Ch. 26
My dear readers, I must apologize for lack of updating these past few weeks. Here are my excuses. 1. Finals in high school are NOT FUN. 2. I've been doing a bunch of community service stuff lately—probably more than I should be doing. 3. I've been in the process of applying to a particular scholarship that might mean I could go away to school next year, something I desire very much. Which so doing would ensure I got more writing time. 4. I have piano exams on the first of March, for which I am unfortunately cramming because I've been too busy to devote as much time as I ought to have all year. 5. My community college classes start next week. 6. It's been raining, and I've been enjoying the once-in-a-decade series of storm weather that, in the desert region I live, is quite rare. 7. I have been having a lot of trouble with my parents lately, and have been on-and-off grounded from the computer. 8. I have been designing an extensive genealogy series for Snape's to-be love affair(s). 9. I myself have been Snappishly depressed. Overwork, mainly, but some other things, too . . .
This chapter is proudly sponsored by the 7 reviews I got since posting Ch. 25, plus the 90's band Naked to the World, of which I am an ardent fan. (Well, maybe I'm biased . . . I'm quite close to the lead violinist, and it's virtually the only professional band I've ever seen live.) Look 'em up on iTunes, though.
Que sera sera. Enjoy this chapter! And listen to David Bowie's Life on Mars? simply because it rocks.
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"Mr. Potter, I beg you give some amount of information about the reason for your actions, otherwise we may be obliged to take more drastic measures than we have hitherto employed."
Snape paced exasperatedly in front of the infirm hero, vaguely aware that he resembled an angry mother hen chastising the runt member of her brood. Potter himself lay in bed, eyes half closed and barely breathing. Although prostrate and a trifle bluish, someone had nicely fluffed with a warm towel and dried his clothes, so to all extents and purposes Harry Potter was perfectly 'all right.' No one was allowed to visit him, nevertheless--not until Snape got some tangible understanding of the catalyst to the boy's strange and relatively incomprehensible action.
The deputy headmaster knew not why the boy had succumbed to doing the deed Snape so often contemplated in his youth and passively committed after his attack from the Dark Lord. Snape felt the boy quite unjustified, whereas he felt that he himself had perfectly sane and understandable motivations for the whims. Even now, after the fact, he scorned the idea of Harry Potter attempting his life; why would the famous, the well loved, the admired, the revered, the courageous, and the venerated even try to pull such a stunt? Literally, to throw his life down the drain of a bathtub?
No, no matter what anyone said, harry Potter was spoiled—spoiled beyond rancid, beyond fermented, beyond moldy. With the war over, and with no more victories to make, his desire to stay in the public eye brought upon this sickening episode. This was no more than an attempt to create a splash! Throw some markedly undeserved attention his way. Engineered, too, so no real harm would come to his precious little body: had not Ginny Weasley conveniently discovered his well-placed note of suicide in enough time to bring down the authorities and revive her by-then-unconscious boyfriend? He might have made it harder for her if he insisted on actually being thorough in his self-destruction. Or else, they were in cahoots the entire time, which would be the more satisfactory explanation. It was too uncanny to be coincidence that he survived, after all.
I do not intend for him to get the publicity this will undoubtedly bring, then. Firmly resolved on this decision, Snape realized his gratefulness to Pomfrey's discretion, avoiding Minerva for as long as possible as long as the problem existed. McGonagall ought to know sooner or later, but it was better they waited until Potter was completely 'beyond the clutches of his impulse', as Pomfrey put it. Surely, if word got around to Minerva, the entire school would know about it within two days. There would be an assembly, a great and furious inquisition—the after-result of which would prove that Potter was not responsible for his actions, but someone else, likely from Slytherin. On this last point, Snape was positive. That is the sort of thing Potter wants, and, by Jove, I'm not going to give it to him.
"So, Potter. Still suffer from the lamentable case of langlock? Or do you have anything to say for yourself?"
