“beyond wandpoint” 082 by gingerbred
Mar. 22nd, 2019 06:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 11v Tuesday - Problem Salving”
Hermione 7G (Prefect), Severus, Sunny, Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Dennis Creevey 4G, Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Hunter Hutchinson 4S, Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode 7S (Reserve Beater), Alberta Runcorn 7S, Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater), Aaron Avery 6S (Reserve Chaser), Sheldon Shafiq 6S (Reserve Beater), Roísín Rosier 6S, Portrait Salazar Slytherin
Mentioned briefly:
Newton Kurz 4H, Mrs. Kurz, Phineas Nigellus Black (one time Headmaster), Boadicea Waterhouse (portraitist)
Originally Published: 2018-07-27 on AO3
Chapter: 082
Harper has made his way back to the Slytherin common room from the Gryffindor tower when Vince and the two witches return. The sixth year Prefect had volunteered to escort Creevey, the younger, back to the Moggies' den, assuming it would provide him with the ideal opportunity to issue any threats necessary to ensure the fourth year kept his wand aimed well away from Hunter. All the greater was his surprise to discover Creevey, Dennis apparently, had fought alongside Harper's younger brother, and it seems considers him one of his greatest friends.
There really wasn't much Harper could think to say to that.
If the fact Creevey's a Gryffindor hadn't made that improbable enough, or his utter... well, Creevey-ness (there could be no question: this was definitely Colin's younger brother), the Muggle-born aspect surely did. And then there was the perturbing matter of Harper knowing nothing about it. At all. He hadn't an inkling.
Fortunately, because Dennis is a Gryffindor, it's highly unlikely the boy picked up on that. Harper played it reasonably cool, kept his Exploding Snap cards close to his chest (at the risk of powder burns, but then that's what a Protego is for), and let the younger wizard talk. And talk he did.
He could scarcely contain his enthusiasm that Harper was so kind as to see him back home. Really it was so good of him, but so in keeping with everything Hunter had said... Dennis had heard ever so much about him, it would seem. (In stark contrast to the nothing whatsoever Harper had heard about him.) And he was just thrilled to bits at the chance to get to know Hunter's older brother. As Dennis is a Gryffindor and not a Slytherin, presumably that wasn't even sarcastic, something Harper needed a moment to wrap his head around. And he would also argue that sharing a short walk hardly constitutes 'getting to know someone', particularly when one party insists on doing all of the talking, but he could see no advantage - yet - to disabusing the little Moggie of this illusion.
Squinting, just a very little, he could sort of see the similarities between the boys. Not in their appearances, obviously. Creevey's pale fair skin and thin, light mousey-brown hair, so long it hangs in his eyes, is almost as far removed from the Hutchinsons' dark complexions and close-cropped tight black curls as possible. Harper supposed if the little Gryffindor tried, just a little harder, perhaps he could be as blond as Malfoy and then they'd truly be diametric opposites. No, there's nothing similar in their looks beyond their diminutive statures. Harper has long suspected Hunter's small size draws some abuse from fellow students who see him as an easier mark, as if that had anything to do with magic. If possible, Creevey is even smaller.
But their natures seem... comparable, and there was something all too familiar in the excited way... Dennis nearly skipped along beside him, no sign left of the Jelly-Legs Jinx about him, and rabbiting as he went. Both boys have something a little too soft, too enthusiastic, too open, too... vulnerable about them, and Harper wondered if their size, the vulnerability that and their characters suggest, if that had led them to connect somehow, despite their Houses.
He listened to Creevey speak of some of his adventures with Hunter and - always assuming the mousy haired boy hadn't been completely addled, never a given (and with Gryffindors, notably difficult to determine) - realised the boys must spend a great deal more time together than Harper could ever have imagined. Hunter has been keeping rather a lot from him.
As Creevey blathered on - Harper was only half listening - he tried to assess when this... friendship had started and its purpose... He could easily guess why Hunter hadn't mentioned it, and for that very reason asking him about this wasn't likely to be fruitful... Glancing at Creevey, Harper had practically smirked.
All it took was a single question.
The answer proved... disquieting, however.
"Well, y'know, it's rough sometimes, without your mum. Hunter, he gets that. Newton, too. But then, you'd know what I mean, right?"
No one, but no one, ever mentions the Hutchinson boys' mother. She's been dead now for almost fourteen years, she died when Hunter was just a baby, and still there's a shadow over those events so dark and far reaching... It's simply not spoken of.
