Disclaimer: Own's she does not, sad this makes her. The force is strong in this one, but will she has not to own. Belongs not Harry Potter, to her. Belongs not Star Wars to her. The Jelly claims not.
Notes: WHEE! Three reviews on one chapter! It really made me so happy I couldn't help but post another one (seriously, I'm dancing around my living room and trying to type notes at the same time). I actually kinda like this chapter – lots of different stuff happens: and there is Ron. I always feel so bad for Ron...
Lanfear1: Again – thank you for your review, maybe one of these days I'll get more than a sentence from you .
Falcon-Rider: (since I didn't send you a personal email this will be excruciatingly long) I'm not sure what I said to make you review, but it was damned effective! Thank you SO MUCH! Really, your review made me ridiculously happy – I just want to scoop you up and dance you around a maypole. Seriously, I got the email and said 'EEEE!'. Very sad, very fangirlish, absolutely made my day. Anyway, in answer to your questions… for the most part you'll just have to wait grins. Urm, it may seem a bit unusual the way I did things between Harry and Ron, but… I don't think there's really going to BE a reaction on the behalf of Ron, it's just… why tell him? They were fighting – right? Heh. You'll see why in chapter 10 or so. Also – I really do not feel remorse about telling you this (or anyone this) Marjorie is really just there to get Hermione out of the way laughs Originally she had a higher purpose, but it's been about 2 years since I wrote her introduction and I realized (slowly) that her existence was so thoroughly and revoltingly cliché that she became somewhat… inconsequential. I wish she had some nefarious scheme, it would make her SO much cooler, but… nope. Just there to get rid of Hermione so I can pursue a Draco/Harry thing. The slash in this story is slow, I apologize, but I'm glad you've liked it thus far.
NeverbirdI love and revere you, you know this, you wrote so many complimentary things about me I was giddy for the rest of the evening. Thank you.
Warnings: Character Death. And existential angst of course, but character death. I tend not to pull punches, when I'm committed to writing unmitigated angst I kill a lot of people.
Chapter 8: Experiments
Oh it was the perfect practical joke, nearly as good as the living swamp courtesy of the Weasley Twins, not nearly as graceful, and perhaps not as pointed, but still a damned good prank in retaliation of Zabini's tortuous shoe gag. How a Slytherin managed to charm every pair of Gryffindor shoes to run away during the night was still a mystery, they had been recovered on the lake shore, having been tossed out by the merfolk with an angry letter to the headmaster regarding his unruly students, and any evidence of Slytherin's involvement was discarded as a mystery. The gloat on Zabini's face at their bare footed toes was a dead tell though. It took three days to 'properly' dry their shoes out, three days in which they were happily excused from Care of Magical creatures, because it just wasn't the same without Hagrid.
It had taken work, begging, and some sincere groveling but Ron had managed to convince his brothers to let him test their Dye-Dung Derringers, but he had prevailed in the end, and it was all worth it. There was a small antechamber with thick tapestries, plants, and two suits of armor guarding the east entrance that separated the honey-combed staircases and narrow corridors of Slytherin territory from the main large atrium that housed the moving stairs; it was the perfect position for his triggers. About two hours prior to breakfast on Saturday, he had carefully set his trap, concealing his brothers' latest inventions behind the conveniently placed busts and gilded picture frames, aiming them at approximated shoulders, and simply waited in Gryffindor to enjoy the breakfast entertainment.
It was a tricky little charm that made the derringers shoot at the opportune moment, they were set in layers down the wide hallway, and ordinarily, were a single person to walk through they would trigger every derringer, which would never do. So Ron, for what might have been the first time in Hogwarts history, did a little research of his own, and found just what he was looking for. When a Slytherin emerged from their cave, they would trigger the very last derringer in the line, getting splattered with colored dung, and emerging into the Great Gall before they knew what happened. When the next victim saw evidence of the first crime, the second would already have occurred, catching them with the shot from the next to last derringer, and so forth until every person emerging from the hall way was covered in a variety of nasty smelling paints that refused to wash off for three days. It was absolutely brilliant, the twins would have been proud.
