DISCLAIMER: If you think I'm JK Rowling, please Google "treatment for insanity" and follow the directions.
DEDICATION: This chapter is dedicated to RivendellWriter, my first reviewer. Because deep inside, we all want to be the center of attention.
It Falls to the Young Chapter III:
The World and the Cheese Toast are Conspiring Against Me
"But what does it do?"
Severus sighed. He'd been doing that a lot lately.
"It puts people to sleep." Permanently. But you don't need to know that. He carefully poured a beaker of leech blood into the cauldron, where it hissed as if in pain.
"Oh. Why are you making it? Is it for Professor Albus?"
"Sort of. I'm doing a favor for... someone he knows. Why don't you finish your picture now?"
"Okay!" And with a youthful enthusiasm he never remembered having, Nymphadora grabbed a colored quill off his bed and continued to work on her latest masterpiece.
The girl had been spending a lot of time in the cellar lately. Merlin knew how she'd gotten the password, though he had his suspicions concerning Dumbledore's involvement—he's always going on about "being more social," and who else would want her anywhere near me? He was hardly the type adults desired to influence their impressionable children. And Black is her cousin, after all. Shouldn't she be following him around? They certainly seemed fond enough of each other. Severus had walked in on one of their tickling fests in the kitchen just yesterday—and left without breakfast, courtesy of Black's fist.
Andromeda and Ted Tonks had moved into Headquarters as well, at least officially—with their house destroyed they had little choice. But the two elder members of the Tonks family were spending a lot of time at their research facility; they were supposedly on the verge of discovering something he could only classify as very important and very vague.
That left Nymphadora in a house full of Order members who spoiled her shamelessly but simply did not have the time to supervise her. And then there were the four lazy prats who simply would not assume the responsibility, even if she was Black's cousin.
Which left her to her own devices, all of which seemed to involve Severus for reasons he was sure would forever remain inexplicable. After a day or two he had decided to tolerate her company; it was... satisfying... to have a civil conversation with someone besides Dumbledore, even if the someone was a clumsy, overenthusiastic almost-six-year-old. And she's decent, for a kid—more polite than most of the Order members, does what she's told, and significantly smarter than the Gryffindors. Her willingness to nick him food from the kitchen didn't hurt either. He was almost fond of her.
Of course, not even the Dark Lord himself would ever convince Severus to admit that.
So here he was trying to brew a poison that would have given their Potions professor trouble while holding up his end of her rambling conversation and admiring the random scribbles she produced by the dozen. He had recently decided that, after anti-Cruciatus potion and the Headmaster, art supplies were what most preserved his sanity these days. Nymphadora was dangerously clumsy around his volatile brewing materials, but give her some colored quills and the world was out of danger for at least an hour or so.
He dropped slices of dragon heart into the cauldron, one by one. The potion shimmered violently and he worried their size had been a millimeter or two off, but soon it stilled and turned the murky orange shown in the reference book. A rare smile spread across Severus' face—not many wizards of any age could perfect such a potion on their first try. He yawned, glanced at the clock, and said something which reinforced the opinion that he should not be allowed around impressionable children.
"Nymphadora, it's almost nine o'clock. Get upstairs." She stuck out her lower lip in a pout, but a glare from Severus convinced her not to argue. Clutching her papers and the ever-present stuffed cat, she ran up the stairs and turned to say goodnight.
"Goodnight, Sev-rus!"
"Goodnight." The door slammed shut and he winced. The inability to exist at a volume lower than ninety decibels seems to run in the Black family. Severus cleaned off his desk, bottled and corked the poison, and stashed it in the bottom desk drawer—the warded drawer that contained his existence as a Death Eater.
He glanced at the clock again; nine fifteen. His stomach growled in protest against being neglected and he reluctantly climbed the stairs that marked the boundary of his sanctuary. As he made his way through the lonely grey corridors of the house he heard raised voices emerging from behind the library door. He would have ignored them had he not heard his name, repeatedly, enhanced with some more words parents did not like their children exposed to.