And suddenly he understood how they came to be defending Kurz. A little band of lost boys, missing their mummies... If memory served, and it generally did, 'Newton's' mother will undoubtedly be the Mrs. Kurz. The one who had gone lost in an infamous Floo misfire over a decade ago. Rare things, those misfires, it had been over a century and a quarter since the last serious 'case' (the terrible Tillyman-tragedy of 1855, which had ultimately proved essentially a wilful hoax), and the Kurz-catastrophe had caused a notable downtick in Floo usage for some time in the mid-80's while everyone panicked. That, in turn, had caused a notable uptick in Apparition accidents, and the number of splinchings had skyrocketed.
He can remember his Aunt Hildegard, a Healer at St. Mungo's, complaining bitterly about the native stupidity involved. They were more likely to be hit by the Knight Bus than be lost in the Floo Network, especially with Ernie Prang at the wheel, but did that stop them crossing the street?
Ironically, her fiancé Borage Bingen, also a Healer at that noble establishment, was hit by the Knight Bus shortly thereafter, had something of life crisis and moved to the Norwegian Fnords. Rather predictably, that brought him no peace in the least (but was another fine example of what comes from reliance on Geminioed texts and the difference a single letter might make) but certainly put an end to their engagement. Alternatively, if that rift hadn't been caused by the distance suddenly between them - Portkeys aren't unheard of after all - then it most assuredly would have occurred when she was forced to pick up the slack on their ward. Borage for his part took to drinking copious quantities of elf wine and eventually forgot his troubles. And almost everything else.
Harper hadn't responded to Creevey's explanation, or rather, at best non-committally, not that it registered, and mulled over how best to go about making the inadvisability of this association, particularly in the current political climate, clear to Hunter. He suspected it would prove a great deal more difficult than he thought.
When Harper returned to the Slytherin dormitories, he found his little brother in the common room, entertaining their Housemates with tales of his Battle (it was clearly capitalised in the retelling) with the Ravenclaws. Ella, who'd been kind enough to see him safely back, threw Hunter the occasional fond glance as she did her homework at one of the tables, the anticipatory but nevertheless gentle smirk on her lips in all the right places indicating she'd heard much of this before, presumably more than once even.
Hunter had gathered quite an audience, and whenever the others refused to believe his recitation, he'd call on Ella to verify his version of events. She couldn't say much, naturally, to what had transpired before she'd arrived on the scene with Pansy and Harper, just the few things Madam Snape... er, Hermione had mentioned, but that part of the story in and of itself proved so incredible, the others found themselves increasingly willing to believe all the rest.
"I earned five points for duelling! For duelling! Imagine that! From a Gryffindor!" Hunter crooned. Pansy, who'd easily beaten Harper back to the dorm from their trip to the Infirmary, was called on for further confirmation (the assertion was so improbable, Ella's word was simply no longer sufficient, despite being generally deemed more trustworthy that the older Prefect) which the seventh year somewhat grudgingly supplied. "And I bet you, Galleons to Gurdyroots, Madam Snape convinces Professor Flitwick to give those Turkeys detention to boot. And that's after they already lost eighty points, too. Eighty!" There was a great deal of pleased mumbling from all assembled as they considered that.
That mumbling is definitively interrupted as Millie and Alberta come belting down the passage to the common room, dragging a bundle of bloodied bandages behind them which they deposit in the room's center with a 'Finite Incantatem' and a thud.
On closer examination the lump quite unexpectedly reveals itself to be Vince. In retrospect that strikes several present as obvious and even redundant. He is rather...
But the display draws raised brows, many of them. As their Head is held in no little esteem, fully half of the brows raised are solitary brows, although that seems to be a habit rather difficult for many of them to cultivate. Vince's condition does not, however, merit even a single enquiry. The shunning has begun.
Alberta begins trying to free Vince from his bindings with a Diffindo, but she's clearly tired from her trek, and her aim isn't what it normally would be. Vince lets out the occasional shriek as the witch misses her mark and cuts into him instead. Harper can't help thinking he looks an awful lot like an Inferi, and surprisingly a good deal worse than he did when Harper had dropped him at the Infirmary some hours before. Say what you will about Pomfrey, he hasn't the foggiest idea how it could have come to that.
Millie, indicating the very apparent beating the Beater has taken, turns to Ella to ask, "Is there anything you can do to help?"
