyond the Barriers * * *
"Severus!"
Halfway down the stairs to the dungeons, Minerva McGonagall caught hold
of her colleague's arm, steadying herself against him while she tried to
regain the wind that had been knocked out of her. For a moment it seemed
the force of their collision had robbed Snape likewise of enough breath
to keep them on their feet; then, as he staggered and thrust her off
almost spasmodically, she caught sight of his face.
"That's blood." Her voice was sharp, and Snape managed the weary ghost of
a snarl, grey lips contorting.
"Of course it's blood. Damn you, McGonagall, do you think I'd have run
otherwise? The thing had me by the throat--" He broke off, as the colour
began to ebb from Minerva's own face, and caught onto the stair-rail,
dragging himself upright.
"It got Lovell." Bitter, unadorned truth. "It went after me for two solid
days -- drained all it could -- and then it got Lovell."
"Oh dear God." Professor McGonagall caught hold of the rail herself, as
her knees threatened to betray her. "Magnus. If I'd thought--"
She remembered the boy's parents with a sudden stab; the worn dark beauty
of the mother, and the haunted hollows of the father's eyes. Dan Lovell
had suffered more than enough already.
"Where is it? Where is...is he?"
Snape's lips twitched again, baring uneven teeth. "It's not what you
think, Professor. Don't waste your time on pity. It took him willingly --
it's riding his mind, using every spell he knows. The stupid, arrogant
little boy--"
McGonagall gasped. "He's alive?" The sick wash of relief was almost more
than she could bear. Not, after all, to be responsible for the death of a
student. Not to have to break that news....
"Lovell alive?" Snape retorted. "Yes -- if you call that 'alive' -- and a
danger to the whole school every minute he stays that way. With a human
mind to channel its power, the only limits on the threat that creature
can pose are those of Lovell's own knowledge--"
Long fingers shot out to clutch at her robes, catching her off-balance as
she turned to run for Dumbledore, and she missed a step and almost fell.
"Where are you going? What do you think you're doing?" Snape hissed.
Professor McGonagall's lips were pressed very firmly together as she
reluctantly let his death-like grip drag her back down, grudging every
wasted moment. "Severus, this has gone beyond the two of us now.
Dumbledore needs to know, no matter what the consequences. I'll not
shield myself at the cost of the death of a child--"
She wrenched suddenly at her robes, trying to free herself; but for all
the ashen exhaustion in Snape's face, he was grasping onto her with the
strength of a drowning man.
"Dark Magic work sanctioned in your name, against the express permission
of the Headmaster? You think Dumbledore could -- or would -- cover up for
us then, once the board of governors gets wind of it? Do you think there
would be a place for either of us at this school, after that? You have a
home, a family -- I--"
He broke off, his face twisting, and took a fresh grip, dragging her
close.
"We're in this together, Professor." It was the closest she had ever
heard him come to a plea. "You and I can get Lovell out of there -- deal
with that creature ourselves before anyone need know."
He released her, abruptly. "Or you can go running upstairs to tell the
world. Throw your future away -- and mine. Is that what you want to do?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Minerva said sharply, without thinking. Her stare
had deflated hundreds of students in their time, including a certain
sullen adolescent Slytherin. It brought little more than a curled lip
now, and her own hackles rose instinctively in response.
"You know I'd be only too glad to get out of this any way we can -- and
I've no intention of using you as the scapegoat, Severus, if that's
what's eating your mind. But I'll not do it if it means any danger to the
school; and I should never have let you have that boy, at all, if I'd
thought there was any danger to him."
The memory of sending Magnus back down here, unhappy with it as he'd
been, was still bitter in her throat. "And I all but warned him it was
*you* who'd been affected -- all but begged him to keep a close watch--"
"You did *what*?" Snape's eyes glittered in a sudden furious resentment.
"You confirmed him in his own conceit. Encouraged him in flagrant
disregard of every warning I gave. Laid him wide open to that
mind-predator's wiles...."
"It was your own work did that." The flat words cut him off. "The
Free-will Potion, Severus. And your own inimitable teaching style, I've
little doubt."
Snape just stared at her, coldly, without a flicker.
"Your well-meaning concern--" He bit back the rest of that phrase with
what was obviously an effort. There was a moment's silence.
"Everything I threw at the /each uisge/ was channelled back to the
rider," Snape said finally, almost without inflection. "As long as
there's a human trapped on its back, no curse you can try is going to
touch it without killing the victim first. And no healing you can cast on
the rider will take any effect until the creature itself is sated. From
the moment he let that horse-thing into his mind, Lovell all but ceased
to exist. He's a puppet now, nothing more than a human shell to channel
the raw power into shapes the creature can use."
He took a breath, his mouth tightening further. "That thing trapped down
there is in essence now the most powerful sixth-year wizard you'll ever
face-- but it *is* only a sixth-year wizard. Unless and until it reaches
water, it's trapped within the limits of Lovell's knowledge -- restricted
by the spells that he knows."
Despite herself, McGonagall's eyes had been drawn against her will down
into the shadows of the dungeon corridor below, straining for signs of
movement in the dark. Snape, turning to glance over his own shoulder,
allowed himself a bitter smile. "I sealed that door behind me with the
most effective spell I know. No student in this school could break it --
and, as witnessed by the fact that you and I are still standing here and
still sane--" the smile twisted further as she shuddered-- "neither, it
seems, can the /each uisge/."
Raw black hunger in the darkness below, held back by the fragile fabric
of Severus' infamous, intricate sealing spells. For a moment she could
almost taste the life of the school above her, moist and warm and so
very, very tempting....
"No!" she said sharply. "No--" An indrawn breath. "Maybe it can't get
out, Severus. But it can reach us here. And sooner or later it will find
a way--"
"Agreed." Snape's voice was grim. "We have to deal with it, and now.
Before Lovell's mind is gone beyond recall."
"Dumbledore--"
"Dumbledore could do nothing, save get the boy killed too. Is that what
you claim to want?" He didn't even bother to wait for a reply. "No amount
of wand-waving will so much as scratch that creature while it has a rider
to take the hurt -- and no-one has ever dragged the rider from a living
/each uisge/ and lasted to tell the tale."
*Catriona*.... But the long years had dulled that grief; and, to do him
justice, she thought that this time at least Severus had not meant his
words to wound. She would not see Magnus Lovell end as her sister had
ended, though; would not let him become what Riona had become....
The clear brown waters of the burn had run through her nightmares for
years, afterwards. She'd been a woman grown before she could hear the
sound of rippling water and *not* remember.
"Water," Snape said softly into the silence, so apt to the mark that she
caught her breath. "Water is the key. Water is its power. Let it once
reach running water, and it will be free from all control; but strip the
water from its body, and it will die...."
"As would you -- or I -- or any living thing." Her voice was sharp with
disappointment. "Magnus would be the first to suffer; and I'll not
permit--"
"/Anhydraserum/. Desiccating Potion. Through clothing, it blisters; on
bare skin, it will burn; but on the flesh of an /each uisge/ it will
kill, and kill before any human would take more than passing harm."
Snape's eyes were glittering with anticipation. He looked across at her
for a moment, his face framed in shadows.
"Ten minutes in my office is all I need. Ten minutes, with someone to
guard my back...." From anyone else, it would have been an appeal.
Their eyes met. McGonagall nodded. It made sense -- of a sort -- and
yet-- Something was nagging at her. /Anhydraserum/? "You don't think...a
simple Drying Charm?"
"I tried that." Flatly. One hand brushed at the blood that had smeared
along his jaw. "With all due respect, Professor--" the tone belied the
words-- "we are wasting time. If you are still determined to damn us both
in the eyes of the governors--"
"I think you misjudge them," Minerva said softly.
Snape's lip curled. "I judge the world as I find it, Professor
McGonagall; and I find it lacking in charity."
/Small wonder, Severus..../ She sighed, watching his rigid back sweep
down the stairs. At the mouth of the dark corridor below, he stopped, lit
his wand, and glanced up.
She nodded, slowly, drawing her own wand in response to the unspoken
question. "I'm coming."
--------
The /each uisge/ almost got them both in the moment after Snape opened
the door. It must have been waiting, she thought, in a cold moment of
absolute clarity as the black jaws came down; waiting by the exit, when
it found that strength alone would not serve. Or else -- colder yet --
waiting, not to get out, but for its victims to come *in*....