His eyes trained on the mug of hot chocolate, cradled in the boy's limpid arm. Two drops of verituserum would not hurt anybody, much less the great Harry Potter who could surpass death brought on by both himself and the most evil entity of the 20th century. If only he would drink more of it . . . as far as he noticed, the boy had merely sipped absently when Pomfrey presented it, possibly just for show. The Madame had left just moments before, summoned by the slightly shrill voice of the librarian Madame Pince, and they were in Pomfrey's office. And neither will probably show her face again for a good while, I warrant.
Not that the boy would at all care to guess the nature of his nurse's sexual orientation, likely, in his state. He stared ahead of him, lost in thought and speculation. He was shaking slightly, almost imperceptibly, but made no other motion.
Pacing back and forth will do no more than waste my energy, Snape decided, and stopped abruptly to toss himself into the visitor's chair at the bedside.
"Merlin Potter, if you have nothing else to say, then perhaps an explanation of the situation from my point of view would be illuminating," he suggested, more to induce the boy to talk than anything else, but Potter merely retained the bland luster in his eyes.
To seem as nonchalant as possible, Snape imitated the pose of private detectives in their leisure, at least those from old B-class 40's movies. The effect—phantasmal heels propped upon the white bar foot-board of Potter's bed, chair precariously balanced on its back legs, arms crossed as though his coat were threadbare—was distinctly menacing. Almost anyone else assuming such a position could expect nothing but a jeering ridicule, but somehow he pulled it off terribly, even with the pearly sheen of his complexion.
Of course, no threatening demeanor would cure Potter of his immunity to all independent variables at this time. Never mind the fact that he always refused to be afraid of Snape no matter what the soul did to be intimidating.
Creakingly, Snape leaned back in the chair and scowled. Potter is going to need some lessons in appreciation, that's what.
"As your attitude demonstrates, Mr. Potter, you seem to be severely out of sorts. Perhaps they have a bed in St. Mungo's mental ward for you? There might be an empty place beside Ronald Weasley, if you are so inclined."
Not a twitch. Not a flinch. The boy seemed to listen, but neither voiced or showed reaction.
Snape was angry enough to fling his glass-shattering rock.
"Perhaps not there, but in a place they reserve for impetuous angst-ridden teenagers who resent the fact that they are not the center of attention to the entire world?"
The response, unpredictably, was no more than a deplorable sigh from the miserable boy.
"Just leave me alone, would you?" Harry turned to look at his teacher despairingly. "I just want to see Ginny."
"Miss Weasley will not be permitted in here unless you provide so much as an inkling of an explanation. Perhaps we can assist in resolving the problem, whatever it is." Though his anger towards the boy still raged, it died a little as the boy's eyes . . . Lily's eyes . . . gazed meltingly at him.
Eyes he would do anything to oblige.
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"Sev, please take me ice skating on the lake? It's quite frozen, and everyone else is going."
"We really ought to study . . . you know very well we have a potions exam tomorrow."
"Hambug. We've been practicing for that since last Saturday. You know very well that!"
"Well . . . I must admit, I've never ice skated in my life."
"Neither have I . . . not on a real lake before."
Whereupon, he could not refuse the intense, pleading gaze, and acquiesced to take her. He hated the whole experience, and fell on his sorry bum more often than not, jarring his bones and teeth, only to later wonder why he made such a stupid blunder as to even agree.
"That was so mean of them. I never thought Potter—even Potter--would have the audacity to say anything so crude and nasty."
"I quite agree, Lily. He's a despicable bastard. But you should not let his words hurt you—oh, Jove, Lily, don't cry. Please don't. He's not worth it, really, believe me."
"I know, Sev, but please Sev . . . hold me."
And he had awkwardly put his arm around her, then impulsively drew her as close to him as he could manage. Her nose pressed against his shoulder, and his chin met the top of her ear, buried in her fragrant auburn hair. He fancied he smelt strawberry. For a few blissful moments, everything seemed impeccable, beautiful, and heavenly.
Then those wretched eyes looked up at him, her chin lifting just a bit, provocative and almost imploring.
He wanted to kiss her.
"What do you want, Lily?"
His question poised softly in midair, hoping she might take advantage of the opportunity, hoping her words would echo his own thoughts.
"I want you to give up the dark arts, Severus."