As he's sporting a number of very noticeable knots, the answer is presumably 'yes'. Technically. However, as Ella hasn't forgotten the Serpent Vince sent her last year when she showed no interest in a second date with the... wizard, that's unlikely to be the answer she gives.
"I'm sorry, Millie," she shrugs convincingly, "but I really don't believe I'll be able to help."
Hunter, to his great credit, hardly blinks. If one weren't observing him closely, and none other than Harper currently are in light of the scene playing out before them, it would have been missed entirely. But Hunter's greatly relieved he hadn't gotten to the part of the story yet where Ella had healed Madam Snape.
And, honestly, after the abuse Vince had given Harper about Crankshaft just today... Well, neither of the Hutchinson boys much minds seeing Crabbe ignominiously stretched out on the floor. And both can more than understand Ella's response. They won't say a thing.
Millie unfortunately insists she try - frankly, if Millie's on your side, the girl makes a good friend - but Ella naturally finds the pressure unwelcome. Put on the spot as she is, she simply waves her wand thoroughly ineffectively a few times. They're lucky it hadn't led to any further miscasts, but Ella is careful by nature and not nearly vindictive enough to have handled it differently. But once she says as much, pointing out the risks involved, Millie finally accepts the defeat.
That exchange calls to mind something some of the girls had been whispering about amongst themselves, however. The person Millie seems so eager to help has - it's considered effectively proven - behaved in so egregious a fashion (it doesn't matter that the actions themselves are thoroughly unclear; the girls agree they can be judged by their effects) that the Head was bonded in response. And Vince in particular had done something he was so certain would meet with general censure, he hadn't opened his Poste Serpente in front of them. No, they're convinced...
Vince no longer deserves this sort of solicitude.
Roísín Rosier nudges Pansy none too subtly, indicating the girls gathered around Vince's prone form with her head and then jerks it back to their dormitories. Pansy nods and, raising her voice, calls out to the others, "Girls' meeting in the seventh years' room. Now."
It's imperious, but typical, and Ella just returns to the table and packs her things together with a sigh. She'd hoped to do some more reading... Still it's easier and unquestionably faster to just get this over with.
Almost everyone else seems to agree.
Millie isn't quite prepared to see it that way, however. Vince clearly needs help, and only her friendship with Pansy keeps her from violently arguing with the smaller girl about it. Alberta, although less fond of Vince, is also still nowhere near done freeing him from his bandages, and very much hates the appearance of allowing Pansy to command her about. Both witches begin protesting at once, Vince quickly chiming in that he needs their help, he can't even reach his wand yet...
But sixth years Aaron Avery and Sheldon Shafiq rise to the occasion and generously volunteer to finish their work for them. With smoothly reassuring tones, that's practically Sheldon's specialty, he virtually ushers Millie to the girls' stairs, Alberta follows a little resentfully behind, and with no further ado, the girls all retreat to their dorms.
Aaron and Sheldon, both reserve members of the Quidditch team this year, set to working on opposite ends of their recumbent teammate, although strangely nowhere near Vince's wand hand, which is only likely to prolong this affair. Vince's quite regular protestations would seem to indicate their Diffindos tend to hit Vince every bit as often as their presumed mark, so much so, that one has to wonder if he isn't the intended mark after all. Once Harper sees what they're about, he's of half a mind to join them, but he'd already been perhaps a bit too obvious in front of Nott before. A little restraint can go a long ways.
Instead he stands there, leaning against the table Ella had vacated, enjoying the (literal) floorshow and listening to his little brother finish telling the boys left still more about his exploits this evening. Crabbe's regular cries do much for the ambience, he decides.
Vince, once free, is forced to accept that the atmosphere in the room is decidedly frosty. For all too obvious reasons, there are none of the other seventh year boys about, and now that the girls, too, have left, he finds himself feeling... outnumbered. And a little friendless. Presumably that will get worse in the weeks to come.
Quite feeling a number of glares at his back and attempting to ignore the hushed but hostile sounding whispers, he gathers the bits of bandages lying on the carpet, pressing them to him in a sloppy attempt to staunch the blood flow from his many cuts, and shuffles off to bed. It's probably for the best. Or so he thinks.
Had he anticipated the Kneazle fur in his bed, naturally he wouldn't have attempted it.
Within minutes he returns to the common room, bits of bloodied gauze fragments affixed to him from top to tail, stumbling and wheezing, his nose even more engorged and reddened, looking, Harper has to allow, far more like an Inferi than he had before. In fact, he redefines it.
