“beyond wandpoint” 072a by gingerbred
Mar. 22nd, 2019 12:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 11l Tuesday - Sub-Optimally 2 Idiots and Words” Part 1
Hermione, Severus, the Bloody Baron, Minerva, Albus, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Sybill Trelawney, Sarah Sapworthy, Barrymore Beckford, Seamus, Morag MacDougal, Michael Corner, Draco, Theo, Blaise, Sunny, Romilda, Lavender, Fay, Georgina, Demelza, Kiera, Parvati, Colin, Neville, Kevin, Peeves, Filius, Call-Me-Terry Taylor, Lisa Turpin, Anthony Goldstein, Belle Chambers, Brian Bradley, Myrtle, mentioned: Fred and George, Molly, Poppy, Pomona, Eileen Snape
Originally Published: 2018-05-02 on AO3
Chapter: 072 part 1
The original version of this chapter exceeded livejournal’s maximum post length. It’s been split in two parts.
Minerva's father was a Minister, and she used to love listening to him read from the Bible. She isn't remotely religious herself. As a witch, all too often she'd pondered how many of the things called miracles were truly magic instead. That isn't conducive to faith. But one of her favourite stories was of King Solomon, who had asked for wisdom, and his sage judgment.
She's been wondering if she has any more right to take Molly to task for the Howlers than Molly had to send them. She decided the justification lay in her responding to a thoroughly inappropriate action on Molly's part, whereas Molly's actions had been a presumption. She is all too aware that Molly would also see her own sending of the Howlers as a response to precisely the same: a thoroughly inappropriate action, because that was obviously how she saw the bonding. Merlin knows, if the excerpt from the first Howler hadn't given it away, the second definitely did. That makes it tricky, as Minerva has no desire to fall victim to the same self-delusions as the Weasley matriarch.
The difference is probably the injurious nature of the Howler. Except what she means to do is also injurious, in the strictest sense of the word. Ah, but then the bonding hadn't been. The only two to suffer from that are the two involved. They've done no harm to anyone else. Molly cast the first stone.
Well Minerva means to cast another.
She feels she's hit upon a fair solution.
She will let the woman's own children decide.
That's not exactly an accurate description, in as much as they won't be in full possession of the facts, but she has in her hand an owl order for a Weasley's Wheeze and a Galleon to pay for it. She knows all too well that they send out their Potions labelled innocuously as Cold Remedies and such like. She's requested a Silencing Syrup be sent to the woman labelled as a bespoke tonic for a sore throat. After those two Howlers, Merlin knows the witch must have one.
As she sees it, Fred and George will know full well what will happen to their mother if she takes it. They could always refuse Minerva's anonymous custom. If Molly had raised her children anything like properly, they would do just that.
Minerva is practically certain they won't.
As the boys disappear around the next corner, Severus tries to scrape together the energy to pry himself loose from the support of the doorframe. When he finally does - it takes him far longer than he'd like, and he's extremely glad there are no witnesses - he closes and locks the door and then resets the wards on his classroom. He's still thinking very dark thoughts about Albus, but he's beginning to worry now if this is any indication of how poorly the man's health is doing. He fears very much that it is.
Lost in his contemplations, not the least because he really has no desire to be forced to act on his Unbreakable Vow to Albus ever, and certainly no time soon, he's miserably contemplating the ramifications of that, when with a start he notices the Bloody Baron hovering in place next to him.
Naturally.
Apparently the spectre had been there for some time, only becoming visible once the students left. And that would be an obvious shortcoming in his wards. Fuck. He may need to find a solution to that, or no later than when he's assumed the Headmaster's chair will he have to worry about ghosts being actively used to spy on him.
On the other hand, it will need to occur to the others to instrumentalise them so.
He may not need to worry after all.
But he conscientiously adds it to the list of things Albus should be working to solve while he's busy faffing about with Merlin's fucking Potions.
He really needs to stretch out in his chair. Which is no longer his chair anymore... Fine, right, stretch out on his couch then. He's becoming increasingly cross, with almost fucking everything, which is in direct correlation to how long he's been on his feet, and he can still hear Poppy telling him he shouldn't be leaving the Infirmary yet.
Somehow, that doesn't improve his mood.
A little more annoyed with the universe that the ghost had been able both to eavesdrop, not that it matters, but it could have, and take him by surprise, he tries to get himself better under control and face the apparition. "Baron?"
The Baron hasn't missed the beads of sweat on the Head's brow, or the fact he'd remained immobile the whole while he was managing the students. After the things Madam Snape has told him, he has a very clear idea of why that may have been. With some concern, he asks the wizard, "Shall I fetch your wife, Sir?"
Severus stands there blinking. For no sum of Galleons would he ever have imagined that to come from the ghost's mouth. Shall he fetch his wife?? Oh, by all means. Do...