And then instinct took over, with reflexes she'd thought forgotten, and
she had hurled a Skewering Hex at the crimson eyes as the towering
stallion struck down at them, swamping the light like a thundercloud of
malice and rage. She remembered Magnus, too late. The /each uisge/ didn't
even falter.
Snape's voice, beside her, broke on the last word of a hissed spell.
"*Jump*!"
Not understanding, she felt herself dragged forward in the last moment,
as carrion-breath touched her face. Forwards and upwards, as Snape's
fingers bit into her arm, and the Leaping Charm he'd flung over them took
effect.
Upwards-- For a second her robes tangled about her, and it seemed the low
vaulting above would strike them in the face. And then they were down,
with half the room between them and the monster, and aloft in another
great bound as the magic ebbed. The second leap ended short, in a jarring
landing.
Snape staggered for a moment, clutching at the edge of the desk to steady
himself. He looked completely ashen now, with no reserves left. Across
the dungeon, the /each uisge/ was just beginning to turn, cloven hooves
raking. A stick-like figure lolled on its back. McGonagall flinched.
"Another hex like that, and you'll kill the boy." Snape's teeth were
bared in the semblance of a snarl. "And without one mark on that slick
black hide...."
His tone sharpened. The /each uisge/ had regained all four feet, ears
back, head low and beginning to snake wickedly. "Barrier spells -- which
was your best?"
"Fire...." For an instant she hardly understood the question. Hunger was
beating against her, black dark fury and need. It wanted to feed -- but
more than that, it wanted *revenge*. And she had ordered this thing
brought to the school, in the hopes of staving off a worse evil--
"Fire," she said again, groping for meaning as Severus' voice stabbed at
her, urgent now and rising. "Fire -- I was always best at /fire/...."
"Then cast /fire/ and cast it now! Before--"
Darkness rushing towards her, as if in slow motion, like the shadow of
leaping water upon the wall; like the breaking of a dam. Forty years or
more, she remembered, since she'd last used the Barriers -- since anyone
had used the Barriers -- since anyone had learned the Barriers....
Everything snapped back at once: understanding, memory, control. An old
spell, a flawed spell -- but a flaw so old that Magnus Lovell did not,
could not know it. *And the /each uisge/ could not use him to break
through*--
"/Inferno!/" Her wand leaped with half-forgotten fire; and the flames
roared up.
Something screamed, high and shrill and human. For a moment, heart
twisting, she thought it was the boy. Then the creature screamed again,
and she heard it for what it was.
Not human agony, but *fury*, pealing so high that the very heat of the
flame-wall seemed to flicker. For an instant, eyes screwed tight against
the white hot burning, she thought she saw the brightness dim, as if the
shadow of dark water had seeped through the Barrier itself. But the
element held; and the scream died away to a yammering howl, and at last
to a low, bubbling menace.
She let out a long breath she didn't even remember taking, and gave her
colleague a somewhat shaky smile. "Schoolgirl stuff; but it should gain
us a breathing-space, at least." The /fire/-Barrier stretched from side
to side of the room, lapping at the vaulting overhead in a wall of pure
elemental force.
She remembered drilling at it even now, as a child in Defence Against the
Dark Arts, with old Professor Ginevra rapping at her knuckles. "Wand
/straight/, child -- straight, I said--"
The Auror's first line of defence, supposedly. Wildly impressive, all but
impervious to head-on assault -- and quite, quite useless, once the
attacker stopped trying to batter his way through by brute force and
tried any of the modern charms. No-one had used the Barriers seriously in
the field since the young Arithmancer Rejewski first demonstrated how to
break them with ease, back in the days of Grindelwald.
Long before Snape's day, let alone Lovell's. She hoped, fervently, that
poor Dan Lovell hadn't seen fit to take as much interest in the history
of the Dark Arts as Severus' own unlamented parents.
"How long do you think-- ?"
"Long enough, perhaps." Supporting himself against the edge of the desk,
Snape had closed his eyes for a moment. Now he pulled himself to his
feet. "Any sixth-year student at Hogwarts has half a dozen hexes that can
break an Elemental Barrier, we both know that.... It's just a matter of
time."
From beyond the wall, the low growl rose again. Snape stirred, slightly.
"How long could you hold the spell?"
"Not indefinitely." Her voice was somewhat tart. "It's been many years,
Severus.... An hour, maybe -- before I collapse."
"We won't need that long." A sour curl of the lip. "And I very much doubt
that we'll get it."
As did she. Minerva sighed, keeping her wand trained firmly on the
protective wall. Behind her, she heard the sound of Snape's soft steps
receding towards his office, followed by half-heard movements from
inside. There was the muffled clank of a cauldron.
The empty room flickered, lit by the glow of the Barrier. Now, if ever,
Minerva reflected ruefully, thinking of the doorway at her back, some of
Severus' sealing spells would come in handy.... But she'd fought enough
Dark Magic in her time to know that half a dungeon's width of clear
ground was an advantage not to be lightly thrown away; and with spells of
that nature she was not sure that Severus could any longer afford either
the time or the power needed to set them.
Already, the centre of the flame had dimmed for a second time, sinking
down almost halfway to the ground before regaining its force, as the
/each uisge/ -- easier to think of it so; easier to forget Lovell's
voice, Lovell's hands -- sent yet another fire-charm questing against the
Barrier's heart. No screams of rage now. Only the murmur of magic beyond
the wall, and the steady, increasing drain on her own strength.
"It's almost through already," Snape said softly at her elbow, returning.
"Those aren't random charms. It knows *what* it's doing, and it knows
*why*--"
There were smears of cobweb on the shoulder of his robes, and the vial in
his hands was furred with dust, with dark glass beneath, where his touch
had brushed it free. "Take this; it's the last of what I had in store.
Not enough there to kill -- but it might be enough to teach the creature
a taste of fear."
He must have misinterpreted her expression. The harsh look on his face
twisted a little further. "Oh, don't worry, Professor -- it's quite
legal, if that's what troubles your conscience. The Ministry permits a
store of Anhydraserum for medical purposes...and as Madam Pomfrey will
assure you, our Professor Sprout is a martyr to water on the knee."
He thrust the vial into her free hand and swung round, staring at the
wavering Barrier. "I need more *time*." It was less a plea than a demand.
"Potions can't be hurried -- and this one's lethal enough without any
added mistakes."
"I'll do my best," McGonagall told him tightly. The Barrier dimmed again,
and began to fade, and her lips thinned further. "But we may not *have*
time."
"Then make time!" Snape snapped over his shoulder -- courtesy under
stress had never been his strong point, she reminded herself through
clenched teeth -- before vanishing again in the direction of his office,
and whatever obscure activities were involved in the preparation of
Anhydraserum. Minerva McGonagall was not sure she wanted to know.
The vial between her fingers was cold as a breath from the grave. She had
seen one like it before, a feather-light bubble of glass -- in the
instant before the Death Eater, Rosier, had flung it to shatter in Dan
Lovell's eyes.
Laughing young Dan, who would never paint again. Who had never hurt a fly
in his life, but had taken up his wand and gone after the Death Eaters
who'd burned his brother alive; and come home to his wife and child on a
conjured stretcher, with his eyes seared out in a mass of scars. While
Rosier had escaped. It had been a waste -- such a waste....
/"Teach him a taste of fear--"/ She knew, now, where she'd heard those
words before. On the lips of the man who had been Severus Snape's closest
crony at school. The man who'd used Desiccating Potion to cripple Magnus'
own father.
Every Slytherin of that year had been lost to Voldemort; only one had
ever returned. Snape had never spoken of it. But it was his information,
later, that had brought down Rosier and the rest.
She would *not* lose another student to the Dark--
A sudden wrench, as the Barrier ebbed abruptly to nothing more than a
heatwave shimmer in the air. Then died, as the counter-charm slid neatly
in to cut it off.
Minerva's wand flew upwards as if a tether had snapped, and despite
herself she gasped. It was like being slapped across the face with raw
power. No sixth-year charm had any right to cut off a spell as brutally
as that. She didn't even *dare* think how much strength that thing must
have been leeching, these last few days -- from Snape -- from Lovell--
She should never, never have taken the risk.
"Severus--" She flung up the /ice/-spell as the /each uisge/ slid forward
between the desks, open jaws leering in mockery. An /ice/-Barrier wasn't
going to hold it for more than a second or two, not now that it had
worked out how to break the first.
"*Severus*!"
