Heart of Glass
Even before he'd realized how the depths of his idiocy, he'd taken... precautions. He'd been left to his own devices at first. In an equipment-filled laboratory, no expense spared. With minions at his beck and call. Yes, a blatant attempt to win his gratitude. And trust. He'd recognized that, of course. Too bad he'd failed to recognize that it was all meant to a flatter an ego alarmingly susceptible to such blandishments. And yet he'd continued to assure himself it was all only part and parcel of what he'd always wanted: to be left alone to brew potions.
But then the requests would come in. "How's your research into igniculus acer going, eh? Oh, and Voldemort needs more unguentum adflictatio." And so Snape would duly brew up vats of unguentum adflictatio, all the while convincing himself it didn't matter to him what was done with it. His arguments with himself about his culpability in the resulting actions were much less convincing, especially when he hadn't ever been quite able to convince himself that he didn't really care.
Because he did. And then the request for a stockpile. "Just in case. Our Lord likes to be prepared, hey what?"
The false bonhomie tempted Snape to use Voldemort's messenger as a research subject. Or simply to brain him with the third-best set of scales.
But the stockpile. It was clear that to escape the prison he'd built for himself -- once he'd recognized that he'd walked into it blindly, though he'd thought that his eyes were wide open -- he'd have to create it. But the quantities he was being asked to prepare, well, surely everything couldn't be used all at once. It was simply an example of Voldemort's long-term planning -- something of which Snape approved, in theory at least. And so he'd connived.
"Glass reacts to magic, as you know," he'd explained, mustering a (not inconsiderable) display of arrogance. "Or devices such as Penseives wouldn't be possible. The problem is that we need a sufficient quantity of spelled glass bottles for storage. And it may to be difficult to procure that amount without raising... suspicions."
Of course, it wouldn't really be impossible to procure the number of phials needed, but he had hoped Voldemort wouldn't know that. And he hadn't. "There is a possible solution, although I hesitate to proffer it." And Snape's solution, however distasteful it may have been, from Voldemort's point of view -- that of relying on Muggles -- was accepted.
Except that Muggle glass wasn't non-reactive as he'd claimed. It leached magic, especially with the quantities of borax they used to make it harden at lower temperatures. And the fact that some idiot had come up with an idea to color-code the bottles was a stroke of luck. Cadmium, selenium, sulfur and the like increased the leaching properties by anywhere from 10 to 35 percent. Wizard glass -- pure glass -- was heated at temperatures of more than to 2600 degrees creating pure fused quartz from the finest grade silica, making the perfect container.
The upside had been that Voldemort had taken his advice, and with any luck the quantities of poisons and truth serums and the like would be ineffective within a few mere years. The downside was that Voldemort had become interested in the properties of glass. And that's when Severus Snape learned what it meant to suffer, though he would only remember that fact intermittently over the next fifteen years.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Despite the fine English mist that covered the pitch, the surrounding stands were bright with banners and loud with cheers. Harry looked around with satisfaction -- a day at the Quidditch World Cup semi-finals seemed like the perfect reward for surviving his last summer with the Dursleys.
"Program, sir?"
Harry blinked and focused on the pretty blonde who hopefully held out a handful of 250th World Cup commemorative programs. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a handful of knuts and sickles, and bought two -- one for him and one for Ron. Ron and Hermione could share.
Tucking them under his arm, he smiled again at the girl and turned away, never noticing that she'd begun to silently count down from 60 as he began the long climb up to the stands where the Weasleys, and Hermione, waited.
Perhaps the girl counted slowly, or perhaps the Quidditch program portkey was timed a little fast, but she'd only reached seven when Harry Potter raised his foot to bring it down on a step that was precisely 93 from the left turn that would have taken him into the box where his friends waited. It was unfortunate that Fred and George had set off one of their patented gags, causing a mild ruckus that included 20 of the people surrounding them. None of them noticed when Harry Potter blinked out of sight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Portkeys were designed to bring people very quickly from point A to point B -- so quickly that there was little time for the holder of the portkey to cast a spell to interfere with its workings. But previous experiences with being whisked away to a destination he'd have preferred not to visit at all had convinced Harry that it was worth attempting the impossible in the interest of survival. And since the desire to stay alive is a powerful drive in all living things -- not to mention some things that can't be properly called alive -- his previous practice with portkeys had led him to be able to avoid his final destination by, at most 1 foot, 3 ΒΌ inches.