Having exchanged words earlier about his ginger half-Kneazle Crankshaft, Harper can only conclude this is an allergic reaction of some severity. Still, he's clearly breathing, and with the casual disregard that comes far easier when one has never been prone to such attacks oneself, or been forced to witness them in those one holds near and dear, oddly, no one feels disposed to assist the seventh year. Almost as one, in silent agreement they rise, withdrawing to their own dormitories to attempt their counterpart to the girls' meeting.
It won't be nearly as productive.
And so Vince finds himself alone in the common room, after curfew, in the midst of a severe attack and without help. He's at a bit of a loss.
"Salazar, help me..." he mutters as he sinks heavily to his knees, for all the good that should do, and then flops onto the floor.
Hermione has finally steadied her nerves sufficiently and made up her mind. She knows what she has to do. It's (deceptively) simple enough. Stretching an initial tentative finger just a little further forwards, she makes the first, gentle contact with the Professor's chest.
He flinches reflexively from her touch, startling her to a standstill. It must be a reflex, as he still seems fast asleep (which is probably just a politer way of saying 'passed out'). A new wave of panic overtakes her, crystallising first and foremost around the concern he'll wake and catch her at this, and isn't that phrase perhaps more than a little indicative of the fact this is something... illicit. By definition, something at which she could be caught, but probably shouldn't be as she shouldn't have even attempted it... And she might have gone on to consider that, any and all of that, but frankly her relief at his not waking is so great, that she doesn't spare any of the rest a further thought.
For once.
She attributes his continued insensibility to the alcohol in his system, which is only partly right. The bond does its best to let him know he is safe. Were he aware of the situation, he would probably define that word differently. Fortunately he's not consulted.
A little stupidly and a bit late, it dawns on her that the Salve on her fingers is now no longer body temperature; it's far closer to room temperature, which only makes sense. A quick refresh of the Warming Charm and, thoroughly undeterred, gamely she gives it another go.
This time, there's no flinch. Suitably encouraged, it takes so little, really, she spreads the Salve just a bit further along the first of the healing lacerations. It's rough beneath her index finger and that makes her sad. This was a no minor scratch, and if his scars are anything to go by, it was a far too common occurrence. She knows how effective the Salves and Potions are. If he still has this much to show for his... treatment despite proper medical care, then that has been frightening indeed.
She can't imagine it all occurred at the tip of a cursed blade or from esoteric and poorly treatable curses. That seems... improbable.
Rather like an iceberg, she assumes she's only seeing a small portion, just a faint echo really, of what he's withstood.
And there's no one here to help see him through it, to fuss over him or lighten his load... She finds that sort of heart breaking. And fails (completely) to observe he's not quite as alone as all that might suggest.
As her finger strokes further down his chest, following first one wound track and then the next, he shifts, turning to better meet her touch, naturally spurring her on. His groans give way to a soft sigh, which she finds a great relief, and the lines in his face begin to smoothen, so much so she's just a moment away from trying to massage the last stubborn wrinkle from between his brows into submission.
She wasn't thinking, she was simply acting on impulse, and she catches herself and halts her hand's forward progress, just inches from his face. Looking at it now, she's mortified to notice her fingertip is glowing.
The panic she'd felt before is completely eclipsed by what she feels now as she worries that whatever is making him glow has rubbed off, and like some Muggle anti-theft measure, she'll be caught tomorrow with proof she'd dared... Well, she'd most certainly dared. She pictures it: caught! Red-handed! Or glowing handed, she imagines... So to speak. And there's a desperate moment of mind racking, wondering what could be causing the luminescence and what the chances are that it will fade by the morning. She could always hide until then...
Pity, really, that gloves have gone out of fashion.
And then in a spurt of Gryffindor bravery, most likely combined rather favourably with some pragmatic fatalism, she recognises that she won't be able to change that either way, and if she has to use a Glamour or Notice-Me-Not, it hardly matters if it's on one finger or three, and in for a penny... Experimentally she resumes her efforts with her middle finger, again tracing the lines across his chest.
And again.
And yet again.
She applies the Salve far more thinly than Nurse Wainscott does, and more carefully, conscientiously rubbing it well into his abused skin. If that provides her with an excuse to linger over her task, as she works it gently into the scabs and reapplies it, so be it. But there's nothing thick and sticky in her results, he'll be able to move freely. It probably helps that she has enough experience with wearing the Salve herself; it tends to make one a little more aware of it's drawbacks then simply applying it to others might.