The crystalline wall of cold ended as abruptly as its predecessor, in a
fading sparkle of ice-blue dust, and she bit her lip. If Severus were not
ready *soon*--
She sent out a shower of urgent hexes that should at least have slowed
the creature down. High on its back, the puppet-figure of the boy jerked
and shuddered as every spell struck home; but the /each uisge/'s own
limbs never even faltered. It flowed forward with predator's grace and a
terrible, blurring speed that ate up the ground between them, and there
was nothing, nothing she could throw at it.
Kill Lovell now, for the sake of the school -- even if she could bring
herself to do it -- and in the next moment the creature would take her or
Snape. Either would be enough. Even the Unspeakables couldn't stand
against a water-horse riding a fully trained wizard's mind.
She raised her wand, with a dry sob of breath. Bring down the roof --
bury them all--
And then the boy's dead black eyes were staring down onto her out of the
past. It was Catriona reaching out, Catriona on the creature's back, the
mirthless hungry grin distorting her sister's face....
Only a tiny whimper broke from Professor McGonagall's throat as the /each
uisge/ sank its first bite into her shoulder. It was the sound, not of
pain, but of a small child's uncomprehending fear.
Ron D
On 5-Mar-2003, Sky Rider <od...@cyberscriber.com> wrote:
>
> But.... where is chapter 6??
>
> I've been looking - can't see it anywhere :((((
>
>
>
>
> --
>
> Skyrider
>
> Visit the Online Dictionary of Playground Slang,
> and leave *your* favourites!
> http://www.odps.org
I'm afraid you're right. I didn't get it on my server either.......
Ron D.
Earwax
wrote:
>
>On 5-Mar-2003, Sky Rider <od...@cyberscriber.com> wrote:
>
>>
>> But.... where is chapter 6??
>>
>> I've been looking - can't see it anywhere :((((
>>
>I'm afraid you're right. I didn't get it on my server either.......
>
>Ron D.
part 6 just showed up on attbi right now ( well after 7 & 8 )
Ron D
Igenlode
Thanks...
Ron D.
Sky Rider
did something a little strange and wrote:
>> On 5-Mar-2003, Sky Rider <od...@cyberscriber.com> wrote:
>> > But.... where is chapter 6??
>> > I've been looking - can't see it anywhere :((((
>> I'm afraid you're right. I didn't get it on my server either.......
>Igenlode
>Thanks...
seconded..... great story!! :))
Igenlode Wordsmith
> >"Besides," he added cheerfully a minute or two later, through a mouthful
> >of cocoa, "l
>
> wouldn't it have gotten all over?
>
Ouch. No, I really don't want to leave readers with the image of
Dumbledore spraying his drink all over the room :-)
What he is *doing* is talking with the mug held up to his mouth:
"Besides" (sip, swallow, exhale) "learning is the one thing[...]"
(another sip, deep swallow, twinkle)
Would 'around a mouthful of cocoa' sound better, or does that come
across with the same connotations?
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
* Ain't never gonna stop the rain by complainin'... *
Michelle Smith
...as he rose the cup to his lips
Igenlode Wordsmith
No effort was made to verify the identity of the sender.
--------------------------------------------------------
On 5 Mar 2003 Ron D wrote:
> On 5-Mar-2003, Sky Rider <od...@cyberscriber.com> wrote:
>
> > But.... where is chapter 6??
> >
> > I've been looking - can't see it anywhere :((((
>
> I'm afraid you're right. I didn't get it on my server either.......
>
Sorry, chaps. You *do* have my attention - it's just that it takes
rather a long time for me to hear about it :-(
I gather the chapter arrived in the end - I can certainly see it. To be
honest, I'm not sure it's much short of a miracle that all the parts
arrived at all, let alone within an hour or so of in the right order!
I've lost at least one other outgoing message in the interrim...
This is a beta-version, although if no-one spots any major howlers (not
Howlers!) it will end up being substantially the same as the final
thing. I shall be asking for help on specific points later, when I've
got my mind together a bit more.
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
careen (archaic): clean a ship's hull - career: travel wildly out of control
Igenlode Wordsmith
> >
> >On 4 Mar 2003 Michelle Smith wrote:
> >
> >> >"Besides," he added cheerfully a minute or two later, through a mouthful
> >> >of cocoa, "l
> >>
> >> wouldn't it have gotten all over?
> >>
> >Ouch. No, I really don't want to leave readers with the image of
> >Dumbledore spraying his drink all over the room :-)
> >
> >What he is *doing* is talking with the mug held up to his mouth:
> >"Besides" (sip, swallow, exhale) "learning is the one thing[...]"
> >(another sip, deep swallow, twinkle)
> >
> >Would 'around a mouthful of cocoa' sound better, or does that come
> >across with the same connotations?
> ...over the rim of his cup
>
> ...as he rose the cup to his lips
>
Mmmm...no. Clumsy...
I know. How about '*between* mouthfuls of cocoa'? :-)
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
Never surrender - never give up!
Richard Eney
Sky Rider <od...@cyberscriber.com> wrote:
>seconded..... great story!! :))
Well written, yes.
Now I'd like to see you write something of your own,
so it could be published.
=Tamar
Igenlode Wordsmith
I used to... but it was frightfully derivative :-(
http://curry.250x.com/Tower/Essarne.html
Sadly, while unpublishable, fan-fiction is at least guaranteed an audience :-/
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
* Usenet: Warning, may contain Nuts *
Igenlode Wordsmith
> Chapter 8 * * * End-game * * *
[snip]
Right. Here goes. Specific concerns that need beta-readers' input:
Generally, are there any sentences that just don't work? Phraseology
inept enough to break the suspension of disbelief and jerk the reader
back into consciousness of his own existence? In most fiction I've read,
there have been at least a couple of sentences of which I've thought
"someone really should have picked that up at an earlier stage"...
Bloopers: there are at least two known problems, the dating of
McGonagall's childhood and the location of the Ravenclaw common-room
near the dungeons, based on a misreading of 'Chamber of Secrets'.
Anything else that flat-out contradicts known canon? (I hope not; I did
reasearch most things pretty carefully, simply because that sort of
thing is so often almost impossible to fix once other parts of the plot
start depending on it...)
I'm a bit uncertain about the duration of a 'double' Potions class - I
was assuming that it was like the double Science lessons we used to have
at school, a full morning/afternoon session once a week as opposed to
the one and a half-hour sessions we had twice a week on separate days in
other subjects. However, I've come across references in the books which
suggest that 'double' refers instead to the doubling-up of Houses for
that lesson, and that the duration is an hour and a half, or only an
hour (i.e. when Harry gets taken out of double Potions for his session
with the other champions and Mr Ollivander). In that case, Snape's day,
as described, is short by several teaching periods...
* * *
Chapter 1 ('Special Consignment'):
Use of names. Snape addresses Professor McGonagall as "Minerva" twice
and refers to her once mentally by that name. This is inconsistent
both with the usage I later adopted and with observed canon to date, and
may detract from the impact in Chapter 7 when he has to use her
childhood name to drag her out of the past.
'a certain set of second-year Gryffindors' - this is, of course, the
first of a number of veiled allusions to Harry Potter!
'Each uisge' - how does one pronounce it? I'm no Gaelic scholar, and
hear it mentally as 'iugh whisky', but if anyone knows better I'd be
glad to be corrected. The 'reference' to 'Cherryh' given in the
introductory quote (from a totally fictional work of reference, I hasten
to add!) is a private joke - while the /each uisge/ is a genuine piece
of Highlands folklore, the creature I've depicted borrows heavily from
the symbiotic, telepathic 'nighthorse' species invented by C.J.Cherryh
in her novels "Rider at the Gate" and "Cloud's Rider".
"Visio Encapsulatum" - my Latin was a *very* long time ago; if anyone
can please correct this...
Free-will Potion - like all too many would-be Snape authors, I
discovered early on the limitations of a plot woven around this man's
particular talents... the best I can say is that at least I for one
didn't include a scene of him bullying Neville! Given the extensive use
of the Imperius Curse by Voldemort's supporters, and the impossibility
of establishing whether the supposed victims were really acting of their
own free will, this seemed a useful line of research, and one which
would justify the introduction into Hogwarts of a monster which itself
specialised in mind-control.
"The only risks to the school would be in the case of my gross
incompetence" - foreshadowing here; it is, in fact, the gross
incompetence of his handling of his assistant that is to provoke the
crisis, although he'll never admit it.