If it had been so simple as to answer 'I will', then he would have done so for those eyes alone. Yet he had turned away, aloof, surprised. As usual, his sense of romanticism failed him.
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I should have said I would, he pondered for the thousandth time, Why did I not?
A helpless amusement tinted the eyes of Harry Potter now, and Snape blinked back into reality. No, those are now tainted by Jame's unabashed jest and taunting. What a pity.
"Are you sure Ginny couldn't come in, Professor? I would think you understood the circumstances very well."
The hardly well-contained smirk of the boy was quite unhelpful to Snape's humiliation. The ghost, highly irritated, could not help but scowl perversely at the hideous beaming countenance that so resembled the bane of his existence since childhood.
"Shod off, Potter," he muttered tersely under his breath. "Mind the fact that I'm the adult in this situation, and your superior."
"You like to think that," Harry replied demurely, with a complacence inherited, no doubt, from the insatiable old fool that was Albus Dumbledore.
Temper, temper, Severus. Needn't get your blood racing.
Well, dammit, I don't even have blood anymore.
He turned away with a slow, vengeful glare, all resolve built over the past few weeks to forget Lily now lost.
He might have been mine. With hideous oily hair and a Roman nose. And yet he is not. How do I even have the presence of mind to even gaze at him? He could have been mine . . .
Odd how he has Lily's eyes, but James' poor eyesight.
The revelation caused him to turn and look at the bemused boy once again. To appear as if he had a purpose in doing so, he quickly demanded:
"Mr. Potter, in order to verify that you are of sound mind, we need to confirm and possibly eliminate the sources of trauma that so affect you."
The boy seemed to be getting better already.
"Oh, but why should I tell you?"
It took all the strength within him to keep from going at the child's throat. As it was, he stood angrily and advanced to the easiest proximity for the action. Snape had strangled men before, and with the soft childlike skin Potter still wore, it promised to be a most delightful experience, from his fingers' perspective.
But Lily would not appreciate if her son rose from the earth with the report that, 'Oh, yes, well, the way I died was, the ghost of Snape throttled my neck'.
Hang Lily.
A swipe at the boy's cherub face reminded him of his lack of senses, his inability to feel the tangible. He drew his hand back to his side, but he remained standing.
I'm much given to slapping people lately, am I not?
Harry looked genuinely astonished at this point.
"Your insolence is getting beyond what my nerves can stand, boy," choked the ghost, beginning to feel his stomach churn with his emotions. "Let's get this done quickly and efficiently, and we'll both be much better off. Why did you try to kill yourself?"
Set off by the shock, Harry took a quick gulp of the cocoa unthinkingly and appeared very nervous.
"I'll give you an explanation, Snape, but only because I want to see Ginny. Don't let anyone else in to see me, though, unless Hermione wants to come."
"Give the instruction to Madame Pomfrey and I assure you, she will see to it," declared Snape, seating himself in the straight-backed visitor's chair once more. "Please begin."
The first words from the boy's mouth were the last things on earth that Snape expected.
"Well, I suppose I'm just sick of all the attention I'm getting as a war hero and stuff."
Snape's eyelids fluttered twice as he gaged the information against the boy's poker face.
The boy's unhappiness showed through his slightly trembling lip and glassy—no, I am not looking at his eyes.
"Every time I go to Hogsmede, Diagon Alley, or anywhere, people who are perfect strangers stare at me. It really gets unnerving after a while. I mean, when I was actually doing stuff to deserve all of that admiration, it was different. I was on a quest to kill Voldemort. I was actively fighting against the most dark force of our time. But now . . . now they treat me no different, and I'm stuck trying to live a normal life when no one wants to treat me like I'm normal."
Isn't that a familiar story, only backwards?
"That's all I ever wanted to be in life. Normal." Harry looked at his lap despairingly. "I didn't ask to be magic. I didn't ask to be famous. I didn't ask for anything besides to be just like all the other kids on the block . . . kids who didn't live in cupboards under the stairs . . . kids who had parents who loved them . . . kids who didn't have strange things happen to them. Grow up, go to school, get a job, get a wife, get retired, travel around the world. That kind of normal."