She's greatly relieved to see that her middle finger hasn't also begun to glow, and so encouraged takes the third, her ring finger, and adds it to the other two. The small band around that finger's base attracts her attention and her thoughts as she works.
It's probably not surprising that they revolve around the man sleeping under her hand. He seems more... restful now, and she's happy - more than happy - to tell herself that has something to do with what she's doing. If she were still seeking it, it provides more justification for her actions, and reasonably pleased with herself, she continues her work.
Sunny, Disillusioned and watching her from a spot on the window seat, is equally pleased with his work and ends his Lumos on the Salve. Hermione never notices that the small pot stops emitting its faint light, but then, she'd thought she had imagined it anyway.
All considered, the results had been better than expected, although they still don't quite satisfy his elven sensibilities. Still, humans. He has to work with what's to hand. And Mistress had been a great deal more accommodating than the Master would have been, of this much he's sure.
The elf will just have to keep at it. Fortunately, as a group they are notoriously hard to deter.
House elves probably shouldn't be the poster children for good human mental health. It may be just as presumptuous for an elf to think he knows what's best for a traumatised human as it is for a young adult to think she's properly assessed the needs of a different species and cultural so radically different to her own after the most casual contact.
But that never stopped either of them. Hermione and Sunny are in excellent company.
Considering his work done for the present, Sunny silently removes himself from the room to retire for the evening, and no one is the wiser that he was ever there.
Severus' dreams are a mess, both in content and form. They have been for years now, rather logically coinciding with the Dark Lord's return. Severus assumes it's due to all the Occluding, and is largely correct; he's no longer as explicitly tormented by the things he sees. It's a very sad side effect of over exposure. Until the present, he generally only Occluded when called to face the Dark Lord. Now...
Well now he expects to be doing a great deal more of that.
Which means his dreams will only get worse. It's presumably the least of his problems, but it means he no longer anticipates much refuge in sleep. It would have been nice to draw some comfort from somewhere.
It had taken years for his dreams to return to normal after the last war, for him to recover. He doesn't imagine he'll live long enough for it to be an issue this time around. Small mercies.
And so it's back to his nightmares. They tend to last longer than his other dreams.
He'd returned to the Manor, he'd attended a revel, or maybe ten, he'd been on a raid (he's usually spared that), he'd chased a small army of Potters (that had the potential to be a nightmare for a whole host of reasons) and fired off dangerous spells under even more dangerous conditions... There were casualties. When are there not?
Miss Granger (and her bikini) had been sadly absent and the dreams had gotten worse, certainly compared to that morning. Which isn't to say he was sorry her bikini hadn't put in an appearance... Really, he probably shouldn't have mentioned it at all...
And just as his night promises to become as bad as they usually are, just as his chances for a restorative night's sleep seem bleak as ever... Something... changes.
Miss Granger is back (and dressed even, although that green fitted blouse still leaves him discomfited) and she's not arguing this time. She has no desire to lead him from one nightmare to the next, no, tonight she has no patience whatsoever for them. As they shan't be staying in the nightmare anyway, she convincingly argues, there's hardly any point to calling them up, now is there? The insistent little thing puts her petite foot down and demands they go somewhere more pleasant. That he take her somewhere more pleasant.
He wonders if this taps into his feelings, his beliefs about bonds and marriage, and worries it does, but he has to agree, if the bond has her suffering through his nightmares alongside him, it's hardly right. He owes her that. To at least try.
And he does.
And the nightmare scene fades.
But then he has no idea where to go.
They stand side by side for a little while in a sea of black. Nothing but inky black, darker than the Squid's ink. There's no up or down, no near or far, only nothing. She laughs as she takes a crossed legged seat on... nothing, making herself comfortable for as long as this takes. "It's very you," she quips.
He scowls.
"As is that," she smirks.
"Not very atmospheric," she objects rather amiably. It's more of an observation than a complaint.
Grudgingly he waves his fingers and stars appear, which is ridiculous. There's no known Spell for that. Not outside of a targeted variant of a Confunding, and that would only change the perception, not the reality. Which is when it occurs to him that's it's absurd to be pondering reality in dreams.
Dreams, he scoffs to himself. For realism, he should have just conjured fireflies.