He knows, he knows the witch had fetched him from the snow last night. Beyond the embarrassment attached to needing such a rescue, and he's thoroughly mortified about that, he's incredibly angry with himself for having put her in danger like that. Past curfew, outside the safety - and isn't that a cruel joke - of the castle's gates... He expects a thorough bollocking from Albus when next they speak about just that. The bond was supposed to keep her safe. Not a day later, it had effectively lured her off of the Hogwarts grounds.
If for no other reason than the Protection Vow he'd taken, this... This will be a problem.
And here his House ghost wants to know if he should fetch his wife. Certainly, because she's now his carer. Bloody hell.
There's a niggling question in the back of his mind as to how Miss Granger had been able to leave the castle grounds last night. And then another as to why she had even needed to do so. Why hadn't Sunny brought him to the Infirmary himself? Merlin knows, the elf has done so often enough in the past. Whenever he can't make it himself, in fact. The only explanation for that is Sunny watches him, either in person or through some elven magic, and in an effort to preserve what little is left of Severus' pride, only assists when he won't manage the trip on his own. Severus tries not to think too much about how the elf is basically humouring him, completely missing that it would be more accurate to see it as a kindness.
But of course it doesn't explain why Sunny hadn't done so last night.
Severus hasn't answered the Baron. He really can't seem to find an answer, and so the apparition speaks again, "Sir? You are unwell." That was definitely a statement and not a question. Marvellous. Good to know it's so obvious. That neglects to consider that the Baron is in fact a very keen observer, once one has his attention focused. That latter can be difficult, but Hermione has already achieved it. "Allow me to get her for you, please."
Severus decides a polite response is probably the wisest course of action, particularly in light of the assistance the ghost is providing him with managing his bondmate's safety, and in the absence of effective means to force that assistance were the Baron unwilling. "Thank you, but there's no need to trouble her." But his breathing isn't precisely even, and if one isn't a cowed student fearing point loss or detention, one's far more likely to notice that. The Baron looks unconvinced.
"She wouldn't consider it trouble." And now he sounds convinced. Severus just stares at him some more. Worse yet, he's reasonably sure the damn ghost is right. She wouldn't. He has that image of her perched by his bed from Poppy's memories. It had shot through her thoughts when he told her he was leaving her care, as she had tried to explain he couldn't, amongst other reasons because 'Madam Snape' had planned to join them for the luncheon. It was too... absurd, and fully representative of half the reason he needed to escape to begin with.
"I'll be fine," he assures the ghost, which he also finds highly unusual.
The Baron isn't used to discourse with the living, and it often shows, for example I'm moments such as these when he tells Severus, "You are incredibly fortunate."
Having basically crawled - if one can do so vertically, that's precisely what he'd done, using both hands to support himself against the walls - his way back to the dungeons, Severus fails, entirely, to see how he can be considered 'fortunate'. Why yes, he's feeling exceptionally lucky. And just what was it that made him so? The second round of torture in days? Or any of the other innumerable joys in his existence... Ta. Ta, muchly.
Not unsurprisingly, he's not exactly receptive to whatever the Baron is trying to convey. When the Baron doesn't proceed, Severus just thanks him, vaguely, because he can't begin to imagine for what, thinking, hoping it will be the best way to wind this up.
That, as his luck would have it, knocks the next thought from the spectre's lips. "Your wife is a good woman. You have chosen well."
Again, there is no suitable response. There really isn't. He has a sinking feeling the witch has somehow... gotten to the Baron, and isn't that... Well, that just doesn't happen. Fortunately, and here Severus does consider himself fortunate, the ghost is convinced his condition is poor enough to justify these pauses. He finally settles on "Thank you. That's nice of you to say." He gives it a bit of thought and then decides to use the Baron for intelligence gathering.
"Where did you last see her?" That was a mistake. The response is swift, the rebuke crystal clear.
"In front of the doors to the Infirmary, where she meant to join you for the meal." Splendid! He walked right into that one.
Something in the weariness visible on the Head's face coupled with the emphasis Madam Snape had placed on the terrors he must have faced, only yesterday in fact, causes the Baron to relent, to... soften. "You would do well to give the witch a chance," he tells him more gently. "She's very... kind." And then with a bow, he floats off to resume his duties respective said witch, as clearly she isn't taking her afternoon meal with the Head as planned.
Severus stands there. Dumbstruck. That may have been a practical recommendation regarding his compromised physical condition. It's possible. Or, and this is what has him so unnerved, he has just received advice from the Baron as to his love life...
No. Words.
No. Wait. He has three more words. With. A. Student.
Certain a migraine is now coming on, just to add to the day's manifold pleasures, and feeling like his world has been turned thoroughly upside down, he slinks the few yards back to his chambers, intent only on finally reaching his couch.