Most unfortunately, Professor Snape had been the very last person to emerge from his chambers, and unbeknownst to Ron, he was somewhat hung-over from Friday night self-indulgence. The venerable professor stalked into the Great Hall, covered from prominent nose to waist in lilac colored dung, and the entire school burst into gales of laughter. It was a death sentence for Ron, because the prank had "Weasley" written all over it – quite literally as each derringer was marked with a "Weasley Wizard Wheezes" label – and so too did he. Discovering that orange was definitely not Malfoy's color may not have been worth the effort, but seeing the entire Slytherin house covered a rainbow of dung was, and not only seeing but stealing one of Colin's many snapshots from breakfast was priceless, but it was how he found himself to be in detention.
Argus refused to touch the mess, and Ron was consigned to scrubbing the antechamber and the Slytherin showers every night until professor Snape was no longer purple. If there was one thing his time at Hogwarts had taught him, it was how to effectively scrub a floor the Muggle way. Wringing his rag into the bucket of luke-warm, brownish grey water, he sighed and started attacking an orange spot on Albert Finney's iron picture frame.
He wished Harry were here scrubbing with him.
Someone screamed long and loud in the confines of Ravenclaw tower, desperate and ragged, despite its pitch; but no one was able to bear witness to the noise. The sound was muffled to his own ears by shock and the hands he'd instinctively clapped over his mouth at the horrific sight. Blue light streamed through the northern exposure, illuminating a pair of feet that twisted, first several times counterclockwise, than reversing their direction and moving around clockwise once more. The scream wouldn't die in his throat, just as it wouldn't die in his mind as his eyes traveled towards jean-clad legs, up to the familiar fringes of a grey sweater, to the rope straining against the purple flesh of a neck, and finally, into the wide and bloodshot-dead eyes of his beloved elder brother. The scream went on and on in his mind, as white noise.
Mathew Davies, second year Ravenclaw, not yet permitted by his mother to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, stood in horrified silence at the nearly black feet of his dead brother. When his brother hadn't come to greet him at the train, or hug him enthusiastically at dinner like he always did when they were apart for a time, Mathew had come to investigate. He was beginning to wish he hadn't. His mother suspected he could get into too much trouble alone, thought he was too innocent to stay in such a large castle on his own – he now knew that even toenails turned a deep purple when all the dead blood in a body settled to the bottom.
The room was icy, there was an open window, he could see his breath leaking from between his clasped fingers. That was how Roger's housemates found poor Mathew several hours later, after the welcoming feast. After dragging him away from the gruesome scene, they refused to re-enter the room lest it be haunted. Every one of those boys had grown up around the Hogwarts ghosts, but suicides tended to be irrational and violent, it would have been very difficult to sleep with the looming specter of Roger Davies in their minds.
Rumors raced around the Great Hall like static lightning, chasing each other back and forth with misinformed gusto. 'I heard that it was because of Cho. He wanted to be with her on New Years.' 'He killed himself on Christmas you prat.' 'So? It has the same romantic meaning.' 'Really? I heard he wasn't prepared for NEWTs and he couldn't focus to study, so he thought his life was over.' 'Yeah right. Roger knew that NEWTs aren't that important. You're full of it.' 'Well I heard that he's the father of Marjorie's baby, and he couldn't handle the pressure.' 'Sheesh! That's worse than mine! Everyone knows she was pregnant when she came to school. I wonder if the father was a wizard, Hufflepuffs tend not to be choosy.' 'That is the lowest thing I've ever heard! Besides! It could've been Roger anyway, they live near each other don't they?' 'Roger lives in Bristol, Marjorie lives in Reading you idiot. I'm telling you, it was all about Cho. He just… couldn't stand the pain anymore.'
The school held yet another moment of silence for the students that had passed on, this time at 8am, during breakfast. Harry watched distantly as Parvati Patil cried into her Raisin Bran the moment the silence was lifted. If only her darling crush had turned to her for help, she could have saved him. He didn't give a damn about the romantic tale behind the suicide, or any reason why, grades or otherwise (though he did have some inside insight as to the state of Marjorie's child), he only had one question, which he posed to Ron one afternoon during a hot turkey-sandwich lunch. "Do you suppose he'd've hung himself if he knew his brother would find him?"
Ron saw with horrible clarity his own brothers in that horrific scene, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, all bloated and swollen like bread left to rise too long, "I hope not." He said.
He was surrounded by idiots; dribbling sycophantic slobs waiting to ask "how high" when he said "Jump." This displeased him; he shouldn't have had to ask. The entire world seemed absolutely ridiculous to him right now, peace protestors and whining toads slobbering on themselves in the attempt to make an impression, futile at best. He felt as though he were in a Muggle supermarket, watching mothers compromise with their screaming children over candy bars as slow women contemplated the life changing decision of whether to buy their favorite ice cream while their husbands flipped through the porno-mags on the high shelf in the back. Voldemort had reached the stage in his political life – that was to say his entire life – where all of his efforts were being thwarted at every turn. It was infuriating, and he hated to be frustrated.
