Chapter Four: Nightshade
It was with an excruciating headache that I awoke the following morning. I had slept poorly, and found that those disquieting dreams that had been my bedfellows yet lingered in my mind's eye. I took them at first to be the products of the absinthe, but upon further meditation decided that they were in fact coping mechanisms. After all, I thought dryly, here I am in a world not to be believed by any conventional thought; I have done well to not have become completely unhinged.
The damp smell of rain could still be detected, but a bright and golden light fell through the windowpanes, casting geometric designs upon the floor of the room and causing me to throw a hand to my face in an effort to block the rays from my burning eyelids. Birdsong echoed vibrantly throughout both the Hogwarts grounds and my chambers, and with a groan I turned my face to the pillow and strove to bury myself deeper into the bed's downy softness.
As though my misery were not yet complete, a loud knock at the door induced exploding stars behind my eyelids and, gripping the pillow, I wrapped it around my head in a futile attempt to deliver myself anywhere out of the world.
The knocking continued for several moments, as did my attempts at escaping it.
At last, Octavia's voice: "Do you know, I am the one who put the anti-spell lock on this door. I can just as easily remove it."
I thought to let her try to do just that, as it may buy me a few extra minutes of uninterrupted peace, then surmised that the act of spell removal might actually make more of a clamourous disruption than her blasted knocking.
At that conclusion I rolled off of the bed and onto my feet, then made a somewhat crooked path to the door. Upon opening it, Octavia's eyes widened behind her spectacles as she took me in.
"Not a word," I warned her as I stepped aside and allowed her into the suite. I closed the door firmly and turned to glare at her.
She stopped in the center of the room, lips twitching, and I knew she was struggling not to laugh out loud at me.
My eyes narrowed.
She then put a hand into one of her skirt pockets and pulled out a small purple vial. She silently held it out to me.
After a minute, I took the vial and uncorked it. I slowly brought it to my nose and sniffed it suspiciously.
"I took the opportunity to stop by Severus's office this morning and have him make that up for you," she said. "I thought you might be in need of some . . . relief."
I felt my face flush with embarrassment, both at the memory of the potion master's cold indifference the night before, and the fact that he was apparently aware I was suffering from obvious overindulgence. Octavia could not have known my feelings toward the man; she had procured the vial with the best of intentions. I held it up in a mock toast.
"Well, here's to the potions master. Let's see how gifted he truly is, shall we?" With that, I brought the vial to my lips and threw my head back along with its contents.
The foulest taste I had ever known filled my mouth and nasal passages, causing my eyes to water and the bile to rise dangerously in my throat. For a single moment I thought: He has created this revolting flavor on purpose! Was he the sort of man who would find it amusing were I to become violently sick? Perhaps it was even his idea of some terrible joke?
Quite a parade of sentiments must have played out upon my features, because Octavia could hold her mirth in no longer and she guffawed openly and robustly. "Just give it a minute," she gasped. "It always tastes like absolute shit going down."
Her lapse from the rigid formality she had heretofore displayed nearly made me spit up the vile liquid in laughter – here was the girl I had met more than ten years ago in an open grassy field – my dearest friend. I kept my lips sealed and forced the potion down my throat, a bit more comforted in the knowledge that the odious flavor appeared to be a standard component.
After no more than twenty seconds, a calming heat seemed to blossom in my stomach and work its way outward, immediately putting at ease all pain, nausea, and general discomfort – indeed, I felt better than I had in years. I looked up at Octavia in wonder, and she smiled brightly.
"That is absolutely amazing stuff, I'm embarrassed to admit. The potions master could make a fortune if he decided to market that," I said.
"Yes, well, the same could be said for a great many of the things brewed at Hogwarts," replied Octavia. "Now go on and have a bath and get dressed. The school is a big place; we'll be lucky if you see even a quarter of it today."
Feeling in far better sprits, even blissful, I swung open the windows in the bathroom and inhaled the air deeply before walking to the footed tub and running the water.
Against Octavia's suggestion, I had picked from the wardrobe a high-necked black velvet gown with sweeping sleeves, and had decided to pull my hair up and back into a tight bun.
"Were I thinking you wanted to follow my suit in dress I would be highly flattered," she said flatly as we walked down the corridor together. "However, I think you are trying to accomplish something altogether different. Are you applying for a post as librarian, perhaps?"