Sybill has to think long and hard before deciding to go into the Great Hall for the third meal in a row. Ultimately she determines that all signs point to her having survived breakfast, as unpleasant as that was - the fact that everyone else does so more or less on a daily basis is of absolutely no consequence - and lunch has the obvious advantage of no owls. And no owls means no Howlers.
She feels cheated by the calamity that had been the breakfast meal, she still very much wants to see people's reactions to her Prophecy, gods damn it, and she knows that will happen first and foremost where everyone can see her outside of a classroom setting. Her sitting there right in front of them should get their attention. Should set tongues to wagging. She's counting on Miss Brown. Or perhaps the Patils.
She has an almost good feeling about this. Something good is likely to happen if she subjects herself to one more meal in public. Probably. With something vaguely resembling confidence, she takes a seat next to Barrymore Beckford, the Ghoul Studies Professor in one of the side arms to the High Table.
"Sybill," he greets her, friendly enough, although the note of surprise in his voice is clear. Barrymore lives in Hogsmeade, doesn't usually eat breakfast or dinner at the castle, and so hadn't seen her at either of the last two meals. It's a bit of a Knut toss, though, if her third appearance in succession is more of a surprise to the others than this first one is to him.
"Barrymore," she replies with a bow of her head. "I can see you will be well." She waves her hands portentously, another dramatic proclamation rolling from her lips.
Barrymore takes it in his stride, or seat, more accurately. He's used to her ways. He appreciates that she's good enough not to constantly predict his doom. At his age, that might prove a little worrisome. He's exceedingly old, no one seems to know quite how old, but he's older than Albus and even some of the ghosts.
The last several decades, he's occasionally been told he looks like Einstein, perhaps with wilder hair. 'Einstein', he gathers, was something of a Muggle magician dating from long after he had left the Muggle world. Of course, most things dated from long after he had... well, anything really, he was just that old. But possibly this Einstein person was involved in something like Transfiguration. He has no idea what the man looked like, but as he knows what he himself looks like, he can only assume he was a frightfully handsome devil.
Sybill is working herself up to a state of indignation that she's required to sit at the side arm, more than slightly irked that there's no room for her at the main table. For a Seer of her caliber, and as a full-time resident Professor of an elective to be made to sit with the part-time help, the instructors of extra-curricular classes... Typically, she ignores the fact entirely that it would be silly to keep a spot free for her given the infrequency with which she would be willing or likely to use it. She's too busy feeling slighted to be logical.
Barrymore recognises the signs, he really has known her too long, and without taking offence returns his attention to the current Professor of Ancient Studies seated to his other side, who seems to think Barrymore himself is something of a candidate for study. He's not sure whether he should objectively be insulted or flattered, but has a cheerful bent that permits him to see the humour in it.
Sybill is now busy fixating on Rolanda, who somehow merits a seat at the main table, despite only teaching Flying to Firsties and doing that horrible sports thing... Frankly, people are far too fond of such frivolities; their priorities are all wrong. Rolanda's residence at the castle or regular attendance at meals are obviously not factors to take into consideration for seat assignment. The only thing that could be worse for Sybill's ego would be were they to invite the Nag to join them. But presumably Dobbin has a manger of his own somewhere...
And in the midst of this little snit, Sarah Sapworthy, Professor of Xylomancy and yet another part-timer, merrily slides into the free seat next to her.
"Hi, Sybill! How nice of you to join us." Sybill may have grunted something that Sarah takes as a response and the pretty brunette continues, "I heard about your 'prediction' yesterday. Clever bit of work, my compliments."
Sarah has a great deal in common with Sybill that neither would ever care to acknowledge out loud. She's the granddaughter of Selina Sapworthy, renowned author of texts in the fields of Herbology and Divination. The Herbology text alone has been required reading at the school for over a quarter century. It had almost been predestined that Selina's interests would eventually lead her to Xylomancy and yet another best selling text, somewhat less creatively entitled 'Xylomancy'.
It had also been nearly predestined that her granddaughter, an enterprising Ravenclaw just a few years behind Sybill, should capitalise on her famous ancestor's success and strike out in the same field. Selina had literally written the book on the subject. Most people confronted with the surname have a way of associating it with an intrinsic skill at the discipline which may be about as accurate a description of Sarah's abilities as Sybill's own.
Sybill, naturally, takes the compliment the wrong and right ways, each as suits her disposition. She assumes, correctly, that Sarah calls the legitimacy of the 'Prophecy' into question, as virtually all staff should. They knew she'd had prior information of the bondings; the more astute could see how she'd extrapolated from there. Sybill also assumes, incorrectly, that the 'compliment' is a dig at her for relying on such base tricks to legitimise her standing as Divination Professor.