Unforgivable Curses ringing alarm bells in the Ministry of Magic - in
fact this doesn't seem to be the case, as we see in Book 4. But I was so
enamoured of this little speech that I decided to leave it in on the
mental justification that Snape is assuming the existence of protections
that *he* would have put in place, even though Dumbledore and McGonagall
apparently haven't, and simply cut out his next line instead: "You of
all people should know how closely this place is guarded." :-)
McGonagall's older sister: this, like the back-story of Dan and Joe
Lovell, wasn't originally planned as part of the plot at all! Snape just
came out with this line and took me *totally* by surprise...
'last year's Ravenclaw Potions class' - we don't know, and probably
won't know until Book Six, whether N.E.W.T.s reflect 'A'-level practice,
in which students drop most classes to concentrate on studying a few
subject in depth, or whether the 6th and 7th years instead are set to
study additional advanced subjects as well as the classes they chose for
their O.W.L.s. Having chosen on a whim to depict a 6th-year Ravenclaw
student as a major character, I had to make a decision one way or the
other; I went for the 'A'-level option, although I was careful not to
specify this! Thus, as can be deduced from this and other references,
Lovell isn't actually *in* any of Snape's classes this year - he dropped
Potions at the end of his fifth year.
* * *
Chapter 2 ('First Blood')
Not terribly happy with the first sentence - it's gone through three or
four incarnations already. Should perhaps be split?
"Torpeo" - again, is this suitable Latin for a Numbing Curse? Has one
actually appeared in Rowling's pages already?
The wretched 'gloves plot': this is a bit of a mess, basically because I
didn't know where the plot was going when I established this bit, so it
was just word-spinning (like the opening scene). Also because, in the
process of doing the write-up, I somehow managed to *omit* the scene
this was all leading up to - the gloves actually belong to a Ravenclaw
girl upstairs, Snape destroys one (by throwing it into the fire) before
Lovell has time to explain, Snape then calmly destroys the other, to the
boy's distress, on the grounds that *one* glove is no good to anyone -
but really in order to bait Lovell. Not quite sure how that got left
out... :-/
If the scene existed, it would fit more or less between Snape's
disparaging allusion to Lovell's earring ("the unassuming ear-ornamanet
you are so modestly sporting") and the end of that section shortly
afterwards. I did give serious thought to adding it in during the
typing-up stage; but the only real point would be to establish Snape
being gratuitously nasty to Lovell, a point I felt had been somewhat
over-laboured already. (Also, in the room as eventually written, there
isn't a fire..!) So the question becomes: should I then remove the
traces of the elaborate set-up which was to have led up to this scene?
Unfortunately, the fact that Lovell himself has been attacked by the
/each uisge/ becomes an important part of the later plot at two
separate points later on; moreover if I remove that, there is very
little left of this chapter at all :-( I could remove just the gloves
themselves (and the extra time taken to allow for the visit upstairs),
but that would achieve very little, and Snape stripping them off with
distaste is quite a nice little mental picture. In the end I felt that
it was probably a more coherent section as written (evidently my
subconscious did a good job!) than it would be if I tried either to add
in what was originally intended or to cut out all allusion to it -
however, I'm still not very happy with this chapter overall. It's
probably the weakest part of the story, although it picks up after
Lovell's departure.
Helpful suggestions for amendments here might actually be considered
seriously :-)
Ravenclaw common-room - as mentioned above, I'd taken Penelope
Clearwater's comments to Harry (as Goyle) in Book 2 to imply that the
Ravenclaw common-room was somewhere within easy reach of the dungeons.
This is probably wrong :-(
Snape's adolescent hair potion - a little incidental theory as to a
possible reason for his hair problems :-)
Potion-making requiring magical power - I'm not sure this, as written,
is entirely consistent with Chapters 6 and 7, in which Snape is seen to
have barely enough power left to perform the most simple spells, and yet
subsequently manages to create a potentially lethal potion presumably
requiring the expenditure of no considerable amount of skill - and
therefore, implied here, power. Perhaps switch over the use of 'power'
and 'talent' in the first two sentences of this paragraph to subtly
change the implications?
The noxious tendencies of mediaeval medicine the result of misunderstood
potions - another academic in-joke :-)
The Filch-scene has absolutely zero effect on the rest of the plot and
thus arguably shouldn't be in there - more word-spinning - but at least
it does 'work', as opposed to much of the rest of this lamentable excuse
for a chapter...
Repetition: there are lots of scenes where we are told that the /each
uisge/ is 'watching' from its corner. This is deliberate. a) the
repetitious formula is supposed to give the impression that Snape is
paranoid about it and b) it's used to keep its presence periodically in
the reader's mind when it isn't actually *doing* anything for large
periods of time! However, I'm worried that the constant references to
seeing only one eye come across as giving the impression that this
actually is a one-eyed monster - an equine cyclops...
Snape keeping his wand under his pillow at night - well, how paranoid do
*you* think he is? :-)
"Ventilare vegetus" - again, horrible dog-Latin. If I got it even
vaguely right, the 'vegetus' actually implies a brisk or lively breeze:
but the resonance with 'vegetation' and hence the outdoors was hoped-for
in order to chime with the dual implications of 'fresh air'. The Charm
is supposed to produce a faint floral scent; but as mentioned in the
next chapter, Snape actually prefers the quiet of the deep woods to "the
flowers that bloom in the Spring, tra-la" - so that's what his
subconscious produces :-) This *was* all spelt out explicitly at one
time - but the last few paragraphs of this chapter were very heavily
cut, greatly to their improvement.
Incidentally, I have to say that this is the only scene I've ever had to
write that takes place entirely in pitch blackness. Snape isn't afraid
of the dark...
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
* Ain't never gonna stop the rain by complainin'... *
Rebecca Webb
<Igen...@nym.alias.net> wrote:
> I used to... but it was frightfully derivative :-(
> http://curry.250x.com/Tower/Essarne.html
Reminds me a bit of the end of the GRAPES OF WRATH film, of all things.
> Sadly, while unpublishable, fan-fiction is at least guaranteed an audience :-/
I was thinking about this just last night! What a stupendous change in
the world, that peer review or editorial approval no longer limit what
people have access to. I embrace reliablity and validity, but boy, am I
glad I have access to the fanfic fruits of inspired imaginations!
Love the art, too.
RW
--
If you can't take the heat, get out of the cauldron.
Troels Forchhammer
>
> On 5 Mar 2003 Igenlode Wordsmith wrote:
>
> > Chapter 8 * * * End-game * * *
> [snip]
>
> Right. Here goes. Specific concerns that need beta-readers' input:
I have so far only had time for one reading (which I enjoyed very
much, thank you :-), but I have planned to read it carefully when
I get the time (within the next week or so).
<snip>
> Bloopers:
I marked the description of Tench as "a hulking youth with close-cropped
fair hair and hands like hams" as not directly in contradiction with, but
somehow still a bit out of key with the indication that Flint in the
finals the following year went for size rather than talent - and Tench
didn't play that game (the Slytherin chasers were Flint, Montague and
Warrington - the only unnamed player is the Slytherin keeper). From your
description of Tench he ought to have played anyway ;-)
> I'm a bit uncertain about the duration of a 'double' Potions class
[...]
> However, I've come across references in the books which suggest that
> 'double' refers instead to the doubling-up of Houses for that lesson,
I believe that all of Harry's Potions lessons are together with the
Slytherin students, and that 'double' do indeed refer to the length
(problem is to find a reference to a Potions class that certainly
_isn't_ double, but where the Slytherins are still in - I will take
a look)
<snip>
> "Visio Encapsulatum" - my Latin was a *very* long time ago; if anyone
> can please correct this...
I never had any Latin, but I've found that
<http://cawley.archives.nd.edu/cgi-bin/lookdown.pl> and
<http://cawley.archives.nd.edu/cgi-bin/lookup.pl> are a couple very
friendly pages (if you want to install a Latin dictionary you could
try <http://users.erols.com/whitaker/words.htm>).
<snip>
I will try to keep everything in my mind (or at least on my display ;-)
when I read the story more carefully - though of course my possible
linguistic comments will be from the POV of a non-native English
speaker ...
--
______ | Troels Forchhammer
___/L_][_/(__ | Valid mail is t.forch(a)mail.dk
(___{__{__{___7 |
`(_)------(_)-' | My other .sig is a Rolls ...
Richard Eney
>> Now I'd like to see you write something of your own,
>> so it could be published.