"Actually, I am attempting to escape those disapproving looks I received last night," I replied imperiously. "I was made aware that my state of dress was . . . unsightly."
"Nonsense. If you mean any catty looks from Miss Dratch, I assure you they were merely due to jealousy. Psht, you sell yourself far too short sometimes, Davina."
"I appreciate your confidence. However, Miss Dratch - the blonde-haired woman seated to the right of Dumbledore, I assume? – was not the only one to give me reproachful looks."
"I will guess you mean Severus, then. I would not be overly consumed with his opinion if I were you. He has his own dark secrets, and it is far too dangerous to get close to him, much less worry yourself about his thoughts."
"Well, I think of him as not so much a dangerous man as perhaps a man in need of solicitude, even . . ."
Octavia stopped and looked down upon me with concern. "Listen to me, Davina. I am your friend, and I would not see you hurt. Severus Snape has an undeniable magnetism, I admit. But I have seen others try to get close to him before, and it never ends well. The man has no heart, nor does he have within him any sense of kindness or light. He will be your ruin, if he allows you even that much. Do you hear me? He would destroy you; it is all he is capable of."
I almost smiled at her, thinking she was having a joke at my expense, but her face registered no levity. Upon this realization, I was slightly taken aback by the severity of her tone and shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze. "I shall take care where he is concerned, Octavia. But you say things that I cannot believe of anyone. Perhaps you have just misunderstood him."
Octavia took my arm and we resumed walking. "If I say terrible things, it is for your sake. Severus is a brilliant scholar, I am not hesitant to say. He is one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, and he knows his potions, among other things -- more so than anyone else in the wizarding world. I do not deny the man that. But you, you I will deny him, if I can help it."
She looked weary and somehow older, and I could think of no reply to ease her mind.
Though her words had confused me, I patted her hand reassuringly.
We spent the greater part of the day touring the classrooms and greenhouses, and I met only a handful of the staff. They were pleasant enough to my face, but I found myself speculating on their true thoughts. I could not help but feel they were unsupportive of my work – would I feel the same were I them? I wondered. Perhaps. The castle elves took some getting used to; though I had heard of them before, upon seeing them I immediately began hypothesizing that they were bred on some strange farm where genetic testing went unchecked and where they could be sold off for a generous fee. Horrible, I thought to myself. There should be governmental regulations on that sort of thing.
Eventually Octavia pulled a small watch from the chatelaine that hung at her waist and flipped open its case.
"Good. Let's have a look around the dungeons, shall we?"
"Dungeons? What could there be to see in the dungeons?" I wondered aloud. I thought of torture devices and dripping stone walls, of madmen locked in cells and rats scuttling along underfoot. I hung back nervously.
"Come on, there's plenty to see," Octavia urged. "Nothing to be worried about. You'll forget you're even in the dungeons soon enough."
I followed her apprehensively as we descended several flights of cold steps into the bowels of the castle. I was surprised to find that the dungeons, though still passable by that term's definition, were in fact cleaner and warmer than I had expected. If there were indeed any rats, they remained hidden.
We wound through several long and darkened corridors, opening doors here and there to investigate, before coming to a larger wooden door at the end of one of the vast underground halls. Octavia put her finger to her lips in a sign to remain silent, and placed her ear against the door. After several moments, she nodded at me, then pushed the door open. A room lay before us, illuminated by rays of afternoon sunlight that angled through the windows, and filled to the brim with books, dried herbs, bottles of every shape and size imaginable, desks, and, quite noticeably, cauldrons. I did not need to wonder as to whom governed this room – Severus Snape had his mark all over it. Newly curious, I stepped through the doorway and began to eye the various tubes, bottles, and liquids that were abundant everywhere. I then climbed up several steps and scanned the titles of the books set behind the potion master's desk.
"Quite fascinating, really. Who would have thought so much could be said about potions and the like?" I said as I pulled a large leather-bound book entitled Leechdoms, Wort Curing, and Starcraft of Early England from a large stack. I paged through it with interest, though immediately set it back on the pile when I came across various infusion recipes calling for crushed leeches. I cleared my throat and found myself looking down at Severus Snape's desk. It was very orderly. I reached out and picked up a feathered quill, then ran my hands over the silky instrument.
