Author's note: The 'WHAT IF…' one-shots were written mainly as mini-challenges for the Panic Parables angst group. They take a scene from canon and develop it in a slightly different direction.
'What If (1)' : In Book 1, what if Snape and Filch had caught Harry when he was prowling the corridors in his Invisibility Cloak?
This story therefore takes place in Harry's year 1. It assumes that the reader knows the effect on the onlooker of the Mirror Of Erised.
WHAT IF…(1)
INVISIBLE ATTRACTION
By Bellegeste
"You asked me to come directly to you if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library - Restricted Section."
"Restricted Section? Well, they can't be far, we'll catch them."
Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape came around the corner ahead. They couldn't see him, of course, but it was a narrow corridor and if they came much nearer, they'd knock right into him - the cloak didn't stop him from being solid.
He knew he should back away, try to escape, but he seemed to have lost all control of his legs. They felt weak, as though he'd just got up out of bed after being ill for a very long time. He became aware of a queasy, wobbling sensation just behind his knee-caps. A strange, red pounding reverberated loudly in his head and chest, and he realised he was hearing the adrenalin-charged beating of his own heart - uninterrupted by any intake of breath. In his panic, he had forgotten to breathe.
Snape and Filch were nearly upon him now. Walking side by side they virtually blocked the corridor - there was certainly no room for them to pass by without cannoning straight into him. Harry made some desperate calculations - behind him lay a dark, unknown corridor, leading away into a part of the castle he had never visited before. Alone, with no lamp and with Snape, Filch and, undoubtedly, Mrs Norris on the prowl, his chances of getting away undetected and of finding his way back to Gryffindor without getting lost were skeletally slim. It would be difficult enough in daylight.
Ahead of him, on the other hand, was a familiar corridor that would take him directly to the stairway, and from there down a couple of flights to the Gryffindor Common Room. He could be through the portrait hole and back in bed in five minutes if he ran.
There was just one problem - or rather two problems, if you counted the joint approaching menace of the caretaker and Potions master as separate entities. He would have to get past them - but how?
Then, from the shadows, came a high-pitched, feline "Prrrpp!" and the scrawny shape of Mrs Norris slipped out of the night, materialising between the two men like a silent, dusky streak of mange and malice. Snape side-stepped in distaste, putting a few inches of distance between his feet and those pernicious, primly trotting paws.
Harry saw his chance. It was risky, but he'd have to take it. Willing his legs to propel him forwards, with a mighty bound he leaped for the narrow gap, clearing the cat by at least a foot. Sensing his presence, Mrs Norris hissed and spat at the air, arching her bony back, bristling with big fur, bottle-brush tail fluffed, feral and ferocious.
"What is it, my sweet? Can you smell the little bastard?" Filch's voice was slimy with suspicion. Harry heard the first question, and then an abrupt, garrotting pain sliced into his windpipe, yanking him to a complete halt in mid-air. A wrenching, tearing sound grated on the blackness like the fingernails of despair. The hem of his invisibility cloak had snagged on the sharp-edged visor of the suit of armour, the clasp had ripped and the cloak lay in empty, crumpled folds on the cold floor. Harry stumbled and fell, exposed, defenceless.
"Well, well! Mr Potter!" There was no mistaking the sadistic delight in Snape's voice.
A heavy, heeled boot pressed into the small of Harry's back, pinning him firmly to the ground. Snape towered over him, triumphant, like a white hunter who has just bagged his first tiger.
"Ooh, ho! Didn't I tell you, Professor? Didn't I say it would be one of those Gryffindor varmints?" Filch's pleasure at Harry's capture was almost equal to Snape's. From his prone position, his cheek flat to the floor, Harry could only see the caretaker's shoes, his weight shifting from one foot to the other and back again in a celebratory shuffle of evil glee. He was probably rubbing his hands together with joy too, thought Harry, sourly.
"Invisibility cloak, eh? Now where would a kid like you be laying his filthy, thieving hands on one of those, eh?" Filch couldn't resist giving Harry a nudge in the ribs with his shoe, prising him up and then letting him drop suddenly as though he were some heavy stone lying on top of a nest of scorpions.