After completing his routine check for any malignant spells, Severus put his ear to the keyhole and listened.
"—completely ludicrous! He could kill all of us in our beds tonight—or tell You-Know-Who everything we've planned—"
"You could at least give him the benefit of the doubt, Moody."
"What doubt—he's a Slytherin! We know there's a spy attending Hogwarts and it might very well be him!" There were a few murmurs of agreement from others, most notably Potter's father. He was the Auror with a commanding stride and eyes that threatened every time Severus approached. The man's mind was iron trustworthiness, and he was rumored to be invaluable in a duel, but still... It's nice to know there's a solid resistance against the Dark Lord, but why do they all have to be conspiring against me as well?
"We can't prove anything, Alastor, and until we can we have to trust Albus," said McGonagall. "Until we have proof—if we ever have proof—that he's taken the mark..."
"That's just it, woman!" Moody snapped. "Pull his sleeve up and see for yourself—let's end this debate!"
"You know what Dumbledore said—"
"But at the same time, Gideon," said Potter's mum, "as long as he's in the same house as the children—after what happened to Nymphadora... It worries me. I can't sleep until I know."
"I agree wholeheartedly, Eleanor. But still..."
Severus pulled away from the door. Nothing new there. They've been having the same argument for weeks now. He made it to the kitchen without further incident, purloined some leftovers from the evening meal and poured himself a glass of milk. Halfway through the potatoes rapid, scurrying footsteps alerted him to Nymphadora's approach. Doesn't she ever sleep?
"Hi Sev-rus!" she said, bouncing up and down in excitement.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"No. I was playing with Sirius and his friends and they made me go away the gits but guess what I found! It's special!" She shoved a stack of parchment into his hand. Severus only had to glance at the first page and discern Potter's handwriting before he knew it was probably rubbish. But then again...
"How do you know it's special?"
"'Cause they tried to hide it from me!" she squealed. Severus looked back down at the papers and flipped through them—Transfiguration notes, Charms assignment, completely botched Potions essay, love letter to Lily Evans—hmmm, remember that for emergency blackmail—History of Magic essay... and...
Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs'
Notes on Becoming an Animagus
"What's it say? What's it say? Is it a secret message?"
"It's just homework," he lied, discretely removing the relevant papers. "Why don't you take these back to where they came from—we wouldn't want to upset your dear cousin."
"Only homework? Bugger. Okay!" she grabbed the still-large stack of parchment and raced off to parts of the house he'd never explored. Severus leaned back in his chair, intrigued by the girl's find. Why would the Gryffindors want to become Animagi? That takes work—something they clearly revel in avoiding. He cleaned up hurriedly, foregoing the rest of his meal in favor of looking over their notes. He wasn't really that hungry, anyway—it was a little known fact that long-term exposure to the Cruciatus wrecked havoc with one's digestive system.
"Look everyone, the cheese toast hath sent forth yet another miracle to humble us mere mortals! Snivellus hath emerged from beneath the ground where he lives with the rest of the snakes and slugs—"
"Shut it, Black," Severus snarled, yanking a chair out from the kitchen table and trying to ignore the complete prat on the opposite end, who was currently talking to his lunch like the lunatic he was.
"Oh, great and almighty cheese toast, pray tell me what we hath done to be subjected to Snivellus' odious and most disfigured presence! Hath we not burned enough heathen sacrifices to ye?" Potter snorted and milk flew out his nose.
"...Malfoy said we're to burn it to the ground. Should be fun, eh?"
"Hath we not properly groveled before your feet, oh master of us all?"
"...now kiss the robes of your Master..."
"Hath we not—"
"SHUT IT, BLACK!" Severus shouted, glaring across the table and drawing his wand. Black and Potter drew theirs as well, smirking at each other; Lupin frowned and Pettigrew bent over awkwardly so he wouldn't miss any of the action while retrieving his fork from the floor.