Desperation leant weight to his efforts, however, and so he arrived, not dramatically at the foot of the Dark Lord's throne in an appropriately prostrate position as intended, but in a locked storeroom approximately 50 feet behind it. He did not manage to land on his feet, and found himself face down in a pile of old Death Eater robes. The resulting cloud of dust that billowed up meant that he had to forcefully restrain from sneezes by non-magical means. He didn't know where he was (although he had a good idea of who he was in proximity to, if not his own actual geographic location), and he had no idea whether using magic would call down Death Eaters or other assorted monsters on his head. He decided to stay still and quiet. Quiet as a mouse. Quieter even than that, if he possibly could.
The storeroom was filled with an amazing array of objects both ordinary and frightening. Some frighteningly laughable, such as the discovery that the disused Death Eater costumes showed that Voldemort, once upon a time, had, perhaps, listened to the fashion advice of whoever had designed the costumes for Flash Gordon. Other things were gruesome -- the limbs of various Death Eaters who likely had failed their Lord in some way. Perhaps Voldemort was saving them up to build a new many-armed model out of spare parts.
And then there were the bottles. Bottles and bottles of potions marked with skulls and crossbones -- and if he was too stupid to pay attention to that warning, there was the helpful label "Poison!" Harry felt sure he recognized the spiky handwriting.
But the one thing that fascinated him was the crystal ball. It wasn't large -- more the size of a cricket ball -- and it wasn't clear, like Trelawney's. No, it was a monstrosity, miniature though it was. Dark, ugly, misshapen, with a crack at its heart. But also, weirdly familiar. And weirdly sad. Harry stood and stared at it for a while. Then he sat on the floor and read his Quidditch program, occasionally gnashing his teeth over missing the match.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Voldemort's throne room, the Death Eaters had begun to shuffle their feet nervously. Death Eater Crabbe had Apparated from the Quidditch match as soon as the program had been placed in Potter's hands. They'd all counted to themselves, but it was clear by the time that even the slowest of them had counted backward from 60, that Potter was not going to arrive. And now was the moment that they all dreaded -- which one of them was going to take the blame for this fuck-up?
The tap-tap of Voldemort's fingernails against his throne was nerve-wracking. As was the moment when he suddenly stood and dismissed them.
Retribution would come -- it would just come when the expectation of it grew too great to bear. And it would hurt twice as much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at the Quidditch match, Fred and George had managed to keep from being expelled from the stadium by the skin of their teeth. Arthur Weasleys looked torn between humiliation and righteous anger -- so much so that Fred and George realized they might want to watch the game from elsewhere and leave their family in peace.
But once the remaining party sat down, it wasn't until Ginny asked forlornly "Where's Harry?" that panic began to set in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry had decided to read one of the two Quidditch program, using the tip of his wand to turn the pages. The commemorative program had a new feature -- as the game began, the stats slowly filled themselves in. And the pictures of each player occasionally updated to show a particularly daring play from that day's match. Not as good as being there, but then, not as bad as being killed by Voldemort either.
Idly, he checked the program, which also gave the game-time elapsed on the upper right-hand corner of each page. The game had started well over fifteen minutes ago -- surely the Weasleys must have figured out by now that he was missing. He wavered between trying to escape from the locked storeroom on his own, and hoping that the portkey on his wrist would suddenly work. Dumbledore had given it to him the year before, saying that if he was ever in trouble, he'd be able to use it to get back to Hogwarts simply by taking it off and putting it on again, upside down. Which he'd done repeatedly, but nothing had happened. So it probably meant that wherever he was was spelled against people using portkeys -- not a stupid move for Voldemort to make, unfortunately.