>>
>I used to... but it was frightfully derivative :-(
>http://curry.250x.com/Tower/Essarne.html
>
>Sadly, while unpublishable, fan-fiction is at least guaranteed an audience :-/
I think you could rework this particular fanfic to be entirely
un-Potter-related. The story is of a bitter, frustrated
alchemist working on a new formula; he borrows an apprentice and has
to save said apprentice from a typical apprentice-level mistake.
Just come up with a few non-HP world references. The other-students
part could be from a mundane job as a chemistry prof, or from a
school in a fantasy universe that is unconnected with ours.
(There are _lots_ of literary examples of pre-JKR magical schools.)
=Tamar
Richard Eney
Rebecca Webb <web...@mrs.umn.edu> wrote:
><Igen...@nym.alias.net> wrote:
<snip>
>> Sadly, while unpublishable, fan-fiction is at least guaranteed an
>> audience :-/
>
>I was thinking about this just last night! What a stupendous change in
>the world, that peer review or editorial approval no longer limit what
>people have access to. I embrace reliablity and validity, but boy, am I
>glad I have access to the fanfic fruits of inspired imaginations!
Fanfic predates the Internet... it used to be mimeographed and sent to
subscribers who contacted each other through letter columns. There's
still a fair amount of paper-product fanfic. But yes, it's easier now,
and cheaper, since the readers pay the "postage" for internet connections.
=Tamar
Igenlode Wordsmith
No effort was made to verify the identity of the sender.
--------------------------------------------------------
{repost}
On 5 Mar 2003 Igenlode Wordsmith wrote:
> Chapter 8 * * * End-game * * *
[snip]
Right. Here goes. Specific concerns that need beta-readers' input:
Generally, are there any sentences that just don't work? Phraseology
inept enough to break the suspension of disbelief and jerk the reader
back into consciousness of his own existence? In most fiction I've read,
there have been at least a couple of sentences of which I've thought
"someone really should have picked that up at an earlier stage"...
Bloopers: there are at least two known problems, the dating of
McGonagall's childhood and the location of the Ravenclaw common-room
near the dungeons, based on a misreading of 'Chamber of Secrets'.
Anything else that flat-out contradicts known canon? (I hope not; I did
reasearch most things pretty carefully, simply because that sort of
thing is so often almost impossible to fix once other parts of the plot
start depending on it...)
I'm a bit uncertain about the duration of a 'double' Potions class - I
was assuming that it was like the double Science lessons we used to have
at school, a full morning/afternoon session once a week as opposed to
the one and a half-hour sessions we had twice a week on separate days in
other subjects. However, I've come across references in the books which
suggest that 'double' refers instead to the doubling-up of Houses for
that lesson, and that the duration is an hour and a half, or only an
hour (i.e. when Harry gets taken out of double Potions for his session
with the other champions and Mr Ollivander). In that case, Snape's day,
as described, is short by several teaching periods...
* * *
Chapter 1 ('Special Consignment'):
Use of names. Snape addresses Professor McGonagall as "Minerva" twice
and refers to her once mentally by that name. This is inconsistent
both with the usage I later adopted and with observed canon to date, and
may detract from the impact in Chapter 7 when he has to use her
childhood name to drag her out of the past.
'a certain set of second-year Gryffindors' - this is, of course, the
first of a number of veiled allusions to Harry Potter!
'Each uisge' - how does one pronounce it? I'm no Gaelic scholar, and
hear it mentally as 'iugh whisky', but if anyone knows better I'd be
glad to be corrected. The 'reference' to 'Cherryh' given in the
introductory quote (from a totally fictional work of reference, I hasten
to add!) is a private joke - while the /each uisge/ is a genuine piece
of Highlands folklore, the creature I've depicted borrows heavily from
the symbiotic, telepathic 'nighthorse' species invented by C.J.Cherryh
in her novels "Rider at the Gate" and "Cloud's Rider".
"Visio Encapsulatum" - my Latin was a *very* long time ago; if anyone
can please correct this...
Free-will Potion - like all too many would-be Snape authors, I
of the dark and doesn't bother to kindle a light when he wakes up...
Igenlode Wordsmith
> Right. Here goes. Specific concerns that need beta-readers' input:
(part 2 - although part 1 never actually seems to have appeared...)
* * *
Chapter 3 ('Shadows of the Past'):
I'm pretty much satisfied with this one, on the whole. I still think
it's the best chapter :-) I always did have a weakness for flash-backs.
(Oh, and a becunia is a bezoar-bearing creature of the South Seas...
according to Drake's friend Hawkins, anyway.)
No real plot development here, it's all fan-theories about Snape's past.
Setting Snape up to appear completely paranoid at the end, since he has
absolutely no evidence that his guilty conscience has anything to do
with the captive /each uisge/, which has been made out to be pathetic
and harmless after that big build-up in Ch.1.
He's right, of course. In fact, the original theme of this story was
essentially Snape being Right but Repulsive, while the other characters
are Wrong but Wromantic. He's only right in his own sphere of
competence, though...
* * *
Chapter 4 ('Student Unrest'):
Some rather heavy-handed psychotherapy humour in the library scene - not
sure how well that works if you're not familiar with the 'other'
Adler...
Clocks - I was modelling my library clock on Dumbledore's weird watch
and the Weasleys' clock. Judging by the recent thread on Harry's watch,
the Hogwarts clocks are actually more 'normal' :-(
I tried to reuse characters where possible simply in order to avoid
having to make up endless new faces; thus Snape takes a fourth-year
class in the morning and re-encounters Ava Franklin and a fifth-year
class in the afternoon, re-encountering Tench. I'm rather pleased with
Tench :-) He and I have absolutely nothing in common, making his POV a
real challenge to write.
Rather a lot of adjectives in the beginning of this lesson scene.
'Curious' Gryffindors could go, for a start... 'elementary' first-year
mistake... any other candidates obviously verging on tautology here?
Snape not eating - like the 'gloves plot', this was a plot strand that
was a prominent part of the original draft, had careful clues planted
leading up to it, and yet ultimately more or less lost its culminating
scene. What's *supposed* to be happening is that the /each uisge/ is
influencing him to act irrationally - 'punishing' him for not feeding it
by compelling him to starve himself. He is supposed to be feeling *its*
hunger, a dangerous signal that he is further under its influence than
he realises - and he is supposed abruptly to recognise this when it
finds prey and he finds that he has suddenly stopped feeling hungry. It
just doesn't come across at all, does it? :-(
Missing Quidditch practice - this is basically just present to pad out
the chapter, timing-wise, and provide a role for Tench. It has a vague
excuse to exist in the form of a set-up for the last chapter. Otherwise,
gratuitous Snape nastiness.
But we need some of that to cloak Snape's outburst to Lovell, which is
*not* unjustified but needs to appear so :-)
* * *
Chapter 5 ('Resistance'):
This is /not/ a coming-of-age story... but it's set up to appear like
one. Switch into Lovell's viewpoint here - we need to know what's going
on inside his head (and to mislead the reader).
"Professor McGonagall, her head buried in her hands, had made a queer
choking noise. It might have been a sob." It *is* obvious that she's
laughing, not crying, here isn't it?
'disastrous Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson' - the sixth years have
been starting lessons on the Imperius Curse... under the tutelage of
Professor Lockhart :-#
Not sure if Lockhart ought to be mentioned somewhere in order to
establish the date more clearly: he was originally one of the major
reasons Snape and McGonagall decide to handle the creature themselves,
since neither of them has the slightest intention of allowing the
supposed Dark Arts specialist anywhere near it. He just didn't seem to
fit in anywhere when I came to write it down.
'irresponsible rumours' - we're right at the beginning of Book 2 and as
far as anyone knows Voldemort's forces, if any, are no real threat yet.
I wasn't clear on how much the older pupils are supposed to know about
the previous year's events.
Again, Snape is being set up to look unreasonable and paranoid. By the
end of the chapter, the reader is supposed to be positively willing
Lovell to 'come of age' and rebel. Thus what happens is as much our
fault as it is his...
Not happy with the last few paragraphs. This is a *very important*
section which turns everything on its head - is it sufficiently clear
(or at all clear!) what has actually happened? :-(
* * *
Chapter 6 ('Beyond the Barriers'):
"The sick wash of relief was almost more than she could bear. Not, after all,
to be responsible for the death of a student. Not to have to break that
news...." Not happy with this paragraph. Over-indulgent?
The plot demands, of course, that they go to deal with the creature
themselves. Had some trouble trying to justify this. Snape basically
ends up using emotional blackmail... not consciously, I'll give him
that...