"What's going on in there?" called a voice from the drawing room.
"Nothing, Mum," Potter answered, wand still at the ready. Severus shot them the nastiest glare he could summon forth, grabbed a sandwich from the plate and stalked back through the doorway. Bloody gits. I hope the giant squid eats the lot of them.He took a bite of the sandwich and gagged—peanut butter and banana. Disgusting.
Sev-rus was walking away from the kitchen and he looked mad. He was getting closer and closer and closer and closer and—didn't he see her?
"Hi Sev-rus!" Nymphadora exclaimed, looking almost straight up to the ceiling to see his face. Sev-rus leapt backward in surprise, sighed big like Daddy did when he had to work late, then swept past her without saying a word. He didn't even say hi to me or anything!
Disgruntled, Nymphadora walked into the kitchen, Kitty in tow. There's Sirius! And James! And Remus! And... Peter. I don't like Peter—he smiles all wrong. The four were talking.
"What's Snivellus' problem?" Sirius asked. "He's been even worse than usual lately."
"I didn't know that was possible," said Nasty Peter.
"He looked tired. Pass the mustard, please."
"Can do." James threw the jar to Remus. "And being tired is no excuse for being a git. Especially when you're already a bloody—"
"James Richard Potter! Watch your language!" That was Mrs. Potter who had entered through the other doorway. She was nice and smelled like cleanness and gave out biscuits sometimes and would pat Nymphadora's head and say...
"Nymphadora, dear, why don't we get you some lunch?" Mrs. Potter scooped her off the floor and settled her in a chair already out from under the table. She went about preparing a plate, talking to the boys as she worked: "What was that about, James?"
"Snape," he spat. "Why Dumbledore—"
"I know, dear. Just... try to stay out of his way, all of you. Remember what the Headmaster said," she warned, gesturing with the butter knife.
"He's the one who came in here! He's trying to ruin our summer!" Sirius scowled at his cheese toast.
"Padfoot, this is the kitchen. It's lunchtime. He came in here to get a sandwich. I think you're getting as paranoid as Moody," said Remus.
"But then, this is Sniv—uh, Snape, that we're talking about. He's a nutter. I bet Nymphadora agrees with me." Peter smiled at her and the others grinned. Nymphadora made her pouting face; she liked Sev-rus a lot better than Nasty Peter, even when Sev-rus was grumpy.
"Here you go, dear," said Mrs. Potter, placing a plate before her. "Eat up." Nymphadora complied.
He woke up screaming.
There was a little boy and his older sister. They hid under the faded sofa cushions. They were muggles, they didn't know what was happening. The boy screamed as his sister died, clutching her disheveled bathrobe as if to pull her back to life.
There was an old wizard, hair as grey as Dumbledore's. His wrinkled hands coaxed delicate and valuable plants to grow in a way that would have made Professor Sprout envious. He threw curses but was surrounded and outnumbered; the last thing his deep blue eyes ever saw was the Dark Mark hanging over the smoking rubble which had once been his greenhouse.
There was an overweight man who wore red flannel pajamas spotted with the occasional dog hair. He watched helplessly, sobbing, as his wife and sister were raped and killed. They both had lovely hair that smelled of shampoo—black and golden curls which fell lifelessly onto the carpet.
There was another lengthy list of potions to brew for the Dark Lord, plus a few more ideas to pursue for Dumbledore's lycanthropy research. He would get no more sleep tonight; he needed to start working.
There was a clock on the wall. It declared the time to be two thirty-three in the morning.
There is a wise saying: Life usually stinks at two thirty-three in the morning.
Severus thought it stunk more often than that.
Severus: READERS! Comment! Now! Or I'll use your fingers in my next potion.
Insightful!reviewer: How are we supposed to review without any fingers?
Severus: ...
UPDATED: July 1, 2007. I felt like making my A/Ns wittier.
Insightful!reviewer: Yeah, they do need work.
Author: ...