Snape sat stonily, wondering how much of this was truth and how much was calculated balderdash. He refused to believe that he was moved by the new point of view—isn't that what the boy wants, for me to fall under his spell, for me to see that we have more in common than most would think? He is performing a well-rehearsed string of rigmarole to evoke my sympathy. My empathy.
Because, of course, we are so different, after all, but we want the same goal. Well, if he's telling the truth, now. I'm at the lower end of the spectrum, obviously, trying to climb my way to the middle, creeping from hatred to having friends, at least. And he's at the top—adored to no end, supremely attractive, and everyone loves him—but he wants less. Truthfully, I would switch places with him in a heartbeat, why doesn't he know that? To not appreciate the wonderful life he has gained is the greatest sin upon all measures.
"You think things are so different for you," Harry stated, interrupting Snape's contemplations, "But it hasn't been."
The potions master scowled. "Potter, you speak with the latitude of a squirrel."
"No, really," the boy debated dully. "Our completely opposite situations bring us together. I've thought a lot about this, and it makes sense to me. Now you, Snape, I'm sorry to say, have always been hated by the world. Me, up since I was eleven, the opposite. But I don't want to be at this level any more. I've been hated enough myself to know how you feel. When I was living with my aunt and uncle, there was never even the smallest scrap of love for me. When Voldemort returned in my fourth year, everyone except a few people—Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, the rest of the Weasleys, Sirius, the Order . . . and you . . . --everyone else hated me for being a liar."
Whereas I merely hated you for being the son of your father.
Snape rolled his eyes. Harry grinned.
"Well, you hate me still for other reasons, but it doesn't matter. Didn't matter. You didn't think I was a liar. You believed in me, you tried o help me learn the skills that should have saved me, should have saved Sirius."
"I don't know that I especially enjoy that prospect, that I might have saved your godfather."
Harry gave a small smile that almost made Snape faint at its resemblance to Lily's curving lips.
"Well, Mr. Potter," the potions master ghost sneered superciliously, "Perhaps your impressions are not quite accurate. Perhaps I'm not as forlorn as you imagine. Perhaps I do not want anyone to find me a friend. Perhaps you know—significantly--less than you believe."
I'm such a liar . . . just because I hate to admit he is right!
"Besides, Potter, what do you know about the human psyche? Hyman psychology? You spent half your life locked in a cupboard, abused and forsaken—is that what makes you a philosopher?"
He was infuriated, but not so much a before. How dare Potter impose himself by thinking I was so shallow as to be understood by his type!
"And by what right or decree of nature do you feel you can simply waltz about, analyzing my life? You don't know the half of what I endured. Really--how dare you say things as you have unto now? I do not want your critique or your perceptions, neither your ideas nor speculations, Mr. Potter. In fact," he reminded aloud, "these issues have no bearing whatsoever on the case. This concerns you alone, and I am only the authority in charge of investigating your foolishness. Pray keep to the task at hand, lest I become any more irate and you suffer the consequences."
Potter began to protest, but the deputy headmaster's glare quelled him.
"Now, to continue our business," Snape brusquely went on, "Give me a concise, straight answer as to why you attempted to kill yourself. And no involving me or my past history, I request." The satire in his tone was disquieting, and Harry actually complied.
"Um . . . well, it was not so much as a specific reason. I just woke up today and decided today was the day I was going to kill myself."
Oh, isn't that just the worst feeling in the world? Goddamit, if he knew how often such ideas graced my mind, I swear . . .
"It was not the first time I thought so, Professor, and I guess it won't be the last. But for some reason, during your class, my internal clock came to a halt, and all I could think about was what it would be like without me in the world."
How often I myself have played that terrible game . . .very It's A Wonderful Life-esque, though. I officially hate that movie. . . "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard any person say."
"Well, Snape," Harry frowned, seeming to get exasperated, "It's something I've come to doing rather a lot. And, I guess, it just got so involved that I had the impression that things would be better for everyone else if I died."
"Who is 'everyone else', Potter, may I ask?" Alas, but I wish I were more unfamiliar with that concept as well!
"Um . . . well that's one of the reasons I guess I didn't think it through very well. Or something. I don't know who. Besides maybe you."