That couldn't be further from the truth. Sarah sincerely appreciates the twist of mind that had enabled her colleague to alight upon that stroke of genius, and is very much of an inclination to do the same, circumstances permitting.
Sybill is now even more annoyed, the noise in the Hall only contributing to her pique. That's always the danger, obviously, when other people are aware that you had the information in advance. It's why it's so important to add some detail not included in that information. And of course, why it's crucial to do your reconnaissance properly, so that you can.
The personalities involved being as they are, it's also predestined that Sybill initially thinks Sarah is trying to insult her, gets quite shirty and runs her off. It doesn't take her more than three sentences to do so, insulting Sarah's field (twigs!), her abilities (specious at best!) and questioning her utility at the school (none!), instructing only the single extra-curricular as she is. Not that's it's any less than Sybill does, but the comments strike home. Had she not inherited the cottage in Hogsmeade, how ever would she secure her living?
The witch rises to leave, looking rather hurt and browbeaten, with a, "I'm very sorry. Clearly, I was mistaken."
Sybill counts it as a triumph. Next time she thinks she should be able to manage it in only two sentences. Of course, having hurt the witch's feelings as thoroughly as she had, there's not likely to be a next time any time soon.
Barrymore observes the exchange with a sad shake of his head.
Once Sarah has left, and she's a largely delightful colleague who definitely deserved better than being chased off, tail between rather comely legs, he leans over to Sybill and softly tells her, his voice pitched so only the two of them can hear, "Even Seers sometimes don't see what's right before their eyes."
At first she wonders if that's a slight because of her vision, Cassandra knows, she's had enough of those. Without losing patience, he tries again, "Sybill, don't be so blind." She bristles, but it's difficult to become truly angry faced with his kind eyes. "Go after her. Talk to her. I think you'll find you're more alike than you know." Of course, with his lifetimes of experience, he sees and recognises far more than most.
Sybill rises, impulsively grabbing a plate of food and takes it with her to the staff room where she discovers her colleague looking a bit crestfallen. Sybill's lacking in social graces, Merlin knows, her self-imposed isolation doesn't help matters any, but she somehow still inelegantly extends the plate and offers the other woman something to eat.
"You didn't really have anything to eat out there," she jerks her head back towards the closed door to the Great Hall.
Sarah, whatever her inadequacies in her subject might be, which perhaps are not of any more significance when contrasted to Sybill's, more than compensates with her deportment. She brightens immediately, and the two soon tuck in together. It doesn't take the younger witch long at all to have Sybill convinced of her sincerity, and they begin to analyse yesterday's 'Prophecy' and consider if there's any more ground to be gained, 'predictions' milked from the bondings.
Sybill is half stunned to hear herself saying it, but soon enough she's telling her colleague about those Slytherin mail snakes and their arrival this morning, and the two find themselves crafting another 'Prophecy' for Sarah to deliver to her afternoon classes. Sybill acknowledges Sarah has the seventh year students this afternoon, where she does not, and it would undoubtedly be more... relevant coming from Sarah directly to them.
When Professor Sapworthy stands before class after lunch and announces that she Sees, "Three little snakes bringing the biggest snake of them all to his knees..." Well, it will stick in more minds than just Blaise's and be the source of quite some speculation after Draco opens his Serpents later this afternoon.
Sybill has a brief pang, a moment of self-doubt where she feels a little used, and wonders if she has been. That fades quickly when with a truly brilliant smile Sarah invites her round to hers for dinner tonight, a small cosy affair, "You bring the sherry."
It should be noted that neither witch even once regretted not staying to observe the fruits of their 'Prophecies' at the evening meal. No, their perfectly delightful evening far off from the noise of the castle proves to be the first of many, and the two Ravenclaws learn to put more than just their heads together.
Barrymore, obviously, had seen it coming.
Harry and Ron burst through the doors to the Great Hall with the sort of dramatic energy about them that attracts attention. Sure enough, that attention is rewarded when a moment later a loaf of bread sails past Ron's head, only missing because Harry's Protego was sufficient to deflect it. Unfortunately it deflects right into the back of poor Kevin's head, sending the fifth year Gryffindor hurtling face first onto the table in front of him. As he's not the most sympathetic member of their House, that gives rise more to laughter than indignation.
Colin even takes a picture. He's amassing quite the collection, even just counting those of Kevin alone. Of course, Kevin has a way of providing some excellent photo opportunities.
Trial and error - somehow Harry and Ron have found themselves with plenty of opportunity for that this morning - reveals that a 'Protego' works against the physical as well as magical. Good to know. Hermione could have told them that. The first historically recorded use of the Shield Charm was during a good old fashioned Muggle joust in the fifteenth century, for goodness' sake, which was obviously a non-magical application. Really... But the boys weren't aware of that little bit of lore having never read Miranda Goshawk's 'Book of Spells'. As one does on a rainy Sunday afternoon...