Dodgy geography in the dungeons, I think. I'm not clear where Snape's
office is in relation to his classroom and carefully left that blurred;
but the plot demands that they have to pass the /each uisge/ to get to
the office, therefore it must be a room leading off (or in a corridor
leading off) the convenient 'disused dungeon' I've hypothesised. I don't
think this agrees with the books - at the very least, there must be a
'normal' route from the foot of the stairs which they really should have
used! :-(
Barrier spells - too long, really. Not quite sure how I can improve
this. Oh, I suppose it'll do.
Dan Lovell blinded - interesting, in that I honestly *didn't know* about
this until the moment it 'happened', despite several earlier references
that now look like foreshadowing :-) Oh, I knew that Dessicating Potion
was a Death Eater thing, and that Lovell's family had suffered in the
war, but I never put the two together until I'd already started the
sentence.
"Every Slytherin of that year had been lost to Voldemort" - would
McGonagall use the name, even to herself? She is unwilling to do so at
the start of Book 1...
* * *
Chapter 7 ('Beyond the Barriers'):
Oh dear. This chapter really was written as terribly Edwardian, from the
button-boots and long skirts to the servants and side-whiskers...
Not sure how, if at all, I can shift it to the Thirties.
Quite a nice job on slanting it to a small child's POV, I think.
When we snap back to the present - is it clear that the interjected
calls came from Snape?
Handy glass shards - Snape had some kind of potion in an inner pocket,
which must have been broken in his fall. Possibly he is carrying
Veritaserum even at this stage.
Slightly awkward at the end of this scene - too much material from the
draft to work in, with strained segues between. Not sure how it can be
smoothed further. "Few women had deserved their fate more richly than
Verilla -- and few could have been mourned less. She glanced back, at
the closed face of Verilla's own son, and saw nothing there but sour
memory; and something else.
"Professor McGonagall frowned, remembering him leaning awkwardly to
retrieve her wand. The way he held himself.... 'Severus, what's wrong
with your arm?'" - particularly awkward transition. Worked in my head,
looks a bit queer on paper :-(
McGonagall is assuming blame that isn't really hers - Snape, as we see
later, is busy mentally shuffling off all blame onto other people :-0
* * *
Chapter 8 ('End-game'):
Oh, I had fun with this, especially the Quidditch commentary :-) Funny to
think I wasn't initially certain about including the coda at all...
A totally new challenge, to include an alternative sequence of events
to parallel a match already described in detail from Harry's POV - while
keeping Harry very much in the background.
The Twist - very pleased with this. "I was wondering if you recalled the
outcome of a certain discussion" - Snape can certainly be forgiven for
reading this as a veiled threat, under the circumstances, yet it's
natural enough for Dumbledore to use it as an introduction to stating
that he has changed his mind about that outcome...
Too many adjectives again in these paragraphs?
"saintly, faintly-pained" - deliberate assonance. Too much?
I think we can assume that Dumbledore's arrival at the scene of the
accident is delayed by long enough to allow Lockhart to do his worst :-)
Like Rowling, I knew a long time in advance what the last words of this
story were going to be; and in my case, took some care to avoid
introducing them earlier. Not *entirely* sure it actually makes sense by
the time we get there. :-( It really isn't reasonable for even Snape to
blame Harry at this point for the fact that he has just fallen into a
deep pit of his own digging.
Unfortunately, we know in Book 4 that there *is* no means to counteract
the Imperius Curse - so I had to frustrate Snape's ambitions somehow.
Not sure this was exactly the kindest way of doing it :-* Does it work?
Ksnidget
<Use-Author-Supplied-Address-Header@[127.1]> writes:
>(part 2 - although part 1 never actually seems to have appeared...)
Just so you know it did show up on my newsfeed ^_^
K.
Tennant Stuart
Igenlode Wordsmith <Use-Author-Supplied-Address-Header@[127.1]> wrote:
> Part 1 never actually seems to have appeared.
I got it.
> Chapter 7 really was written as terribly Edwardian, from the
> button-boots and long skirts to the servants and side-whiskers.
> Not sure how, if at all, I can shift it to the Thirties.
Leave it as Edwardian, there are no canon references to Minerva's age.
> Unfortunately, we know in Book 4 that there *is* no means to
> counteract the Imperius Curse
Pardon? Harry resists Imperius in Book 4.
Tennant Stuart
--
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Richard Eney
Igenlode Wordsmith <Igen...@nym.alias.net> wrote:
<snip>
>(part 2 - although part 1 never actually seems to have appeared...)
It showed up here, but it did take a while.
>* * *
>Clocks - I was modelling my library clock on Dumbledore's weird watch
>and the Weasleys' clock. Judging by the recent thread on Harry's watch,
>the Hogwarts clocks are actually more 'normal' :-(
The ones in the common room are normal. The library clock might be a bit
different.
>I tried to reuse characters where possible simply in order to avoid
>having to make up endless new faces; thus Snape takes a fourth-year
>class in the morning and re-encounters Ava Franklin and a fifth-year
>class in the afternoon, re-encountering Tench.
This is actually good, because we get to see him dealing with them both
in the classroom as well as when there are no witnesses around.
>Rather a lot of adjectives in the beginning of this lesson scene.
>'Curious' Gryffindors could go, for a start... 'elementary' first-year
>mistake... any other candidates obviously verging on tautology here?
'Curious' in the sense of 'nosy'?
The newspaper editor's standard is to cut out all adjectives and see
whether you notice any real difference in the meaning of the sentence.
Still, some adjectives are helpful.
>Snape not eating
<snip>
>What's *supposed* to be happening is that the /each uisge/ is
>influencing him to act irrationally - 'punishing' him for not feeding it
>by compelling him to starve himself. He is supposed to be feeling *its*
>hunger, a dangerous signal that he is further under its influence than
>he realises - and he is supposed abruptly to recognise this when it
>finds prey and he finds that he has suddenly stopped feeling hungry. It
>just doesn't come across at all, does it? :-(
It came across to me quite clearly. I also got the feeling that he
disliked realizing it and was torn between acknowledging the problem
and being embarassed that he had been influenced, so not wanting to
acknowledge it. He seems to be generally honest with himself about the
harsher realities, such as having to admit not only to Poppy Pomfret but
to the medical wizardry journal that his improved potion is unstable
after all. (Still useful in cases where you need a faster healing, but
requires more frequent replacement of stock.)
>"Professor McGonagall, her head buried in her hands, had made a queer
>choking noise. It might have been a sob." It *is* obvious that she's
>laughing, not crying, here isn't it?
Yes. :-)
>'disastrous Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson' - the sixth years have
>been starting lessons on the Imperius Curse... under the tutelage of
>Professor Lockhart :-#
>Not sure if Lockhart ought to be mentioned somewhere in order to
>establish the date more clearly: he was originally one of the major
>reasons Snape and McGonagall decide to handle the creature themselves,
>since neither of them has the slightest intention of allowing the
>supposed Dark Arts specialist anywhere near it. He just didn't seem to
>fit in anywhere when I came to write it down.
Oh, I hadn't caught on to that at all. Reading too fast, I suppose.
>Chapter 6 ('Beyond the Barriers'):
>"The sick wash of relief was almost more than she could bear. Not, after
>all to be responsible for the death of a student. Not to have to break
>that news...." Not happy with this paragraph. Over-indulgent?
No more than JKR herself is, IMO. McGonagall does have more obvious
'human' emotions than Snape.
>Dodgy geography in the dungeons, I think. I'm not clear where Snape's
>office is in relation to his classroom and carefully left that blurred;
I'm not sure JKR knows either; she's carefully kept the idea that not only
the stairs but occasionally the rooms move, to get around any problems
with her placement of rooms in the castle. I believe I've read a hint to
that effect in one of her interviews.
>but the plot demands that they have to pass the /each uisge/ to get to
>the office, therefore it must be a room leading off (or in a corridor
>leading off) the convenient 'disused dungeon' I've hypothesised. I don't
>think this agrees with the books - at the very least, there must be a
>'normal' route from the foot of the stairs which they really should have
>used! :-(
>"Every Slytherin of that year had been lost to Voldemort" - would
>McGonagall use the name, even to herself? She is unwilling to do so at
>the start of Book 1...
This is the second year, though, and at the end of Book 1 Voldy was
disembodied again; not only that, having read the later ones, I believe
that he had left the UK again and was hiding in a forest on the continent
at the time. She might _think_ it at that point.