Good gods.
"That's . . ." Snape had intended to say 'that's not true,' but then wondered whether that statement would be a lie or not. His confusion was evident, but Harry took no notice.
"The Malfoys would be a great deal happier, anyways. But no one knows where they went, so I dunno if they would even hear."
"And thus now you have composed yourself as a more rational personage? You assure me, there is no lingering danger of trying to complete your attempt in the near future?"
"Not today."
The words choked a silence out of the ghost, who simply studied the boy.
"Not ever, Potter," he corrected.
"So, Professor, how is death today?" asked a cheery shrill voice, and the curtain moved aside to reveal Miss Irma Pince, with an annoyingly superior smirk touched by very red cheeks and ears. Her elaborate coiffure was a bit displaced, and her fingers flitted coolly to her voluminous hair to tighten the many knots that held it together.
"A living hell," snarled Snape, in no mood to deal with the librarian's antics. He left immediately, to report his findings to Pomfrey, just in case Harry might jump out of bed and try to convince the woman that she looked like Hermione. There was no need for him to see that scenario replayed.
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" . . . and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom the power, and the glory forever, Amen."
Several much more calm hours later, Snape had no idea what the Lord's prayer had to do with anything, but supposed the Fat Friar—no, Paul Honnete, he had a name now—knew what he was talking about, somewhat.
In keeping with his long-forgotten promise to Professor Sprout, his agreement to visit with the Friar and inquire on his personal state, Snape was now on his knees in an abandoned classroom that, over the years, the Friar had transformed into a decent cupboard chapel. In a proper medieval fashion, a single wooden cross of painted gold hung on the front wall, presiding over a simple altar and a cloth of crimson velvet. Though lacking in opulence, there was a certain poignant dignity about the place that made one want to whip off his hat—whether he wore one or not being irrelevant.
This place being along the outer perimeter of a tower, there were windows of a small nature – but shaped like crosses, and mere slits, at that. The open air nevertheless flowed through in perceptible gusts, once in a while inflicting a sharp spear of wind through their vaporous bodies, sometimes enough to set them off balance by a bit. Judging by the presence of frost along the edge of the cold fire-grate, it was probably about as cold in here as it was outside.
Snape rose to his feet in a docile compliance rather foreign to him.
"Thank you for obliging God, and therein obliging me," Paul declared, a happy but almost forlorn smile gracing his broad countenance. Snape realized that what Sprout said was quite true—the obese monk seemed less than his usual genial self.
"I prefer to think that you came here only secondly to talk to me—for I am but a humble servant to the almighty," Honnete went on, "And, besides, I do not see you up here enough as it is."
"I've never been a very religious man," admitted Snape, a lilt of shame permeating his voice, along with an air of defiance.
"Were you raised Anglican?"
"No, actually, Catholic—but I never took confirmation, since my Muggle father thought my being magic made me automatically a heathen—and I probably attended four services in my life. I know for a fact I was baptized as an infant, but that made no difference to my father."
"Ah, you are like myself then," the Fat Friar murmured, though probably just grasping the idea of Snape's faith rather than the fact that the other ghost did not follow it closely. Carefully, deliberately, he seated himself in the first of a row of five short pews. His bulk took up most of the space, so Snape remained standing in order to best address him.
"As I said, though, I'm not very devout," reestablished Severus, halfway wishing he had not admitted having any contact with the religion of his second-generation Irish father.
"And you prefer it that way, no doubt?" Honnete replied simply, drawing in a slow breath and shaking his head. "It is unfortunate, that. But at least you believe. The last time you were up here to talk to God was some years ago, though."
Snape flinched. He remembered that day, the day Dumbledore had explained how Harry was to die—how Albus too had to die—and, scared and angry, the then-alive potions master had fond his way to the secluded tower in the dead of the night, to ramble to the darkness and allay his fears. It did not seem to do him any good, and he was more irritable the rest of the day for having fallen asleep on the cold floor, at the icon of the Madonna. He did not know Honnete had known of his presence, or much less had been there at all.