"We should only stay for a moment," said Octavia as she reached for her watch. "Everyone will be meeting in the Great . . .oh!"
I looked up, alarmed, to see Octavia holding the silver chain that connected to her watch. The watch was missing from its end.
"The crummy thing must have come off somewhere," she grumbled.
"Would you like me to have a look for it?" I asked, concerned.
"No, no. I must have lost it coming down to the dungeons. I won't be a moment," she reassured me as she opened the door to the outer hallway. "Will you be all right by yourself?"
"Yes, I'll be fine. Are you sure you won't have me with you?"
"Nope. Give me a minute. Have a look around." And with that, she swept out of the room.
I waited for a few long seconds, then turned my attention once again to the desk. Curiosity drove me to place a hand on one of its drawer handles, but propriety stilled it. What sort of man was he? And what sort of professor? Would I find answers somewhere? My fingers curled about the handle.
The whispering of cloth caused me to turn suddenly, startled. A shadow bled forth from a darkened corner, slowly spreading and growing, and what emerged from it was the potions master himself.
I gasped and dropped my hand to my side.
"Have you found anything of interest?" said The Voice. Calm, dangerous.
Immediately I was struck with the inability to speak and, mortified and bewildered, I took a step backward. My way was blocked by the massive pile of books.
Sensing my inadequacy, his ominous shape descended upon me, and for the first time I knew his full effectuality as his eyes sought out mine.
I can now in retrospect only describe it as a glorious beam of light that shines upon one in a world made of darkness; when its attention is elsewhere, one feels suddenly lost and bereft, and does anything necessary to have that glory once again.
So did I feel at that moment, bathed in his light. My back pressed against the ancient leather books; a moth pinned to the very parchment by his black and yawning gaze – and yet I felt divine and complete. He was a living seduction. He was all things. I hated that awareness, despised the illogicality of it. I hardened myself.
"I find it all very . . . curious," I replied slowly and in determination to rend his power over me. "As you say . . . of interest. I suppose."
He gave no reply save the elevation of his left brow.
I looked about awkwardly and made to step down, but he would not remove himself. Rather, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and his long white fingers fanned like pale feathers against his coat sleeves. His eyes were hooded and languid.
"Ah yes," he drawled. "Your pursuits are of a . . . higher intellectual sort."
"I would not say that."
"You would think it."
"I find it absolutely fascinating that you presume to know my thoughts given that we have never been introduced," I snapped. My temper once again had forsaken my attempts at delicacy.
His chin lifted slightly.
"So we have not. Tell me, Davina Knight, are you feeling better after my administrations?"
"I beg your pardon?" I choked. And then I remembered the potion I had swallowed that morning. I decided to remain silent on the matter. I was not about to give him more fodder with which to attack me. I too lifted my chin and stared at a spot over his right shoulder. To look into his eyes again would be my undoing.
His scent even then reached me; clean sandalwood and earth and spice. Was I going mad? I fought to keep Octavia's warnings at the forefront of my thoughts. I straightened and attempted to casually lay a hand on the books behind me.
"I wonder if the potion helped at all. You seem slightly more . . . dour than last night."
Momentarily shocked and unable to think of a scathing retort, I instead gave him a withering look and strove to stare him down. He returned my glower composedly, the corner of his lips giving the slightest hint of a curl. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
And so we stood in challenged silence for the better part of a minute, his unswerving attention causing me to feel wintry and feverish all at once. The tension was unbearable. And yet I was beginning to understand that it was all to his plan; manipulation and control were indeed his lightless sovereigns. I could all but feel his loathing for me - it simmered just beneath his subdued exterior. Why did he dislike me so? And moreover, why was I in the least concerned?
At last he seemed to relax, and he leaned against a nearby railing indifferently. He eyed me with curiosity.
"I understand you study string theory. You hope to explain things using that theory."
This was unexpected.
"I do," I replied simply.
"How do you reconcile the fact that string theory is incompatible with general relativity?" he asked.
I was taken aback. I was unaware that anyone of the magical persuasion was remotely familiar with quantum mechanics. Despite myself, I was secretly impressed.
"Well . . ." I began, "the second string revolution seeks to illuminate general theory rather than stand as a separate theory - -"
"Several quantum theories are non-renormalizable. They do not discard infinities from physical-quantity calculations."