In the mid-afternoon on a chilly Tuesday, Voldemort personally led a contingent of men against Azkaban to re-acquire nine of his most loyal followers, and a few mildly insane beggars that were ready to live and die for his cause just to be free of their memories – or at the very least, their cells. Azkaban was a prison for the most violent and dangerous criminals. Even wasted by malnourishment and the forced recollection of their worst memories, the majority of the inhabitants were prepared to kill for him. No number of memory charms would change that.
The prison break was his last successful campaign. In the four days since, aurors had tightened security around nearly every wizarding location known to man. There was one posted at the door of every restaurant, bar, shop, and obscure little store in Diagon Alley, and two at every venue on Knockturn. It was irritating to say the least, of course if he chose to attack any location, it would be a simple thing to over come any security post, but it was the principle of the thing that irked him. Firstly, he was interested in specific people, not the riffraff that frequented places like "Formidable Warlock Robes and Waistcoats." He didn't give a damn about terrorizing honest, hardworking wizards, just freeing them from their self-imposed Muggle chains. That wasn't to say he wasn't interested in specific people, just not the anonymous masses.
It was very difficult, no, impossible to locate his young nemesis. Not that he could necessarily be called a nemesis. A nemesis, he supposed, was someone that witnessed a mutual hatred and obsession with the other. Harry Potter was far from obsessed with him, obsessed with staying alive perhaps, and lately obsessed with defeating him, just as Voldemort was obsessed with defeating Harry, but not obsessed with Voldemort himself. Neither his motives, nor his methods. It was probably safer to say, that by true definition, his nemesis was Dumbledore, a man he was sure was thinking of him just as frequently as he thought of Dumbledore, but one could clearly defeat the other, and that made the balance of power uneven. It made for an inappropriate nemesis at best, and reminded him of his woefully inadequate scrying skills.
Dumbledore, of course, wasn't his target. The Daily Prophet was very informative if one could read around the horse-shit contained therein, if Dumbledore was in the toilet Voldemort knew about it. A man with Dumbledore's political clout did not have the right to privacy; his every action was monitored very closely. The number of concealment and distortion spells it would take to keep Voldemort's forces from discovering his position would cause suspicion, a scandal – the fallacy of proclaiming yourself in the right.
No, his problem was Harry Potter: innocent bystander in the witness protection program. Under more protection than Gringotts gold, among other things, Voldemort had not been able to locate the whelp in over two years, and it was becoming a problem. He had lost any ammunition in the previous year's annual scuffle, and Harry, it seemed, had finally learned the lesson he most needed to. He was no longer sticking his nose where it did not belong, no longer exploring, nor leaving the premises when it was forbidden to do so. It seemed that he had become inactive and complacent in his grief for his godfather: which was the worst thing imaginable for Voldemort's cause.
When one's opponent acts against his inner nature, or when that inner nature is compromised, it is made very difficult for one to anticipate his opponent's actions. Such was the case with Harry Potter, who simply refused to be anticipated, and refused to be caught out in the open.
He needed a locator spell of some kind, a way to navigate the wards on Potter's whereabouts, slide past his defenses. How was he expected to kill the boy and fulfill his duty if no one could tell him where he was? It was like shooting in the dark, occasionally he caught a glimpse of one of Potter's nightmares, but those instances were few and far between. Over the summer, someone had clearly stitched protection charms into the dormitory hangings, because he found that no student-target at Hogwarts was perfectly viable – least of all Harry Potter. He needed a solution and he needed it fast.
Just then – as though in answer to his prayers, but more realistically out of sheer dumb luck – an Orientation Research Developer 1 stumbled into his office, tripping over himself to kneel before his Lord. Voldemort lifted an eyebrow and stared at his young advocate expectantly, honestly, could no one get it right? They were supposed to knock meekly then cautiously enter with their eyes on the floor until he chose to acknowledge them – they were most certainly not supposed to burst into his presence gasping and wheezing like a landed fish. "My deepest apologies my lord!" Oh that was all wrong as well, he was supposed to wait until spoken to. "But I think we may have found a solution?"