>* * *
>Chapter 7 ('Beyond the Barriers'):
>
>Oh dear. This chapter really was written as terribly Edwardian, from the
>button-boots and long skirts to the servants and side-whiskers...
>
>Not sure how, if at all, I can shift it to the Thirties.
There were still some servants in the Thirties, and side-whiskers were
not unknown then. Skirts had gone long again then, too. Change the
button-boots; I'm pretty sure they went out by the mid-twenties.
>McGonagall is assuming blame that isn't really hers - Snape, as we see
>later, is busy mentally shuffling off all blame onto other people :-0
An interesting contrast with his comparative honesty when it comes to a
flawed potion. Perhaps it's because the potions will be tracked back to
him, and he can only shuffle off blame for things that are less overtly
traceable to him.
>Chapter 8 ('End-game'):
>Like Rowling, I knew a long time in advance what the last words of this
>story were going to be; and in my case, took some care to avoid
>introducing them earlier. Not *entirely* sure it actually makes sense by
>the time we get there. :-( It really isn't reasonable for even Snape to
>blame Harry at this point for the fact that he has just fallen into a
>deep pit of his own digging.
What he's blaming Harry for is distracting Dumbledore just when Snape
_might_ have retrieved the situation and gotten the permission after all;
just as he was about to try, Dumbledore was called away by the accident.
It's the same as blaming the telemarketer for calling in the middle of a
sensitive conversation and destroying the ambience.
>Unfortunately, we know in Book 4 that there *is* no means to counteract
>the Imperius Curse - so I had to frustrate Snape's ambitions somehow.
>Not sure this was exactly the kindest way of doing it :-* Does it work?
I'm not so sure there is no way to counteract the Imperius. After all,
Harry learns to resist it! If you are strongly magical, talented,
practiced, and strong-minded (i.e., if you're Dumbledore or Harry), you
can resist it. The potion that Snape tried at first was enough to give a
wimp a bit of backbone; if the more complex one had been done properly
with help from a better assistant, it might well have worked. However,
officially (in canon) there is no way known at the time of Book 4 other
than 'simple' willpower. If Snape had completed the potion successfully
it would have changed the plot of Book 4.
(On the other hand, what if Snape successfully completed it but it
turned out to have side effects that were a problem, like - oh, to borrow
an idea from Tom Holt's book, _Flying Dutch_ - severe body odor? Maybe
they still wouldn't be using it wholesale but keeping it in reserve as a
secret weapon for their most desperate agents.)
=Tamar
Igenlode Wordsmith
> In article <2003031210104...@gacracker.org>,
> Igenlode Wordsmith <Igen...@nym.alias.net> wrote:
[snip]
> >I tried to reuse characters where possible simply in order to avoid
> >having to make up endless new faces; thus Snape takes a fourth-year
> >class in the morning and re-encounters Ava Franklin and a fifth-year
> >class in the afternoon, re-encountering Tench.
>
> This is actually good, because we get to see him dealing with them both
> in the classroom as well as when there are no witnesses around.
Poor Ava. She's actually a rather sweet and motherly type, which is what
gets right up Snape's nose, of course...
>
> >Rather a lot of adjectives in the beginning of this lesson scene.
> >'Curious' Gryffindors could go, for a start... 'elementary' first-year
> >mistake... any other candidates obviously verging on tautology here?
>
> 'Curious' in the sense of 'nosy'?
Yes; and if that's not evident from the context, that particular example
definitely needs to go!
>
> The newspaper editor's standard is to cut out all adjectives and see
> whether you notice any real difference in the meaning of the sentence.
> Still, some adjectives are helpful.
I used to suffer from a severe addiction to adverbs of speech; I made a
deliberate choice to wean myself off that by compensating with
adjectives instead. I think I'm now more or less 'clean', but a
certain amount of the adjective-therapy inevitably stuck... as an ironic
result, it's something I've become morbidly conscious of in the writing
of others :-/
>
> >Snape not eating
[snip]
> >It just doesn't come across at all, does it? :-(
>
> It came across to me quite clearly. I also got the feeling that he
> disliked realizing it and was torn between acknowledging the problem
> and being embarrassed that he had been influenced, so not wanting to
> acknowledge it.
Exactly; one of the things he likes to pride himself in is his vaunted
independence. Something of a cross between the Miller of Dee and the Cat
who Walked by Himself, methinks :-)
That's one reason why he underestimates the risk in the first place. He
knows that prolonged exposure to the presence of the /each uisge/ is
likely to lead to a degree of subjection to its influence; but he
assumes that his own strength of will - and let's face it, Snape is
possibly one of the most bloody-minded individuals at Hogwarts! - can
render him immune. It turns out to be a lot more of a strain than he'd
bargained for. When Lovell sees him as "a man who'd spent the last few
days fighting off the Imperius curse", in truth it's not so far wide of
the mark.
Oh well, I'm very relieved that came across. Relieved - and gratified...I
really thought that was one of the plot-strands that had got lost in the
transition from vision to page.
> He seems to be generally honest with himself about the harsher
> realities, such as having to admit not only to Poppy Pomfrey but to the
> medical wizardry journal that his improved potion is unstable after all.
> (Still useful in cases where you need a faster healing, but requires more
> frequent replacement of stock.)
Yes; 'my' Snape is essentially a scientist, led into dark byways by the
greed for knowledge - what I think of as the Mengele-theory. Humanity
can - and will - fail you, and may be treated upon that pre-emptive
assumption; but the Art cannot be deceived or betrayed. That was
Voldemort's unacceptable crime, in his eyes: not to care nothing for
humanity, but to care nothing for Snape's own work in itself.
In that, at least, our Potions master is a man after Troels' own
heart :-)
[snip]
> >'disastrous Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson' - the sixth years have
> >been starting lessons on the Imperius Curse... under the tutelage of
> >Professor Lockhart :-#
[snip]
>
> Oh, I hadn't caught on to that at all. Reading too fast, I suppose.
You weren't expected to :-)
The author should *always* know more about the background of events
mentioned than the reader - for example, in this version, Snape's
parents died in a rather gruesome magical accident when a Dark spell
they were playing with went badly wrong, and everybody said it served
them right. Snape, who was about fifteen at the time, reckoned anyone
who tried that particular spell without being certain they could handle
the side-effects only got what they deserved - 'think of it as evolution
in action'. Very little love lost there in any case, as you'll have
gathered.
And Uncle Jamie died in the First World War... Minerva McGonagall has
a whole tribe of cousins left on her mother's side, though; it was a big
family.
What I *don't* know is who the 'we' is that Snape uses when speaking of
his childhood - some kind of fostering arrangement his parents had
to take another family's children, I have a feeling. I don't think he
was talking about siblings.... Characters /will/ just come out with
these things without consulting the author first :-(
>
> >Chapter 6 ('Beyond the Barriers'):
>
> >"The sick wash of relief was almost more than she could bear. Not, after
> >all to be responsible for the death of a student. Not to have to break
> >that news...." Not happy with this paragraph. Over-indulgent?
>
> No more than JKR herself is, IMO. McGonagall does have more obvious
> 'human' emotions than Snape.
Deliberately, yes. (And when she asks "where is it - where is... is he?"
she is asking after what she assumes is going to be a body...) She has
an active - possibly over-active - conscience, and scruples. That's what
Snape is alluding to by 'careless' in their final scene, incidentally -
occasionally he has allowed himself to succumb to human instincts he
prefers not to acknowledge, as a rule, and taken hurt thereby.
Hmmm... still not happy with it. Not really sure what to do about it,
either.
>
> >Dodgy geography in the dungeons, I think. I'm not clear where Snape's
> >office is in relation to his classroom and carefully left that blurred;
>
> I'm not sure JKR knows either; she's carefully kept the idea that not only
> the stairs but occasionally the rooms move, to get around any problems
> with her placement of rooms in the castle. I believe I've read a hint to
> that effect in one of her interviews.
A handy trick, when one can invent a setting to get away with it!
> >"Every Slytherin of that year had been lost to Voldemort" - would
> >McGonagall use the name, even to herself? She is unwilling to do so at
> >the start of Book 1...
>
> This is the second year, though, and at the end of Book 1 Voldy was
> disembodied again; not only that, having read the later ones, I believe
> that he had left the UK again and was hiding in a forest on the continent
> at the time. She might _think_ it at that point.
That'll do as a justification, in my book :-) (It really needs to be
'Voldemort' in this phrase, because I'm echoing it later, in a paragraph
where I've already used "He Who Must Not Be Named" at the start.)