I stared at him, hoping to keep my amazement disguised. "If one replaces one-dimensional extended strings as fundamental objects in the stead of point particles, it can be done."
"That has not been proven."
"It is completely possible," I countered.
"Space-time structure can not be defined by geometry with quantum-mechanical excitations."
"Non-purturbative theories are proving that definition possible every day."
"But it has not been proven." He was now eyeing me with renewed attention. I did not flatter myself to think there was respect in his gaze.
Nonetheless I felt myself warm up to him considerably. Octavia had been right on one count: Severus Snape indeed knew more than one was willing to grant him.
For a singular moment I thought I saw a blur of emotions pass over his face: confusion, relinquishment, sadness. But it was gone before I could study it further. He looked back at me, and the unjustifiable anger was once again present.
"I must then assume that you are one of the faculty who believes my work to be purposeless?" I questioned with a slight smile, trying to recapture an amiable spirit in the conversation.
"Not only purposeless, but profoundly and ultimately worthless," he answered matter-of-factly. Gone was the momentary implication of interest -- his features had once again fallen into uninspired apathy. "Allow me to go even further."
He rose and took several resolute paces forward, pressing me further still into the stacks of antiquated books behind me. When he was mere inches from me, towering above me, he bent forward slightly as though to whisper something in my ear. My heart skipped like a toy too tightly wound, and I instinctually closed my eyes in anticipation.
After several hushed heartbeats the following words were spoken into my ear deeply and with deceptive gentleness: "It is, Miss Knight, absurd, ill-judged, and the grandest of follies. You are a fool to attempt it, and in the very end you will find you are certain of nothing. It is all one and the same, you see, but you will not be the one to discover this truth. You have neither the skill nor the intelligence. There is only failure in you. You would do well to turn around and go back to London."
He remained bent over me, his breath stirring some curls that had fallen loose about my ear, his lips almost scorching the pulse in the column of my neck. I kept my eyes closed and fought to remain calm through both my rising fury and corrupt desire. His hair brushed softly against my cheek. A gentle shiver racked my body, and I felt hot tears rising dangerously beneath my lashes. I stood, mute, confused, and undeniably disappointed, and eventually sensed him stepping away from me.
My chest rising and falling, I lifted my eyes to see him standing before me with his arms crossed once again in front of his chest. He was watching me with deep interest. And then, blinking back tears, I saw the unmistakable stamp of triumph slowly creep over his features. A pale shaft of sunlight illuminated his glittering eyes, and I knew then that he was aware of what he did to me; that it was an amusement with which he was wholly familiar.
"You are wrong," I breathed. I unfurled myself and poured forth into my tone all of the detestation and loathing I could muster. "I will not be bullied or frightened into giving up. Certainly not by you. What do you know of it? You are content to rule over your libational Pandæmonium like the angel of the pit. You wish to remain a slave to that which is familiar to you, and frustrate those who do not wish it? I dream of far greater things. You may stay and ulcerate in your dungeon like the foul thing you are; I assure you it makes no difference to me!"
As I flung these words at him I caught a fleeting glance of his face – his cruel smile had faded, though not enough to remove it altogether – before I brushed past him and ran for the door. I had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of witnessing my tears as they let loose and rolled freely down my cheeks.
I threw open the door and ran headlong into Octavia, who was in the process of opening it from the other side. She looked from my face to the black form standing beyond me before I wrenched past her and flew down the darkened corridor, she at my heels. After climbing several flights of stairs I gave into my rage and hurt and sobbed openly. I slid down the wall until I crumbled in a velvet heap upon the stone floor. Octavia's arms were about me in an instant.
"I am so sorry dearheart. So sorry I wasn't there. He wasn't supposed to be in the classroom. He was scheduled in Dumbledore's office, and I thought it a good time. What did he say? What did he say to you?!" she pressed her palms into my burning cheeks.
I could only shake my head limply. It was too confusing to explain, even to her. How could I tell her that he had exposed my fear on so many levels? The fear of failure. The fear of not belonging. The fear of disapproval, of misunderstanding, of ridicule. And deeper yet, the fear of the unexplainable attraction I had for him. And upon the inception of that thought, the fear and realization of rejection.
She did not question me further, but simply held me.
Later I returned to my rooms, and I did not leave them again that night. Indeed, not for many nights.