His other hope was that the portkey was also a homing device, and that it could be used to find Harry in the near future. So far it seemed he was safe enough, but he was hungry. And thirsty. And there was nothing in the storeroom that looked remotely like anything to eat or drink -- or, at least, nothing that wouldn't cause a painful death shortly thereafter.
With a sigh, Harry burrowed into the pile of Death Eater cloaks. They were loathsome, yes, and dusty, but he was cold. And, if he were underneath them, anyone coming to check on the storeroom wouldn't see him. He put his own cloak over his head, which kept out the worst of the dust, and tried to sleep. And then, for reasons he didn't quite understand, he emerged from the pile of cloaks, got the weird crystal ball from the shelf, and burrowed back in, tucking it against his chest while he slept.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a good half hour after Harry's disappearance before panic subsided and determination set in. Not to mention the ability to calmly notify Dumbledore and assemble trusted allies. The locator device functioned magnificently -- unfortunately, there was now the problem of getting everyone to the Outer Hebrides without tipping Voldemort off. All in all, ten hours had passed before assorted Hogwarts' faculty members, Aurors, and Arthur Weasleys's trusted associates from the ministry of magic stormed Voldemort's castle.
Voldemort, rather than staying to fight, abandoned his followers to rescue what they could of secret plans and valuable supplies. One by one, however, the Death Eaters, too, Apparated away, leaving Harry's rescuers the field -- one draughty castle that, from a distance looked like nothing so much as a rockfall. Fearfully they trooped behind Dumbledore as he homed in on Harry's signal. The door opened and there was a collective sigh of dismay. Harry was not to be seen.
Finally Arthur Weasleys spoke. "They would have stayed and fought if they'd killed him. Maybe..." And with that a sleepy Harry Potter rose from the Death Eaters robes to find himself surrounded by his rescuers looking very surprised as they sheepishly put away the wands that, mere seconds before, had been pointed at his head.
Harry looked apologetically at Dumbledore, caught Snape's eye and blushed at the utter disdain displayed there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry sat on the stone wall on which he'd been ordered to sit while the rest of the company searched the castle from top-to-bottom. And so he sat, bored, idly fingering the glass ball he'd tucked into robes. It was oddly comforting in its weight and heft, and despite the saner part of his brain insisting that anything found in Voldemort's storeroom wasn't likely to be something he should hang onto, he found himself clutching it defiantly. And when Mr. Weasleys or Dumbedore or one of the Aurors came to check up on him -- "All okay, Harry?" -- he would tuck it away in his cloak protectively. And then it was back to the boredom. Until....
An explosion ripped out one of the walls of the castle, sending shards of rock and bits of paper flying through the air. The paper rustled and floated on the air, pushed languidly this way and that by the resulting air currents.
There was a brief moments of silence after the explosion rocked the island, seemingly to its foundations, and then the air was filled with shouts and exclamations as everyone ran toward the smoking remains of what had been the storeroom. A firm Dumbledore waved everyone away.
"We set off a trap for the unwary, alas. We can only be grateful that we didn't stumble upon it earlier."
Everyone in the party had been well-clear of the area, apparently, since Dumbledore showed little inclination for a head count. It was Arthur Weasleys who quickly tallied everyone up, showing concern that the party's youngest member, a junior Auror by the name of Carter, was safe and sound.
Harry's eyes were drawn to Snape, who looked -- well, he looked the same as always, disdainful of everything and everyone around him. To Harry's eyes, however, there seemed to be an added tension. Guilt? Fear? His crimes uncovered in the presence of those who had suffered, or who knew of those who had suffered because of his former allegiance to Voldemort?
He caught Snape's glance again, but this time it was Snape who looked away first.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dinner was an alarming meal. Cornelius Fudge had found out about the attempt on Harry and had arrived at Hogwarts reeking of concern -- of a sort.
"We don't want these rumors about Voldemort's return leaking out," he repeated for what had to be the 19th time.
No one bothered to reply. Everyone concentrated resolutely on eating their food, although Snape had helped himself to only minuscule portions and had quickly and neatly disposed of them within ten minutes of the meal beginning. Now he simply turned his butter knife over and over in his hand, as if wishing it were a somewhat sharper implement. Harry sympathized.