But of course, Hermione's not likely to read it again anytime soon unless she sorts that pesky little problem about her restricted access to the Restricted Section. Everyone has their own curse to bear...
More than a few students have had similar experiences with airborne viands, and they're not the least surprised to see Peeves appear soon after, the next loaf in his hands. A few, presumably those with more experience, reach for the trays on the tables before them, which they unceremoniously empty - the more considerate on plates, but a few desperate types have little compunction about dumping the contents on the tables - and hold them up as shields against the Poltergeist's bombardments. That works even better than a Protego.
Faculty are still more effective against the Poltergeist than trays or Protegos, and as one might imagine, a fair few can be found in the Great Hall at any given meal. Filius is up and has his wand drawn, and any observing can see the signs he'd been a fine duellist in his day. His stance is excellent, marred only by the fact it's almost entirely hidden by the High Table. Taylor soon follows suit, sensing that it's a poor job when the DADA Professor is beaten to the draw by the Charms Instructor. He forgets that his colleagues often are gifted with more than the skills required for their subjects, possibly because he's not too terribly gifted at his own.
Peeves slows, staring at those two wands, considering his options. Soon a few more follow suit. Professor Beckford adds his voice to the threat of his wand and bellows 'Peeves' in an appropriately respect-inducing fashion - Filius' squeak hadn't quite done the trick and had in fact been completely overheard against the ambient noise in the Hall. Yet again.
A little reluctantly, Peeves recognises the timing isn't right. No worries. He has all sorts of time on his hands. If he can't reach Potty and Weasel now, there's always later. With a laugh and a careless shrug that could suggest he doesn't care at all that he's been - momentarily - stopped, he treats one and all to a truly impressive raspberry before he turns on his heel and disappears through the now closed doors of the Hall.
Harry nods his thanks to the High Table as Ron collapses onto the bench before him. He's not the least put off that his meal is now on the table instead of a tray, although somewhat confused as to why, having missed it in his own preoccupation with Peeves. He simply helps himself from the food scattered in the middle of the table. Lavender makes a noise of disgust at that, as Georgina endeavours to recover the tray from Neville's still very tense grasp, and Parvati and Fay help their roommate go about putting their section of the table back to rights.
Still very pale, Neville mumbles something about needing to go to the Library as he gets up and then leaves the table, his plate still full enough to attest that it had most likely not originally been his intention to do so. Uncharacteristically, no one is cruel enough to say as much, or maybe they just weren't observant today.
Once Ron has gotten something into his stomach - years of experience have taught Harry it's for the best to do things in that order - he leans over and quietly asks his friend, "Now that Peeves is gone, do you think we should wait for Hermione outside the Great Hall? Maybe talk to her in private?"
Ron, not incorrectly, rejoins, "Because that worked so well for us yesterday?" Harry looks a little stricken, which the ginger accepts as acknowledgment of his point. "Right. Look. Mate. I'm hungry, yeah? I haven't had a lot to eat, today or yesterday, and I just don't see that working anyway."
While Harry doesn't exactly disagree about the probability of success, he again can't help wondering if this isn't avoidance. But it still isn't really the spot for the talk he needs to have with Hermione, Ron's presence for that talk is probably a mixed bag, and even Harry knows it hadn't gone well in Transfiguration. No, no it hadn't. And it really doesn't help that he's not eager to have that conversation with Hermione anyway... Indecisively, he remains sitting next to his best friend as he tries to think what to do.
"But if you want to go," Ron mutters around a chicken leg, "I won't stop you." The tone doesn't at all sound like he's as indifferent as he pretends, and Harry has the sinking feeling it's an 'either or' sort of a thing. He can be on the outs with Ron, or Hermione...
If this were a basilisk, Harry would have no problem, but emotional witches... They're a Thestral of a different colour. So he takes the path of least resistance and remains seated, helping himself to the food the girls have been good enough to put back on the serving trays.
Severus finally gets the door shut behind him and leans against it, just happy to be home. Or as close to happy as he comes these days. That happiness takes a bit of a hit when he spots what seems to be a... shrine of some sort erected on his... their dining table. Sunny would never do such a thing, ever, which leaves precisely one suspect.
Miss Granger has... arranged some... things, decoratively for fuck's sake, with what is definitely the largest bouquet to ever grace any quarters in which he's lived, towering up, smack in the middle of the display.
He creeps closer, as if the construct represents some sort of latent threat. It probably does, actually, but only to the successful furtherance of his solitary, curmudgeonly ways.
They seem to be... presents.
A dull sense of mortification overcomes him as he realizes they're wedding presents, peering closer to read the handwriting on some cards, apparently from his colleagues. The results, he presumes, of Miss Granger's talk with them yesterday. And she's just left her tat lying about, cluttering up his... their home.