"You think you may have?" Mocking was such a delightful game of cat and mouse, he had all the power, and was just waiting for his little mouse to surrender to his fate. He could almost feel the man's stringy tail between his imaginary claws, "Or you have?"
"I…I-I… My Lord, it is a suggestion… there is no way of knowing…"
Voldemort tapped his wand against his knee and instantly the boy shut up, head bowed and shoulders quivering with fear. "Go back to your labs until you have a definitive solution." He snapped, the boy flinched mightily; his self control needed quite a bit of work. "And remember, motivation is only three syllables away. …You are dismissed."
"Thank you my lord" and within seconds he was scrambling away lest his master change his mind. Mordred, Voldemort loved his job.
Noxious fog billowed from 20 individual cauldrons, the classroom was thick with dusky smoke that clung to surfaces and left greasy residue in its wake. At times, Harry wondered if Professor Snape chose these assignments solely for his benefit. It was a miracle enough that he'd managed to scrape out of his OWLs with an Outstanding in potions, it wouldn't have surprised him if Snape built his entire curriculum out of vindictive pettiness in response. They were impossible potions with charm attachments that made Harry queasy to think about, and this particular version of instant molding clay utilized a surprising amount of troll fat. The clay, Harry had learned the night before in a desperate cram session with Ron, was used by explorers and trackers; they poured it over carvings, runes, footprints, and spread it over vertical surfaces for a perfect mirror image of the object. It also made an excellent molding because it was water proof, but wasn't used in human residences for its toxicity when wet or decaying.
For a potion with such disgusting ingredients (troll fat, acetone, rubber plant, milkweed, sloe-stone, and ammonia, among others) the smell was surprisingly inoffensive, which was, perhaps, the only reason Harry was in class. In addition to his perpetually greasy hair and glasses, the smog tinted everything a dull clay-pink before bleaching it. It was a small wonder that Snape always looked like he had a vat of motor oil recently dumped on his head, if 75 of his potions were oil-based, and they had to bubble bubble toil and trouble for days on end. He would consider it nothing short of a miracle if his glasses took less than an hour to clean, let alone his wand. Honestly, stir this gelatinous muck eighty-seven times clockwise? And never in a million years would Snape allow them to use self-stirring cauldrons because the extra magical influences could potentially interfere with an already delicate potion.
What a crock, it wasn't as though anyone had a use for this muck around here. Occasionally a student requested the remains of potions for experiments, but no one would want this. It was a sculptor's worst nightmare, it hardened up within seconds and was near-liquid before. The color didn't keep either; the ammonia turned it bleach-white as it dried, this stuff was just a pain in the ass, and frankly, the school didn't need a large store of kwik-dry-klay, it needed a miracle.
Then again, it was a perfectly harmless potion, and a pretty much mindless activity. There was no slicing to do, no measuring, it was dumping pre-prepared ingredients into a pot and watching them boil. It gave him a few moments to think, but just as he had a second, his brain seemed to stop, like there was static blocking transmission. The entire world had slowed to a molasses crawl and all he wanted to do was start thinking, instead all he could do was see. Hermione's potion was looking perfect, three rows away from his. It was a perfect dusky rose, every bubble even, every cloud of steam the perfect consistency, he wondered if Hermione had room in her mind for anything else. Studies, studies, studies, never concerned about the moral dilemmas of life. Study study study, slice this plant here, read this book before the other one, prioritize, keep the ball rolling, don't lose inertia, don't stop to think. Study study study. It wasn't fair, Harry didn't want to be fair.
Padma Patil's potion was too hot, it was burnt and black spots were rising with every bubble like sunspots and Weasley freckles. Mandy Brocklehurst's, who'd been passed up only as a favor to her father, potion was nearly green, that was a terrifying prospect, Harry was glad he was nowhere near her cauldron. Pansy Parkinson's was a shade lighter than Hermione's, it looked like tomato soup with far too much milk. Harry's was actually passable, or that was to say it wasn't as bad as Mandy's. It was a bit closer to mauve than dusk, but that was probably due to an excess of troll fat, nothing terribly serious. With any luck, it would still set up and pop out of the molding like cake from a well greased pan.