"Better," she immediately approves stretching and then reclining with her hands cradling her head on the nothing. "But isn't there something you'd rather do?" She asks, and there's a flare of panic on his part as to just what his subconscious has conjured as he weighs abandoning this dream for the next before she continues, her manner unchanged, conversational and apparently blessedly free of innuendo and that bikini still (thankfully) nowhere in sight, "What relaxes you?"
He thinks about that, it doesn't take him long, and then the black around them fades and they're in his laboratory (ironically only yards from where he now sleeps), a challenging Potions problem before him. Several, now that he thinks about it again. She hops up on the counter and watches him work with a smile. He thinks that might even be within the realm of possible responses from her real world counterpart. If anything, he imagines the reaction is far too subdued and snorts to himself at the images of unrestrained hand waving it recalls.
She hasn't enquired about the portrait facing the wall behind her, for which he's grateful. He makes a mental note to remember to offer the Kneazle a chance to avenge itself on the centaurs on her behalf, too. It's all well and good to mention it in passing, but it's worth nothing without follow through. Were he conscious, he'd probably question this need to keep his promises to a house pet, and then whether a promise had actually been given.
He's trying to decide which Potion to choose. She forces his hand...
"What are you brewing?"
He looks at the one before him and determines that it's the Wolfsbane Potion, something most would fail at. He takes pride in his competence. The ease with which he can brew it. These days, his greatest difficulty with the concoction lies in sourcing the ingredients without attracting the wrong sort of attention. (Admittedly he takes pride in his ability to do that as well.) And he knows the humanitarian aspects will appeal to the little witch. (He doesn't stop to wonder whom he's trying to impress, and certainly not why. That, too, might have something to do with his deeply ingrained notions of marriage. He'd only take himself for a fool if he noticed.)
"But that isn't what you'd prefer be brewing," she informs him easily enough. But then it's no great feat when she's merely a projection of his mind. "Think about it. What would you rather do?" There's an inviting smile and she doesn't seem argumentative and he finds himself engaging for all he doesn't speak.
And now the challenging Potions problem yields to another, but this time it's one of his own. His version of the Scar Scarcefying Salve. He takes it off stasis and puts it on to brew, adjusting the flame lower than typical to better retain the healing properties of the more delicate ingredients, adding a few non-standard ones, and then stirring, cautiously seven times clockwise, waiting three beats, and once anticlockwise. It's Arithmantically sound, after all. He steps back as it changes colour from the noxious orange of the usual... stuff to a glorious gold. Honey coloured and nearly as sweet, it's far more effective than the common blend, and a good deal more pleasant, too.
"And what else?" She prompts. She's not unimpressed, she's merely... encouraging.
So encouraged, he turns again from her to face the counter. And just like that, beside the Potion appears another, and another, and yet another, until the entire surface is covered in his creations.
Things he can never share.
He's good at what he does. He just can't always be seen as such. It's crucial to be useful, but not overly much so. Indispensable but not... innovative. It's a delicate balance. Sometimes, in those years between the wars, he'd dared dream of a day when he could brew to his heart's content, do something he loves and enjoys, and finally shine for what he is. No more, but no less either. He doesn't want false praise, but he would like to be able to earn the recognition he can.
He has no idea why he showed her this, not that he has, it's just a dream. But he wouldn't actually tell her, whatever for? And even if he wanted to, not that he does, the risk is too great to tell the witch whose Loyalty Vow didn't properly take. So it was hardly a practice run through...
He can't begin to explain the dream.
But he has even less idea why on earth he's entertaining these thoughts again. He thought he'd long buried them. And to torment himself with visions of lives he'd have rather led... What's the point?
And really, what are the chances any of that might come to pass?
The portrait of Salazar Slytherin looks down on the prostrate boy lying, wheezing, on the common room floor. There's undoubtedly a perfectly good explanation for... this, but he's trying to decide if he cares.
No, no, he decides, he does not.
There's been altogether too much tomfoolery on the part of the students for... what's it been? A millennium now? Surely that's more than enough. His patience has worn as thin as his canvas, possibly thinner; he thinks he was never particularly blessed with much to begin with.
Still, he has a sworn duty, and presumably that's something that matters to a good Slytherin. Or at least his original portraitist had believed to recognise as much in him. And isn't he the quintessential Slytherin after all? He nearly laughs at his wit, except his portraitist hadn't particularly believed he had much of a sense of humour, more fool he (or perhaps Salazar himself for hiding that so thoroughly from the man who'd captured him for posterity after all), and so he finds himself unable to laugh.
That certainly has a way of making the centuries longer.