"We'll be confiscating that for starters, wouldn't you say, Professor? Confiscating it for a very long time. Oh yes, a very long time! Out of bounds after dark; in the Restricted Section of the library… things don't look too good for you, boy! Using an unauthorised magical garment for the purposes of concealment and deception…? Oh, ho! You're going to regret the day you were born, boy… Just you wait. Oh yes, I've got just the thing for you… teach you a lesson you won't forget in a hurry… Will he, eh, Professor?"
He gave a phlegmy chuckle and licked his lips, salivating at the prospect of Harry's coming punishment.
"That will do, Filch!" Snape snapped at the caretaker, scotching his anticipation. "I think I am capable of handling this matter. You will leave the disciplining of this miscreant to me."
The pressure on Harry's back eased.
"Get up, Potter!"
Harry struggled to his feet. Before he could even think of making a run for it, Snape's cold fingers closed upon his shoulder, the chill of that icy grasp penetrating his flesh to the bone.
"The cloak, Filch," Snape demanded. The caretaker gave an unctuous leer.
"Oh you can leave that to me, Professor."
"I said, give me the cloak." Then Snape lowered his voice: "Whatever sordid use you have planned for that garment, Filch, I refuse to be party to it. You may resume your patrol of the west corridors."
The prize wrest from his clutches, Filch retreated, muttering under his foul breath, bitterly disappointed on several counts. He made one final bid:
"I could be of assistance in the execution of… your duties…" he suggested in a nasal whine.
"I doubt it."
"Couldn't I just watch?" he wheedled.
"Enough!" Snape's wand was out and a series of sparky, indigo fire-cracker pops hustled the grumbling, thwarted caretaker into the gloom.
"Finally, Potter, we find ourselves alone…"
Harry stood before the Potions master, quaking. In just his pyjamas, without even the sheer fabric of the cloak for protection, he felt totally vulnerable, almost naked. Alone! With no witnesses! He was at Snape's mercy.
"Expelliarmus!" Snape performed the dis-arming spell as a precaution, though he couldn't see where Harry might have concealed his wand. Nothing happened. A sneer of contempt creased the unpleasant, scowling features.
"Evidently you are more stupid than I thought, Potter. Or naïve. Or simply careless. It is dangerous to walk the castle after dark; without a wand it is doubly so. If it weren't so sickening, your ignorance would be amusing. Alright. Move!"
Snape's wand jabbed him between the shoulder blades. Where was he taking him? To Dumbledore? To the dungeons?
"Where to, Sir?"
"Do you expect me to stand about in a corridor, listening to your pathetic excuses? It is a little public for what I have in mind…"
Harry quailed. Snape was positively savouring his fear, tasting its salt, drawing cruel inspiration from the pungency of panic. The black eyes glittered with demonic anticipation.
"In here."
A jack-hammer pulse of energy exploded from the raised wand, sending Harry sprawling through an open doorway on his left, and into a disused classroom. For the second time that evening he stumbled to the floor, and this time stayed on his bruised knees, supplicant, ready to pray if that was what it took to survive…
Very deliberately, Snape closed the door behind them. It seemed to Harry that his last lifeline had been severed and he was trapped in a cell with a lethal predator who was, even now, stalking him, biding his time, moving in for the kill.
With a nonchalant flick of the wand the Potions master lit a single candle and with a functional "Inverto!" righted one of the upturned desks that were stacked against the wall. He leaned against it, long legs stretched straight, arms crossed in front of his chest. In this pose, which somehow managed to appear both casual and threatening, he surveyed Harry. And waited.
Harry's sweat-soaked pyjama jacket clung to his back like a damp rag, steeped in guilt. Shakily, keeping a wary eye on Snape, he raised himself to his feet, toes numb and buzzing with 'pins and needles' - it was either that or keel over sideways - and he felt he cut an abject enough figure as it was.
The silence intensified; distilled apprehension oozed from every pore. Harry's mouth was dry. He was seized by a powerful urge to confess, to appeal for clemency, to throw himself on Snape's mercy (if such a thing existed), but a stubborn fibre of inner defiance held him in check. If this was a waiting game, he could play it too.