Malfoy had a smirk on his face. Harry didn't bother to look at his potion, it was perfect, and even if it wasn't he would get perfect scores for it. Not that he had to even look down as Malfoy's cauldron was conveniently placed right next to his. Surely Snape did these things to torture him, making them work at the same table year after year, probably to see which one would kill the other – while Malfoy hadn't been quite the ass he was typically capable of, he was still Malfoy. Still arrogant, snide, still gloating over every minor victory, including the final game against Ravenclaw despite their clear lack of talent this year, and still the most irritating prat Harry had ever met. "What Malfoy? Excited about brewing up your favorite industrial-strength hair gel?"
"Ha ha Potter. Though if you want advice about hair care products, don't hesitate to ask, god knows you need the help." There was a brief pause where Malfoy gloated over his won point (as Harry had nothing to say in response to that incredibly floral sentiment), cauldrons burbled out their complaints like primordial muck oozing over its distasteful children "I created this!" It gurgled. "I suppose you're intending to make a mold of yourself – a commission from your adoring fans? So that they may remember you in countless accurate statues to come?"
Absolutely flat: "You're the soul of wit, I'm sure." Harry slid the last of the pulped newt's tongue into his cauldron and sighed deeply; that was it, let it stew, throw a random compilation of ingredients together and expect results. There were always results, it was the way potions worked, and in a sense, the way people worked. He hadn't thought of it like that before, but it wasn't really true anyway, because ingredients couldn't change their minds, they couldn't be something that they weren't, and they couldn't inflict the sort of damage that humans could, because humans threw them together. Malfoy started chuckling. It was catastrophic.
There was a hiss from his cauldron, frowning, Harry looked down as his potion suddenly turned a hard white and literally exploded in his face, spattering liquid that covered his entire front from the waste up. Harry had time to blink once and blow the gunk out of his nose before it solidified and prevented him from moving; well that explained the laughing at least. Malfoy was probably covered in it as well; a noble wardrobe sacrifice for the perfect prank, Harry found it incredibly juvenile.
"POTTER!" That was a familiar bellow, Harry couldn't even flinch, Malfoy did though, he could feel it off his right elbow. "How could you mistake newt's tongue for fire salamander's? You absolute idiot, one is white the other is orange! If that cauldron had exploded five seconds later, the entire class would have been cut to pieces!" So that explained a lot, salamander tongue explained everything. The salamander's spark-spitting ability caused the tongue to heat the potion to flash boiling instead of drying the potion out slowly, combined with the acetone, which stripped the potion of moisture: instant bomb. Snape was right, it was fortunate it hadn't exploded later, excess of troll fat saved the day. Was it really his fault? He supposed he could have looked more closely at the ingredients; it was pretty damned hard to miss a white tongue, Malfoy must have known he was distracted. If his mouth wasn't sealed shut by clay, he would have said something scathing and accusatory: not that he knew what it would have been.
"That is it!" Snape was hissing at them now having overcome his urge to scream, more sibilant and venomous with every word. "You two have been disrupting my class for over five years. I have dealt with it, I have ignored it, and I have hoped that the reduction of your assignment grades and endless detentions spent cleaning out the store closet would teach you some manners, yet your supreme idiocy never fails. Are you both so utterly oblivious to the danger you just put your classmates in? Follow me, and be quick about it. If you two don't…" Harry could finish the rest of the speech by rote as he and Malfoy trailed sheepishly behind Snape. He trusted that none of the other students would revolt, though it was (and for some sadistic reason always had been) a Gryffindor and Slytherin class, fear of Severus Snape kept even the most recalcitrant students in line.
Post Notes: Hehe – I really DO like that chapter, we get to hear from Voldemort too (every once in a while when I don't have anything else to say, he and his naziness pops up). Unfortunately, by killing off all of my characters, I find I don't have many avenues for… how should I put this, spreading my story around so eventually it will narrow down to mostly Harry/Draco stuff, be it slashy, argumentative, or political.
Also! About that thing… the Orientation Research Developer… Don't ask, I'll just pretend I know what I meant when I wrote that. Probably a recruiting office for young death eaters, exactly which propaganda works best on which communities, alternate effects of the Dark Mark etc. (hey! That's not bad for complete bull).
As always – please please please review for me. Not that you can probably tell (believe it or not I've got like… 30 chapters of this story written) but it makes me more productive and gives meaning to my life. (yes, that's pathetic, yes, I realize it, no I don't care). So just drop me a line – if I'm a sick and twisted pervert for writing slash, let me know, if I'm god on high for writing slash, let me know? If you really just want to tell me about your afternoon math class, LET ME KNOW! …please? Thanks for reading!