>
> >* * *
> >Chapter 7 ('Beyond the Barriers'):
> >
> >Oh dear. This chapter really was written as terribly Edwardian, from the
> >button-boots and long skirts to the servants and side-whiskers...
> >
> >Not sure how, if at all, I can shift it to the Thirties.
>
> There were still some servants in the Thirties, and side-whiskers were
> not unknown then. Skirts had gone long again then, too. Change the
> button-boots; I'm pretty sure they went out by the mid-twenties.
Sandshoes is what children would be wearing, in that context, in the
Thirties.
I think I'll take Tennant's advice, though, and leave it; it's *not*
contradicted by anything in canon...
>
> >McGonagall is assuming blame that isn't really hers - Snape, as we see
> >later, is busy mentally shuffling off all blame onto other people :-0
>
> An interesting contrast with his comparative honesty when it comes to a
> flawed potion. Perhaps it's because the potions will be tracked back to
> him, and he can only shuffle off blame for things that are less overtly
> traceable to him.
No, it's more psychologically complicated than that. He takes
responsibility for potions - he doesn't take responsibility for people.
Potions don't have minds of their own, and hurt feelings, and a habit of
blaming *you*. Snape believes in pre-emptive self-defence.
[snip]
> >It really isn't reasonable for even Snape to blame Harry at this point for
> >the fact that he has just fallen into a deep pit of his own digging.
>
> What he's blaming Harry for is distracting Dumbledore just when Snape
> _might_ have retrieved the situation and gotten the permission after all;
> just as he was about to try, Dumbledore was called away by the accident.
> It's the same as blaming the telemarketer for calling in the middle of a
> sensitive conversation and destroying the ambience.
Exactly! It's that wretched Potter boy grandstanding and getting all the
attention *again*...
>
> >Unfortunately, we know in Book 4 that there *is* no means to counteract
> >the Imperius Curse -
[snip]
> I'm not so sure there is no way to counteract the Imperius. After all,
> Harry learns to resist it! If you are strongly magical, talented,
> practiced, and strong-minded (i.e., if you're Dumbledore or Harry), you
> can resist it.
Yes; sorry, bad phrasing. No recognised *artificial* means to counteract
the curse, let alone any way to 'vaccinate' the vulnerable against it or
to nullify its effect on those suspected of already being under the
influence (both of which Snape was working towards).
> The potion that Snape tried at first was enough to give a wimp a bit of
> backbone; if the more complex one had been done properly with help from a
> better assistant, it might well have worked.
A little severe on poor Lovell there :-)
He's academically very talented, and very sweet-natured with it; he's
one of these people who will never throw friends out of his room in the
evening until he literally can't keep his eyes open any more, even if he
has an exam to get up for the next morning. He does have an almost
morbid sensitivity to censure, especially from those in authority over
him, but he's a thoroughly nice boy. That's why the /each uisge/ chooses
that particular route - that of *pity* - to get to him.
He's actually a very good assistant - competent and meticulous without
being assertive, which is why Snape originally asked for him. The potion
*would have worked*, if they had ever got to the heart's-blood stage.
Unfortunately they lost their vital experimental animal, and there was
no way, after what happened, that McGonagall would ever agree to trying
again. Snape realises this, which is why he doesn't even attempt to
argue - and frankly, after what they'd just been through, the prospect
of starting again didn't seem exactly inviting to him either.
After a few weeks, however, the human mind being what it is, he has
begun to forget the worst and convince himself that it wasn't as bad as
all that.
> If Snape had completed the potion successfully it would have changed the
> plot of Book 4.
Yes; that was my logic.
> (On the other hand, what if Snape successfully completed it but it
> turned out to have side effects that were a problem, like - oh, to borrow
> an idea from Tom Holt's book, _Flying Dutch_ - severe body odor? Maybe
> they still wouldn't be using it wholesale but keeping it in reserve as a
> secret weapon for their most desperate agents.)
>
<grin> Sounds distinctly Man From UNCLE to me :-)
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
* It takes self-confidence to be able to accept criticism *
Igenlode Wordsmith
No effort was made to verify the identity of the sender.
--------------------------------------------------------
On 11 Mar 2003 Rebecca Webb wrote:
> In article <2003031100195...@gacracker.org>,
> <Igen...@nym.alias.net> wrote:
>
>
> > I used to... but it was frightfully derivative :-(
> > http://curry.250x.com/Tower/Essarne.html
Now http://curry.250x.com/Tower/Fiction/Essarne.html - it moved just
after I wrote that :-(
>
> Reminds me a bit of the end of the GRAPES OF WRATH film, of all things.
>
I haven't seen the filmed version; I assume it must have been greatly
changed from the final scene of the novel, which would be absolutely
taboo, even in today's Hollywood - perhaps especially in today's
Hollywood. I can't even imagine any resemblance there...
Something you might find totally different, and almost original (a
spin-off of a spin-off of Dr Who!) is my 'Danik of Ruritania' short
story at http://curry.250x.com/Tower/Fiction/Chestnuts.html
This particular piece is a slightly unusual take on the swashbuckler
genre... from the point of view of the hero's sidekick's wife and
family :-)
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
Those who falter and those who fall must pay the price...
Igenlode Wordsmith
> In article <webbrl-1103...@educ2-c-rw.mrs.umn.edu>,
> Rebecca Webb <web...@mrs.umn.edu> wrote:
>
> >What a stupendous change in
> >the world, that peer review or editorial approval no longer limit what
> >people have access to. I embrace reliability and validity, but boy, am I
> >glad I have access to the fanfic fruits of inspired imaginations!
>
> Fanfic predates the Internet... it used to be mimeographed and sent to
> subscribers who contacted each other through letter columns.
Thus ensuring at least a minimum standard - to get your story into a
'zine, it had to be good enough to pass the editor (although many people
avoided this hurdle by producing their own zines, which inevitably
folded after the first issue, or occasionally two, leaving the would-be
editors with a pile of 494 unsaleable copies in the garage...)
I suppose you could say that the current situation allows all fiction to
be judged, market-fashion, on its merits, since the vast reams of dull
and inadequate rubbish glean no readers; however, they also make it very
hard to find any glints of gold among the dross. A high proportion of
published novels in the fantasy/SF genres are derivative and
shoddily-done; but until I encountered Internet fanfic I had never seen
so much bad writing so lovingly presented.
It's worth paying for the printed zines; people are even prepared to pay
for printed copies of work premiered on the 'net, since it is so much
more pleasant to read on paper. However, as far as I am aware there *is*
no printed Potter-fiction, since that would be a direct infringement of
Rowling's own copyright. It's mostly a phenomenon of dead TV series :-)
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
** Sometimes change is improvement. Sometimes it is only change. **
Igenlode Wordsmith
Interesting idea... one certainly _could_. I'm not sure it would be
satisfactory in this case; a lot of the writing depends on our knowledge of
Snape's dubious past history. Take that out, and you have a rather
mediocre action-adventure, rather than a psychological study. My
strength is in characterization and dialogue, not in plot.
But - to return to my original plaint - were I to do so, the potential
readership would instantly have been reduced a thousandfold at least.
The hit-rates on fan-fiction sites on the Internet infinitely outnumber
any interest in original characters; a Snape story 'sells', even if no
financial remuneration can result.
--
Igenlode Visit the Ivory Tower (http://curry.250x.com/Tower/)
-I never shot anybody before... -This is one hell of a time to tell me!
Igenlode Wordsmith
No effort was made to verify the identity of the sender.
--------------------------------------------------------
On 11 Mar 2003 Troels Forchhammer wrote:
> I marked the description of Tench as "a hulking youth with close-cropped
> fair hair and hands like hams" as not directly in contradiction with, but
> somehow still a bit out of key with the indication that Flint in the
> finals the following year went for size rather than talent - and Tench
> didn't play that game (the Slytherin chasers were Flint, Montague and
> Warrington - the only unnamed player is the Slytherin keeper). From your
> description of Tench he ought to have played anyway ;-)
>
Yes; I'll confess that was rather the stereotype I had in mind :-) (But
partly I was trying to write a 'Crabbe' or 'Goyle' - what must it be
like to be inside Crabbe's head, not in the way that Harry or Ron manage
it, but actually to work with that limited mind?)
I think we can assume for the sake of continuity that Tench failed his
O.W.L.s, and Snape lived up to his threat and had him removed from the
team...