"Panic. Would cause panic. I know you don't agree with me, Weasleys, but I've had vast experience with these things, and the last thing we want is panic among the general populace." Fudge nodded to himself sagely.
Dumbledore calmly sipped his wine while Arthur Weasleys chewed his mouthful of peas with the attention that jugglers usually reserve for those times when they're juggling flaming chainsaws while tightrope-walking over a pit of crocodiles.
"After all, it's clear that this was really about *former* Death Eaters attempting to sow fear -- while destroying evidence of their previous association with You-Know-Who."
Mr. Weasleys's eyes bulged briefly at the sheer illogic, but Harry couldn't help notice the quick glance he cast at Snape even as Fudge sent a spiteful glance in that same direction.
"The explosion. You can't tell me that that wasn't suspicious! Carter tells me it was filled with phials of what looked to be poison." Fudge turned a pointed gaze in Dumbledore's direction while the hapless Carter suddenly seemed to realize that loose lips sank ships and perhaps careers as well.
Dumbledore seemed impelled to speak. "A booby-trap," he said firmly. "For the unwary."
"And yet Harry Potter was trapped in there for... how long?... Without anything going amiss?" Fudge smiled unpleasantly. "Just what are you trying to hide, Headmaster?"
"Why nothing, Minister Fudge. I'm afraid that you're right. Some people do have overactive imaginations."
The conversation went around in circles after that, and Harry tried to figure out, from what was *not* being said, what was going on.
It had seemed clear -- surely there was now enough proof of Voldemort's return to justify a general warning to the wizard population. The documents, the stores, the devices... Except the storeroom Harry had been had exploded -- after Harry had left it and Dumbledore had deemed it unsafe for any of his rescuers to enter. Only a few had gotten a glimpse into the gloomy room, and one of them had been Snape. Who had promptly turned white, whirled on his heel, and quickly walked away.
The storeroom had been destroyed, Harry could only surmise, to cover up Snape's part in creating that huge stockpile to begin with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even before he'd realized how the depths of his idiocy, he'd taken... precautions. He'd been left to his own devices at first. In an equipment-filled laboratory, no expense spared. With minions at his beck and call. Yes, a blatant attempt to win his gratitude. And trust. He'd recognized that, of course. Too bad he'd failed to recognize that it was all meant to a flatter an ego alarmingly susceptible to such blandishments. And yet he'd continued to assure himself it was all only part and parcel of what he'd always wanted: to be left alone to brew potions.
But then the requests would come in. "How's your research into igniculus acer going, eh? Oh, and Voldemort needs more unguentum adflictatio." And so Snape would duly brew up vats of unguentum adflictatio, all the while convincing himself it didn't matter to him what was done with it. His arguments with himself about his culpability in the resulting actions were much less convincing, especially when he hadn't ever been quite able to convince himself that he didn't really care.
Because he did. And then the request for a stockpile. "Just in case. Our Lord likes to be prepared, hey what?"
The false bonhomie tempted Snape to use Voldemort's messenger as a research subject. Or simply to brain him with the third-best set of scales.
But the stockpile. It was clear that to escape the prison he'd built for himself -- once he'd recognized that he'd walked into it blindly, though he'd thought that his eyes were wide open -- he'd have to create it. But the quantities he was being asked to prepare, well, surely everything couldn't be used all at once. It was simply an example of Voldemort's long-term planning -- something of which Snape approved, in theory at least. And so he'd connived.
"Glass reacts to magic, as you know," he'd explained, mustering a (not inconsiderable) display of arrogance. "Or devices such as Penseives wouldn't be possible. The problem is that we need a sufficient quantity of spelled glass bottles for storage. And it may to be difficult to procure that amount without raising... suspicions."
Of course, it wouldn't really be impossible to procure the number of phials needed, but he had hoped Voldemort wouldn't know that. And he hadn't. "There is a possible solution, although I hesitate to proffer it." And Snape's solution, however distasteful it may have been, from Voldemort's point of view -- that of relying on Muggles -- was accepted.