He'll have to have her remove it later... Although just about then he spots the Ogden's and thinks he may have to confiscate a thing or two. Yes, there's some elf wine and... who the hell would give the witch champagne? And whatever for? But the way his week has been going, he thinks he may have call for the Ogden's. Soon.
That's not quite true. He's being facetious. For one thing, he has an open bottle of his own, calling his name at the moment much like Albus' sherbets, one might assume, and truthfully he feels very uncomfortable with the idea of taking anything at all from the young woman. Those things are hers and he lays no claim whatsoever to them. And as he's no longer her instructor, he also doesn't feel like it's his job to impound any of the rest. That is one role he has no need for in his life. He has enough hats to wear, ta muchly.
He stands there looking at the flowers in what could easily have been his mum's vase. He supposes they're... pretty, and can't help thinking she'd have liked the arrangement. It's an involuntary line of thought, he'd rather not pursue it, but she haunts him sometimes that way.
Merlin knows, she never had flowers like that.
She deserved better.
He shakes his head. Hell, everyone deserves better than his mum got.
For a brief moment he finds himself wondering if his marriage will be just as much a nightmare as his mum's.
He follows that with an extremely dark huff of laughter. That would be unlikely.
On the other hand, it suddenly strikes him, and it's a supremely disquieting thought given the horror show that mariage had been, that his marriage is likely to have even fewer comforts... fewer pleasures than hers had had. His parents, one gathers, had at least loved one another. Once. Very long ago. Before everything went to hell. The mill closure, the unemployment, the dole, the back injury, the drinking, the abuse.
Theirs was only a marriage, not a bonding. They could have parted, gone their separate ways. He'll never understand why they didn't, but he's certain more than a few of his own choices make little enough sense to others so as not to judge his mum too harshly for that. But it makes him wonder what he or Miss Granger will do if... when things become unbearable.
Always assuming he doesn't die first...
Particularly as a Protection Vow hardly allows them to put any great distance between them, that may not be easy to resolve. Another huff of dark laughter. When is it ever easy?
It's not worth much, but he makes himself a promise to never let things get that bad.
And then he laughs at himself. It's good, it's an honest laugh. Because he really has no idea how to go about that.
He flops onto his couch, avoiding the chair that's no longer his own, almost - but only almost - regretting the stubborn streak that keeps him from simply switching the chairs, and then glaring at both for good measure. The feline is parked on Miss Granger's chair, he's pleased to note. So there's that. Progress. Small mercies.
Who'd have thought?
Said cat observes him closely as he stretches out there.
Severus stares back at him for a little while before losing the contest he somehow seems to have unwittingly entered. Then he performs a Dies Charm to call up his calendar, ignoring the half-Kneazle's look of triumph, decides he's taken care of everything he'd meant to for the week, and then starts at the date. Bugger. He thinks for a moment, and maybe the scent of the flowers provides a bit of inspiration.
"Sunny." The elf is there before the word has fully left his mouth. "Kindly take some some Good Grow Potion from the stores and go to the greenhouses after lunch. Give it to Pomona and ask her for a bouquet of poppies for Poppy in exchange. And then be so good as to take them to her directly, please."
"Flowers, Sir?"
"It's the eleventh," he explains, not that it helps. "Poppy Day." That's almost guaranteed to give the elf the wrong impression, but Severus can live with that. After all the times the woman has patched him together, she deserves an extra day of recognition. The only Muggle-born on staff, Call-Me-Terry Taylor is too new, and probably to Americanised to think to mark the day with poppies. And as the only other Muggle-raised on staff is Professor Beckford, and his time amongst the Muggles significantly pre-dates World War I or Remembrance Day, Poppy will know who the flowers are from, not that that is at all the point.
The elf gives some variation on his standard, 'Yes, Sir, Master of Potions, Sir' and disappears and Severus sighs. He needs to talk to Albus about the students fighting about his bonding. He has no desire to do so. But he does have a growing desire to whinge. So dignified.
He levers himself up from the couch, regretfully, and crosses to the fireplace to Floo Albus. If he lives to be... what had the witch said? One hundred and thirty-seven, oh, and three quarter years old, he'll never enjoy Flooing. There's something inherently indecorous about leaving his arse hanging in the air like that just to chat with someone. The only silver lining is that Albus' arse is older. And much larger. Hopefully he finds this even less comfortable.
He throws in a handful of Floo powder and calls for the Headmaster's office. He's hardly surprised that the office isn't warded for the connection within the school. Why would it be when Albus has shown such little regard for Severus' own wards? It's not like there's anything particularly dangerous in his classroom. Oh. Wait...