He caught the Professor sliding a surreptitious glance down to his wrist, monitoring the time.
"I am in no particular hurry, Potter." The voice was smooth, cold-blooded, calculating. "I am waiting for an explanation for your conduct. I am prepared to wait all night if necessary. I suspect that you will tire of this foolishness long before I do…"
Harry returned the master's stare, dripping with hostility.
"And an apology - however insincere - would be a politic gesture," Snape added, "if you know what's good for you…"
The dark eyes drilled mercilessly into Harry's brain. Desperately he tried to banish all incriminating thoughts of Nicholas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone, and to concentrate on something unrelated such as bananas or his Nimbus 2000 and the rules of Quidditch. Snape must not realise that he was onto him. A puzzled frown clouded Snape's features.
"Very well, if that's how you want to play it…" He rose to his feet. Harry gave an involuntary flinch and stepped away. Snape stalked across the room, pivoting sharply and retracing his steps towards the terrified but resolutely unrepentant boy.
"Very well," he repeated. "You have been given ample opportunity to account for your behaviour tonight. Unwisely…" He was very close to Harry now, looming over him, a dread incarnation of all that was Dark. There was no doubt whatsoever in Harry's eleven year old mind that this man was Evil. "…unwisely, you have chosen not to avail yourself of this opportunity."
The black figure took a further couple of strides, then swung round again, a finger directed accusingly at Harry's face.
"You were caught roaming the castle after hours. Yes or no? Yes or no?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You were in the Restricted Section of the library?"
"No, Sir." Snape couldn't prove it. Let him try.
"What were you doing?"
"Nothing, Sir."
"Nothing? Answer me, Potter. What were you doing?"
"Sleep-walking, Sir."
"Pah!" With a snort of exasperation, Snape wheeled away a few angry paces. When next he accosted Harry, the spikes of irritation had been soothed to a satin finish, the silky voice deceptively calm, with the cool, elusive sheen of a moon-shadow.
"An invisibility cloak. That is a rare and valuable possession."
"Yes, Sir."
"And to whom does it belong, Potter?"
"It's mine, Sir."
"Don't lie to me, boy. How would you come by a garment like that? I shall ask you again - whose cloak is it?"
With a sudden, fluid movement of his right hand, Snape grabbed a fistful of the boy's fringe, jerking Harry's head back so that his startled face was tilted upwards. Frightened green eyes, wide in alarm, met the probing scrutiny of Snape's gaze. Then the dark eyes dropped to the lightning scar, laid bare, plainly visible without the veil of hair. A twinge of pain sliced Harry's forehead.
"It is mine, Sir. It belonged to my father - "
Snape recoiled, shaking his fingers free of the strands of fringe, as though from the stinging tentacles of a jellyfish.
"Your father!" he spat in contempt. "The infamous, arrogant, affluent James Potter. I might have known."
"Ask Professor Dumbledore," Harry suggested, snatching at the hope that he might yet claim sanctuary with the Headmaster.
"Oh, I shall." Harry's heart leaped. "But not now." Harry's heart sank.
"First we must address the question of your punishment."
He made it sound as though Harry might have some say in the matter. He was toying with him, tantalising him, flexing his superiority, enjoying it. Then Snape drew himself up, tall, formidable, intimidating. He spoke harshly now.
"Rules, Potter, do not exist merely to be broken by ignorant, bumptious, insolent upstarts like you. Rules exist for your benefit, to facilitate the running of the school, to protect the students. Do you believe that your celebrity entitles you to some exemption? That you may flout the rules with impunity?"
"No, Sir!"
"What do you think happens to students who break the rules?"
Snape had been tapping his wand against the palm of his left hand, marking time. The sinister rhythm was hypnotic and Harry felt himself repelled and drawn by the regular, tight thwack of stick against skin. As he watched, mesmerised and appalled, it seemed as though the wood were lengthening, and with each tap growing more whippy. It cut the air with a whirring swish.