Except that Muggle glass wasn't non-reactive as he'd claimed. It leached magic, especially with the quantities of borax they used to make it harden at lower temperatures. And the fact that some idiot had come up with an idea to color-code the bottles was a stroke of luck. Cadmium, selenium, sulfur and the like increased the leaching properties by anywhere from 10 to 35 percent. Wizard glass -- pure glass -- was heated at temperatures of more than to 2600 degrees creating pure fused quartz from the finest grade silica, making the perfect container.
The upside had been that Voldemort had taken his advice, and with any luck the quantities of poisons and truth serums and the like would be ineffective within a few mere years. The downside was that Voldemort had become interested in the properties of glass. And that's when Severus Snape learned what it meant to suffer, though he would only remember that fact intermittently over the next fifteen years.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Despite the fine English mist that covered the pitch, the surrounding stands were bright with banners and loud with cheers. Harry looked around with satisfaction -- a day at the Quidditch World Cup semi-finals seemed like the perfect reward for surviving his last summer with the Dursleys.
"Program, sir?"
Harry blinked and focused on the pretty blonde who hopefully held out a handful of 250th World Cup commemorative programs. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a handful of knuts and sickles, and bought two -- one for him and one for Ron. Ron and Hermione could share.
Tucking them under his arm, he smiled again at the girl and turned away, never noticing that she'd begun to silently count down from 60 as he began the long climb up to the stands where the Weasleys, and Hermione, waited.
Perhaps the girl counted slowly, or perhaps the Quidditch program portkey was timed a little fast, but she'd only reached seven when Harry Potter raised his foot to bring it down on a step that was precisely 93 from the left turn that would have taken him into the box where his friends waited. It was unfortunate that Fred and George had set off one of their patented gags, causing a mild ruckus that included 20 of the people surrounding them. None of them noticed when Harry Potter blinked out of sight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Portkeys were designed to bring people very quickly from point A to point B -- so quickly that there was little time for the holder of the portkey to cast a spell to interfere with its workings. But previous experiences with being whisked away to a destination he'd have preferred not to visit at all had convinced Harry that it was worth attempting the impossible in the interest of survival. And since the desire to stay alive is a powerful drive in all living things -- not to mention some things that can't be properly called alive -- his previous practice with portkeys had led him to be able to avoid his final destination by, at most 1 foot, 3 ΒΌ inches.
Desperation leant weight to his efforts, however, and so he arrived, not dramatically at the foot of the Dark Lord's throne in an appropriately prostrate position as intended, but in a locked storeroom approximately 50 feet behind it. He did not manage to land on his feet, and found himself face down in a pile of old Death Eater robes. The resulting cloud of dust that billowed up meant that he had to forcefully restrain from sneezes by non-magical means. He didn't know where he was (although he had a good idea of who he was in proximity to, if not his own actual geographic location), and he had no idea whether using magic would call down Death Eaters or other assorted monsters on his head. He decided to stay still and quiet. Quiet as a mouse. Quieter even than that, if he possibly could.
The storeroom was filled with an amazing array of objects both ordinary and frightening. Some frighteningly laughable, such as the discovery that the disused Death Eater costumes showed that Voldemort, once upon a time, had, perhaps, listened to the fashion advice of whoever had designed the costumes for Flash Gordon. Other things were gruesome -- the limbs of various Death Eaters who likely had failed their Lord in some way. Perhaps Voldemort was saving them up to build a new many-armed model out of spare parts.
And then there were the bottles. Bottles and bottles of potions marked with skulls and crossbones -- and if he was too stupid to pay attention to that warning, there was the helpful label "Poison!" Harry felt sure he recognized the spiky handwriting.