Severus at least has an extra ward in place that prohibits the students from accessing the Potions storeroom without a teacher present. That had seemed... advisable after all the thefts three years ago. Although those were by a teacher, it should be noted. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof, considering the Polyjuice used. Sadly the ward needs to be so general so that other members of the faculty can substitute for him. That's proven all too necessary the past year or so. But that's not quite the protection one might hope if all that's required is to trick a staff member into entering the room while an accomplice steals from his stores. Fortunately, most students don't think to try different permutations to circumvent the Protection Charms.
As he sticks his head into Albus' office, calling for the elderly wizard, it occurs to him to hope it's warded against the outside. That might not actually be the case the way he's been handling things lately. Draco's apparently been hard at work on an assignment to somehow smuggle Death Eaters into the castle, and to think all they'd need to do would be Floo Albus and casually saunter past him... And if Severus is particularly unlucky, which he usually is, why they might just kill Albus in passing and void the Unbreakable Vow Severus swore - both of them, actually - and he'd die on the spot, too.
Well, it would certainly solve a number of problems...
He'll need to speak to Albus about the Floo wards, too. This is yet another example of the man slipping in the last quarter of an hour alone.
"Albus? Albus!"
The bearded wonder startles awake at his desk, blinking blearily at the Potions Master. "Severus? Are you awake already?"
Well, that answers any questions Severus may have had as to his mental faculties. He tries to console himself that the man had only just woken, but he doesn't believe it's the reason even as he thinks it. Much of his frustration drops away, replaced by concern. "Albus? Are you alright?"
"Oh, yes, yes. Quite alright, my boy. Just eating lunch," he hastily answers, picking up the spoon from his desk and pretending to be eating his soup. Severus isn't sure if he just hasn't noticed that his beard is well and truly hanging in his lunch, or if he's trying to gloss over it. "Would you like to come through? I can have the elf fetch you a bowl as well..."
"No..." Severus begins to respond, but Albus seems intent on convincing him and continues, scrutinising the contents of his bowl and casually magicking his beard clean.
"It appears to be some manner of... Cream of Fungus..." Because that was so likely to persuade him, or anyone else for that matter.
"No, thank you, Albus. That really won't be necessary," Severus replies, his brow now furrowed. "I needed a word."
"Pray continue, my lad," he answers fairly jovially, beginning to eat his now tepid soup, but Severus doesn't quite trust the cheery tone.
"I'd like for you to address the staff about taking measures to see to it that Miss Granger isn't subjected to abuse from her peers for the bonding. There was an incident, an exchange of hexes in the corridor earlier. I imagine it wasn't the first and won't be the last in response to the announcement yesterday, and it won't do to have her stuck in the midst of it."
"Madam Snape," Albus corrects, finally dropping the pretence that he's eating and coming over to the Floo. He kneels before the fireplace, a mite stiff in his movements, but it saves them both from having to speak quite so loudly. Getting up again should be an absolute joy.
"Was there any doubt which witch I meant?" Severus' eyebrow rises, and Albus smirks in reply. As long as that eyebrow functions, he has every faith that Severus will make a full recovery. That's arse backwards, of course. Even if nothing else worked, it may be assumed the eyebrow would be the very last thing to give up the ghost.
"No, I suppose not," Albus chuckles.
"Why, Severus," and there's the teasing tone Severus loathes, "are you concerned for her welfare?"
"Less hers than the rest of the student body's. Unless you'd care to see me flatten the lot of them? In which case I'm sure it can be arranged. Would tomorrow suit? Or what do you suppose will happen if she's hexed? You were the one who insisted on the Geas, after all."
"Protection Vow, my dear boy. It wasn't a Geas."
"And was there any question which Vow I meant, Albus?" Pedantic old sot. Cauldron, meet kettle. "And there is no substantial difference between your Vow and a Geas as you bloody well know."
"Language, Severus. Language." He chuckles again, "Or shall I take five points from Slytherin?"
"Given the frequency with which Mr. Weasley uses the word, I'd happily agree to that provided we docked him five for each instance in turn." He smirks, Albus' smile falters a little and he abandons that line of provocation, rather as Severus had thought he might. "Retroactively just for the week, perhaps? Might be sufficient to win us the House Cup." Quite.
Albus changes the topic instead, "But indeed, it wasn't the first hexing. I gather a handful of students landed in the Infirmary as a result yesterday."
"Splendid. How utterly rewarding to know I was right once again..." When Albus doesn't reply, he presses him again. "So you'll speak to the staff?"
"Yes, my boy. Don't fret."
Ah, yes, fretting. Severus has a lengthening list of things to fret about. And he's still awaiting a reprimand of his own for putting Miss Granger at risk last night. Not that he'd been particularly conscious at the time, but when does that ever let him off the hook? Taking advantage of Albus' somewhat addled state, he chooses to go on the offensive instead. "Then there was the matter of how you left my classroom."