Snape's eyes gleamed with maniacal intent, satisfaction crooking his thin lips into a twisted smile. Harry again felt the prickle of fear down his spine. With the entire range of punishments available to a wizard, with the full, punitive potential of the magical world at his disposal, was Snape really going to resort to a good, old-fashioned thrashing? Was he going to cane him?
Harry was backing away now, towards the far end of the classroom. Perhaps he could hide in some dimly lit recess, or find a way out - perhaps there was another door… perhaps he could run…
"Stay where you are, boy. I haven't finished with you yet," Snape snarled.
Harry sidled faster then ran, heading for the comforting anonymity of dark shadows.
"Lumos!" All hopes of concealment were bleached out in a blaze of brightness. Reflected light bounced around the room, illuminating even the shadiest corners. Harry gaped. Leaning against the back wall was an enormous mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame. It had some kind of inscription carved around the top, in a foreign language. Harry didn't have time to read it or work out what it said. He just saw the first word: Erised.
In the gloom he had not noticed this mirror before. If he could just squeeze behind it… would Snape be able to drag him out? He knew, deep down, that hiding was futile - one twitch of that wand could suck him out of any space like fluff up a vacuum nozzle, but he had to try. Diving to the floor, he squirmed into the gap between the gilt frame and the skirting.
From his bolt hole he could hear Snape's exclamation of annoyance, and heavy footfalls on the floorboards as he strode after him in pursuit. They stopped suddenly. Silence. Harry held his breath. He estimated that Snape was standing only a few feet away, directly in front of the mirror. An agonising stillness settled on the room. There was no noise. What was this - another 'cat and mouse' waiting game?
Then a soft sound escaped into the void. An eerie, strangled gasp, not a sob - Snape would not be capable of anything so human - and an anguished whisper shivered the night air.
"No! Oh, Merlin, no! It can't be…"
Harry had to see what was going on. What could have happened to halt Snape so dramatically in his tracks? It might be a trap. Cautiously, Harry edged up behind the frame and peeped out.
Snape was staring into the mirror as though he'd seen a ghost. In the brightness his dark eyes flashed, the pupils blacker than ever, unnaturally dilated. His face, paled to a sickly white, was gaunt and haggard in the harsh light, with two spots of high colour flushing his cheeks. A death mask.
"No! It can't be!" he murmured again, brokenly, his voice husky and hollow with disbelief. "Why now? Don't… don't do this to me… it's too late…"
Unaware that he was being observed, the Potions master heaved a shuddering sigh and wrenched his gaze from the mirror. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head sadly, his eyes oddly glazed, and with a distant, misted expression - an expression, Harry would have said, had it been anyone other than Snape, of longing and despair. A sudden spasm contracted the Professor's jaw, and, for a second, the taut line of his lips slackened, trembled.
He's finally cracked, thought Harry, feeling more cheerful. He's talking to mirrors now! He knew the magic mirrors in the castle could be somewhat opinionated, but it was usually best to ignore them, not argue back or engage them in debate. Surely Snape would have learned that by now?
Was he having some kind of a seizure, Harry then wondered? That happened sometimes to grown ups, didn't it, to old people? Maybe he'll do us all a favour and drop dead. It would save everybody a lot of trouble. But however much he hated Snape, he couldn't just stand by and watch him die.
"Sir?"
Snape's eyes had drifted back to the mirror, lured by the power of an irresistible, invisible attraction. With an effort he forced himself to focus on the cowering boy.
"Go back to your room, Potter," he said flatly.
"But, Sir…?"
"Do you dare question me? Back to your room, boy! Now! What are you staring at? Go! Before I change my mind." He jerked his thumb violently in the direction of the door.
Not believing his luck, Harry scrambled out. As he fled he cast a rapid glance over his shoulder to try to see what was so fascinating, what had so entranced the professor, what could have elicited such an emotional response from the icy heart of the Potions master. But there was nothing there. As far as Harry could tell, the man was admiring nothing but his own hideous reflection. He was mad - weird, evil and mad. Harry had suspected it all along.
Harry sped into the corridor, leaving Snape alone with his vanity.
End of story.
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