But the one thing that fascinated him was the crystal ball. It wasn't large -- more the size of a cricket ball -- and it wasn't clear, like Trelawney's. No, it was a monstrosity, miniature though it was. Dark, ugly, misshapen, with a crack at its heart. But also, weirdly familiar. And weirdly sad. Harry stood and stared at it for a while. Then he sat on the floor and read his Quidditch program, occasionally gnashing his teeth over missing the match.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Voldemort's throne room, the Death Eaters had begun to shuffle their feet nervously. Death Eater Crabbe had Apparated from the Quidditch match as soon as the program had been placed in Potter's hands. They'd all counted to themselves, but it was clear by the time that even the slowest of them had counted backward from 60, that Potter was not going to arrive. And now was the moment that they all dreaded -- which one of them was going to take the blame for this fuck-up?
The tap-tap of Voldemort's fingernails against his throne was nerve-wracking. As was the moment when he suddenly stood and dismissed them.
Retribution would come -- it would just come when the expectation of it grew too great to bear. And it would hurt twice as much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at the Quidditch match, Fred and George had managed to keep from being expelled from the stadium by the skin of their teeth. Arthur Weasleys looked torn between humiliation and righteous anger -- so much so that Fred and George realized they might want to watch the game from elsewhere and leave their family in peace.
But once the remaining party sat down, it wasn't until Ginny asked forlornly "Where's Harry?" that panic began to set in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry had decided to read one of the two Quidditch program, using the tip of his wand to turn the pages. The commemorative program had a new feature -- as the game began, the stats slowly filled themselves in. And the pictures of each player occasionally updated to show a particularly daring play from that day's match. Not as good as being there, but then, not as bad as being killed by Voldemort either.
Idly, he checked the program, which also gave the game-time elapsed on the upper right-hand corner of each page. The game had started well over fifteen minutes ago -- surely the Weasleys must have figured out by now that he was missing. He wavered between trying to escape from the locked storeroom on his own, and hoping that the portkey on his wrist would suddenly work. Dumbledore had given it to him the year before, saying that if he was ever in trouble, he'd be able to use it to get back to Hogwarts simply by taking it off and putting it on again, upside down. Which he'd done repeatedly, but nothing had happened. So it probably meant that wherever he was was spelled against people using portkeys -- not a stupid move for Voldemort to make, unfortunately.
His other hope was that the portkey was also a homing device, and that it could be used to find Harry in the near future. So far it seemed he was safe enough, but he was hungry. And thirsty. And there was nothing in the storeroom that looked remotely like anything to eat or drink -- or, at least, nothing that wouldn't cause a painful death shortly thereafter.
With a sigh, Harry burrowed into the pile of Death Eater cloaks. They were loathsome, yes, and dusty, but he was cold. And, if he were underneath them, anyone coming to check on the storeroom wouldn't see him. He put his own cloak over his head, which kept out the worst of the dust, and tried to sleep. And then, for reasons he didn't quite understand, he emerged from the pile of cloaks, got the weird crystal ball from the shelf, and burrowed back in, tucking it against his chest while he slept.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a good half hour after Harry's disappearance before panic subsided and determination set in. Not to mention the ability to calmly notify Dumbledore and assemble trusted allies. The locator device functioned magnificently -- unfortunately, there was now the problem of getting everyone to the Outer Hebrides without tipping Voldemort off. All in all, ten hours had passed before assorted Hogwarts' faculty members, Aurors, and Arthur Weasleys's trusted associates from the ministry of magic stormed Voldemort's castle.
Voldemort, rather than staying to fight, abandoned his followers to rescue what they could of secret plans and valuable supplies. One by one, however, the Death Eaters, too, Apparated away, leaving Harry's rescuers the field -- one draughty castle that, from a distance looked like nothing so much as a rockfall. Fearfully they trooped behind Dumbledore as he homed in on Harry's signal. The door opened and there was a collective sigh of dismay. Harry was not to be seen.
Finally Arthur Weasleys spoke. "They would have stayed and fought if they'd killed him. Maybe..." And with that a sleepy Harry Potter rose from the Death Eaters robes to find himself surrounded by his rescuers looking very surprised as they sheepishly put away the wands that, mere seconds before, had been pointed at his head.