"Well, boy?" He prompts in a suitably disdainful tone, aware of his duty and stepping up. As it were. Portrait lore being as it was when he was painted, he has a great deal less freedom of movement in this painting than the others seem to.
Typical.
"What seems to be the problem?"
He's immediately sorry he asked, as the muddled story comes out, tedious in the extreme, amidst much gasping and snuffling of an alarmingly burgundy snout. But it could be worse. The boy could have been painted that way.
It could be worse yet: Salazar could have been painted that way.
Vince does his utmost to explain the situation to the reticent Founder as best he can, but the man looks at him like he's something one might find under a log and use for potions, although presumably less useful. The difficulties he's having breathing leave him convinced he needs to return to the Infirmary, but he neither believes he'll make it on his own, nor does he particularly wish to be caught out after curfew. Not with the way his luck has been going of late. Truthfully, that's a good sign that it can't be as bad as he thinks, but then it's difficult to think when one isn't breathing all too regularly. And it's hardly Vince's forte under the best of circumstances.
But he has done a bit of thinking. For example, he's thought about asking Millie for assistance, he knows enough not to try any of the boys, but the idea of confronting a whole roomful of witches who'd seemed more than a little antagonistic... And he'd only just survived the trip back to the dungeons with Millie's assistance. Merlin knows what she'd end up doing to him if she didn't have Alberta's help. In his present condition it's more daunting an alternative than remaining in the common room untreated for the night. (It's safe to say he hasn't properly evaluated the situation.)
But the portrait does present a possibility.
"Sir, could you please send for the Head of House? He could sort me, or maybe take me to Pomfrey."
One of the many things that had angered Phineas Black and had led him to commission the portraits that he did was the fact that portraits are only as valuable a resource as the painter was talented and portraits were prepared. The vast majority are worth no more than what the artist saw, and if they should prove less than discerning in their view of the subject, or worse, if their own nature is later revealed as so disagreeable or simply incompatible that they were unable to value the subjects' strengths... Well, then these were lost to time. And unless they had been one of very few select individuals to be taught to prime their portraits, then their knowledge too was gone.
To have such greats as Salazar Slytherin's or Merlin's knowledge lost to posterity... It was unconscionable. And yet it had happened.
As such, the portrait Vince faces only has very rudimentary skills. But it does have a sense of duty and as such disappears from its frame to see about fetching Professor Snape for the boy.
Hermione isn't a visual person.
So as she kneels there now, nibbling her lower lip, she's having a difficult time explaining to herself (and fortunately this is only to herself) just how such a non-visual person can come to be so completely captivated by the sight of a man's stomach. His navel appears to exert an incredible pull on her and she can't tear her eyes away.
Or her hand.
She's almost definitely past the point of doing anything sensible, anything justifiable with the Salve and if she were seeking the proper verb, which she's avoiding at all costs, what she's doing now could probably best be described as playing with the dark hair on his belly. It's deceptively soft and utterly beguiling, and she can't seem to command her fingers to stop. (Although that makes a little more sense, in as much as she's definitely a tactile person.)
If it were her tummy, this would tickle like mad; it wouldn't be possible. She can only trigger a slight hitch in his breathing when she nears his hips. But she instinctively doesn't repeat it too often for fear of waking him. She hasn't taken complete leave of her senses. (A more neutral observer might disagree.)
The sight or certainly the feel of her fingers trailing through those fine hairs creates a highly visceral reaction and she's finding it harder to swallow now as she evaluates that response. The fact she's considering her response at all just now is probably a very clear sign this has left the realm of the medicinal, the necessary firmly behind. She chooses to ignore that fact for a few moments more.
It makes a difference that this is thoroughly outside her experience. She's never done anything like this and it's compromised her judgement. Completely.
It makes a bigger difference that she tells herself this is her... husband. And an even bigger difference yet that she trusts him, although maybe not so far as to be sure he wouldn't take her head off at the shoulders if he catches her at this. In fact, in the back of her mind, she's vaguely sure he would, or at least try. Wryly she considers that the Protection Vow might not let him get very far. It probably depends on if it functions better than her Loyalty Vow. Which, come to think of it, should probably forbid this as well... Shouldn't it?
But the biggest difference of all is made by her desire to prove she's absolutely unaffected by the events of Friday - completely so, obviously, because nothing happened - but if this is how she responds, she's more affected than she can begin to comprehend.
The term 'overcompensation' isn't wide of the mark.