Albus actually looks sheepish for once. Perfect. Severus is practiced, and does not smirk. "I apologise, Severus. I even had them clean the Potion off the ceiling. I was certain they had gotten it all..."
Severus just blinks. He doesn't even have to ask. It'll have been the N.E.W.T. class. The Knarl's quills. He manages not to pinch the bridge of his nose, but it's a close thing. He really doesn't know how to make his notes any clearer. As he hadn't seen any evidence of an explosion while he was in the doorway, he simply replies, most equanimously, "Well, I've managed it now. You're very welcome. Additionally there was the matter of my wards. I had to sort those, too."
"I... Oh, forgive me, Severus, I suppose I..." Albus trails off with a protracted sigh. He looks... he looks tired. Tired and frail. Some days the old bastard looks like he'll live forever, and others... Other days, days like today, Severus thinks it will take a miracle for Albus to live to see the next week. The curse is taking its toll.
It also takes what's left of the wind out of Severus' sails.
"Yes." He agrees simply. "Albus, your Floo wasn't warded either. I could have come through - without invitation, you understand - had I wanted." Not that the offer of Cream of Fungus soup, with a side of beard, no less, was enticing enough to do so, but still. There's a flash of something he very much hopes is worry across the older man's face; at least it would mean he understands enough to take this seriously. "Please tell me the Floo access to the rest of the network is closed."
Albus' is the only Floo at the moment that's connected to the outside world. Not even Poppy's is connected any more. Anyone wishing, or rather needing to go to St. Mungo's must do so from the Headmaster's office, or Albus needs to reestablish the connection from the Infirmary for the occasion. It was deemed a wise precautionary measure, but that assumes he wards his own Floo. If not...
"No, I haven't used it lately," Albus assures him. "It should still be warded..."
"Shall I come through and check?" Severus offers. He's exhausted, completely knackered, but this is too important to leave to chance.
Albus waves his wand in a pattern Severus recognises well. He can see the glow form at the tip of the wizard's wand from where he's peering from the fireplace. "They're still in place," he confirms, unnecessarily at this point. Severus does not find the slight note of relief in his voice especially reassuring.
"We may need to deactivate the Floo so that it remains so. Only have it active if you explicitly reestablish the connection. It might reduce the risk..." Severus manages to be reasonably tactful, but the message is clear.
"I'll take it under advisement." Albus goes silent for a moment and then sincerely adds, "Thank you."
Severus inhales deeply and then, very much hoping his offer will be refused, asks, "Will you be alright for the afternoon classes or do you need me to take them?"
"Don't be absurd. I will manage. And if I'm not able to do so, I'll cancel them or organise someone else."
Severus permits himself a huff of amusement, "Ah. But will my classroom still be standing when you've finished?"
"And that's precisely the reason it's located in the dungeons, dear boy." There's a hint of a twinkle back in Albus' eyes that Severus finds equal parts reassuring and infuriating. But as long as that twinkle is present, so too is whatever it is that is fundamentally Albus. There's a fleeting poignant thought that it won't be for very much longer.
Albus does a brief check of his Headmaster's Homonculous Charm to determine that Severus is back in chambers. "Should you even be out of the Infirmary, Severus?"
"Not if you ask were to ask Poppy," the answer comes far too easily. They're both too accustomed to their situations, too glib when speaking of them.
"Take the day," Albus orders. "Tomorrow, too if you need it. We'll muddle through in the meantime." There's a growing suspicion on both their parts that the students will never complete the year. There will be no N.E.W.T.s, no O.W.L.s. It makes it difficult sometimes to go through the motions in classes. Conversely it makes it easier to accept the occasional lapse with regards to the same.
"I'll be back in class tomorrow," Severus asserts, the matter settled as far as he's concerned.
"If you feel up to it. But I don't want to see you before then," Albus answers, not unkindly.
"I'll see you tomorrow," and with that he withdraws back through the Floo. Sunny keeps their fireplace so clean, Severus has virtually nothing to tidy. What little soot there is on his robes, is probably exclusively due to oversights of Winky's. He resumes his place on his couch, thinking about Albus and even more concerned than he'd been before.
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Date: 2021-10-20 01:23 am (UTC)[edit to clarify]
The headmaster is believably douchey in his manipulations of everyone as if they were chess pieces, and his blatant favoritism towards certain parties. It's also heartbreakingly within the realm of canon that Dumbledore keeps his hands "cleaner" by sending Snape back to Voldemort again and again without truly confronting what the younger man goes through. Even so, I just can't fully hate him. To me, it's incredible that you're able to strike that balance *just so.* Dumbledore, for all of his lack of fairness or empathy, is good enough and pitiable enough that I still like him...a little, albeit reluctantly, lol.