Harry looked apologetically at Dumbledore, caught Snape's eye and blushed at the utter disdain displayed there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry sat on the stone wall on which he'd been ordered to sit while the rest of the company searched the castle from top-to-bottom. And so he sat, bored, idly fingering the glass ball he'd tucked into robes. It was oddly comforting in its weight and heft, and despite the saner part of his brain insisting that anything found in Voldemort's storeroom wasn't likely to be something he should hang onto, he found himself clutching it defiantly. And when Mr. Weasleys or Dumbedore or one of the Aurors came to check up on him -- "All okay, Harry?" -- he would tuck it away in his cloak protectively. And then it was back to the boredom. Until....
An explosion ripped out one of the walls of the castle, sending shards of rock and bits of paper flying through the air. The paper rustled and floated on the air, pushed languidly this way and that by the resulting air currents.
There was a brief moments of silence after the explosion rocked the island, seemingly to its foundations, and then the air was filled with shouts and exclamations as everyone ran toward the smoking remains of what had been the storeroom. A firm Dumbledore waved everyone away.
"We set off a trap for the unwary, alas. We can only be grateful that we didn't stumble upon it earlier."
Everyone in the party had been well-clear of the area, apparently, since Dumbledore showed little inclination for a head count. It was Arthur Weasleys who quickly tallied everyone up, showing concern that the party's youngest member, a junior Auror by the name of Carter, was safe and sound.
Harry's eyes were drawn to Snape, who looked -- well, he looked the same as always, disdainful of everything and everyone around him. To Harry's eyes, however, there seemed to be an added tension. Guilt? Fear? His crimes uncovered in the presence of those who had suffered, or who knew of those who had suffered because of his former allegiance to Voldemort?
He caught Snape's glance again, but this time it was Snape who looked away first.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dinner was an alarming meal. Cornelius Fudge had found out about the attempt on Harry and had arrived at Hogwarts reeking of concern -- of a sort.
"We don't want these rumors about Voldemort's return leaking out," he repeated for what had to be the 19th time.
No one bothered to reply. Everyone concentrated resolutely on eating their food, although Snape had helped himself to only minuscule portions and had quickly and neatly disposed of them within ten minutes of the meal beginning. Now he simply turned his butter knife over and over in his hand, as if wishing it were a somewhat sharper implement. Harry sympathized.
"Panic. Would cause panic. I know you don't agree with me, Weasleys, but I've had vast experience with these things, and the last thing we want is panic among the general populace." Fudge nodded to himself sagely.
Dumbledore calmly sipped his wine while Arthur Weasleys chewed his mouthful of peas with the attention that jugglers usually reserve for those times when they're juggling flaming chainsaws while tightrope-walking over a pit of crocodiles.
"After all, it's clear that this was really about *former* Death Eaters attempting to sow fear -- while destroying evidence of their previous association with You-Know-Who."
Mr. Weasleys's eyes bulged briefly at the sheer illogic, but Harry couldn't help notice the quick glance he cast at Snape even as Fudge sent a spiteful glance in that same direction.
"The explosion. You can't tell me that that wasn't suspicious! Carter tells me it was filled with phials of what looked to be poison." Fudge turned a pointed gaze in Dumbledore's direction while the hapless Carter suddenly seemed to realize that loose lips sank ships and perhaps careers as well.
Dumbledore seemed impelled to speak. "A booby-trap," he said firmly. "For the unwary."
"And yet Harry Potter was trapped in there for... how long?... Without anything going amiss?" Fudge smiled unpleasantly. "Just what are you trying to hide, Headmaster?"
"Why nothing, Minister Fudge. I'm afraid that you're right. Some people do have overactive imaginations."
The conversation went around in circles after that, and Harry tried to figure out, from what was *not* being said, what was going on.
It had seemed clear -- surely there was now enough proof of Voldemort's return to justify a general warning to the wizard population. The documents, the stores, the devices... Except the storeroom Harry had been had exploded -- after Harry had left it and Dumbledore had deemed it unsafe for any of his rescuers to enter. Only a few had gotten a glimpse into the gloomy room, and one of them had been Snape. Who had promptly turned white, whirled on his heel, and quickly walked away.
The storeroom had been destroyed, Harry could only surmise, to cover up Snape's part in creating that huge stockpile to begin with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~