She traces the longest of his cuts to where it ends just at the waistband to his pyjama bottoms. She's very keen that he take as few scars from this latest round of abuse as possible. For there to be as few disruptions to that line of hair she finds so... enticing.
She's back to futilely trying to moisten her lips. Her attempt to swallow sticks uselessly in her throat.
There's a scar that traverses his abdomen above his navel, thicker than the rest and jagged. (She's traced that a number of times by now.) The hair she's coming to like so much doesn't grow there, and she wants to see to it that isn't the case with these new injuries. It would be a pity were there less of it.
As her hand travels south, there's a frisson of... something she's eager not to define as her finger glances along the hem of the soft fabric of his low riding pyjamas, but it makes her take note.
This has gone too far.
She kneels there blinking for a moment, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. A dentists' child at that. (A perfectly idiotic inner voice objects that there isn't any sugar here, but then isn't this sweet? So very...) And slowly she accepts that she needs to stop while she interrogates her motives for her actions.
Strangely, her hand hasn't quite caught up with her thoughts.
Just a moment after exiting his frame in the Slytherin common room, Salazar reappears in his portrait on one of the landings. Headmaster Black had had that lovely young talent Boadicea Waterhouse paint this version of him, and he prefers it greatly. Here he's actually free to move, thank the heavens.
And he can't say enough how much he appreciates the never emptying bottle of wine, good food and books. Not that he'd dream of communicating that to anyone; it's simply a figure of speech.
The bloody Baron had been pressed to supply Mistress Waterhouse with as many personal recollections as he could about the Founder, which he'd found inordinately trying but ultimately had been duty bound to comply. Off and on for weeks he'd whispered to her of his days as a student in the wizard's House, the things Slytherin had done and said and taught them. All considered, between the two of them, they'd done a remarkable job, and the end result was that the version of Salazar that is now able to shift between his portraits is a far better, more accurate rendition than what had been before, but sadly still largely devoid of humour. As the ghost hadn't known Salazar in a personal capacity, and as he himself is far from being the lightest hearted individual in the castle, that was probably to be expected.
This portrait is hung by the Grand Staircase to allow him to interact better with the Slytherin portrait coalition. But above all else, this location makes it possible for him to summon house elves without attracting much attention. He calls for Slinky, the chief elf assigned to the Slytherin dungeons and a very old elf indeed.
The elf doesn't leave the portrait waiting, no sooner is he summoned than he appears.
"How may Slinky serve, oh Head of Heads? What does first Head needs of Slinky?"
Few sentences suffice to explain that the presence of the Head, yes, the current Head is requested in the dungeons to ferry a student with Kneazle issues to the Infirmary. The portrait, for obvious reasons is unable to deliver this message himself. Would the elf be so kind as to oblige?
The elf lives to oblige, and off he pops, appearing just outside the Professor's wards.
A/N:
Credit, as ever, where it's due: The Tillyman Floo mishap is canon from Pottermore (https://www.pottermore.com/writing-by-jk-rowling/the-floo-network ) and then I just went ahead and made up the rest, because that is my job, darn it!
Along those lines, a heartfelt thanks to all those who've 'reimbursed' me with kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions and most especially all your encouraging comments. You go a long ways to making up for the more off-putting (if unavoidable) things in life. ;-)
And yet another hands(!) (technically just the one this time) update in the comments. (I finally grew a pair (not extra hands!) and compared definitions with the lab coat.)
(no subject)
Date: 2021-10-23 03:57 am (UTC)Some really enjoyable parts of the chapter include:
+ Severus almost accidentally admitting to himself that he likes the bikini
+ the acceptance Severus was able to show and receive from his wife in his dreams. Now to slowly make it a reality
+ portrait lore, including more bolstering of Headmaster Black's cleverness, being able to retcon/update a portrait to better match the original subject, and miniscule references to the Baron's life (i.e., memories the ghost-self has of his human life as it related to his Head). I wouldn't say no to more details on the Baron's human life. 🤭
+ Snakelets being their own, actualized selves (Side note: the whole Crankshaft versus Crookshanks thing half-broke my brain for a moment when we first met Harper's Kneazle. For just a fleeting moment, I thought Harper believed he owned Hermione's familiar. I had a good chuckle at myself.)
Mind, the whole thing was a resounding success, but I can't very well parrot back every paragraph.
(no subject)
Date: 2022-01-31 03:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-02-02 11:44 am (UTC)