There had been no reason to return since, really—he never was into the whole 'confessions' regime; the idea once occurred to him that he would end up spending days revealing every malicious thought and deed he committed. After he did the actual kill of Dumbledore, there had been a great number of postliminary procedures to take care of, in the name of the Dark Lord and such, so after those were over, he made a very emotional prayer to a haphazard shrine of piled stones lost somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. Since then—well, he always relied on himself rather than an omnipotent being, and thought people who simply relied on God for everything extremely foolish.
God helps those who help themselves was his adage, with certainty, as long as he could remember. He did not even think about God much, beyond swearing, and then usually he said something to the accord of 'gods' or 'Jove', and therein only used the Grecian entities' titles in vain, rather than use a term sacreligious to Christians.
"It does not feel like so long ago," Snape replied quietly, eyes floating to the floor absently. That was the truth, though. The murder of Dumbledore . . . though the old coot had tried to convince him it was euthanasia . . . still pressed heavily on his mind. Usually, he managed to suppress it, but, sometimes late at night, or when his mind was otherwise unoccupied, the list of those he was responsible for the deaths of for little or no reason came to mind. Although Lily was, of course, first and foremost, Dumbledore made a close second in importance. His mind would revert gradually onto the subject, and the weight of his guilt would settle in his stomach, apt to dispute for a good number of hours, or at least until something that required the whole of his attention emerged.
"You should take it upon yourself to be more pious. It might help you," encouraged Honnete. "I sense your mind has been troubled for some long time."
"Perhaps," Snape agreed with nonchalance. "But you yourself, Friar, do not seem so well. Your friends are afraid for you."
The Friar chuckled, but his heart was not in it at all. "I suppose even God's servants may fall to despair," he replied matter-of-factly.
"I would like to help you resolve your problem, if I can." Snape shifted. "At least, if you wish to unburden yourself to me. I might be a bit more responsive than He Who Dwells Upstairs."
The Friar seemed unsure how to take that slightly cavalier comment, but found himself inclined to laugh. "Oh, very well. You may have a point therein. I would talk about it with my dear Professor Sprout, but I fear she would not quite understand. It is actually just a trivial item that weighs so heavily upon my mind, but I shall come to some peace again about it in a year or so, and it shall refuse to problem me for another hundred years or so."
He looked at Snape. "You, I think, would definitely understand more than Pomona."
He took a deep breath again.
"To start with-why do you think I am here in death, as opposed to the eternal paradise?"
He gestured about him with such a melancholia that Snape was already remembering the location of his handkerchief in his sleeve. The potions-master did think a moment before answering. It seemed that the only reasons he could conjure were less than savory. Very likely it was not for the reason Snape had returned—the Friar was too characteristically good-natured and optimistic. At most, he would be crying for joy at his equivalent of King's Cross . . . well, maybe providence could make a mistake.
"Did you fall into . . . ahem . . . exuberant rejoice?"
That was a little vague, and the Friar misunderstood slightly, but still answered the question adequately. Such the typical Hufflepuff.
"Oh, no, I was quite pleased at the prospect of my death, actually," Paul cheerily responded. "For I imagined that I would be going to eternity, of course. I never did anything ill in my life, so I thought, and I always loved God from my boyhood on. There was no possible way, in my humblest of opinions, that I should not have gone to my reward. But, have you heard, perchance, of the idea that 'monks who abandoned their monastic habit were turned away from the gates of paradise because they were not properly dressed for the occasion?'"
"You're paraphrasing that from somewhere, I seem to recall the words," Snape nodded. "But I would imagine that had something to do with monks who left their habit and abandoned their pious duties . . ." he suggested realistically, but the dour expression of the other prevented him from finishing.
"No indeed. That was the literal interpretation. That is what happened to me," the Friar explained. "At the gate. I died by drowning, you will see, while swimming naked in a secluded lake, enjoying God's good beauties at their most personal level."
Snape's eyebrows elevated significantly. "Gracious. It could not have been a mistake?"
The Hufflepuff ghost raised his hands to the heavens. "God makes no mistakes."
"Oh, true." Snape did not truthfully believe that—creating man was a mistake, in his opinion, and any entity who ever thought to do it was deviously insane.
"The voice said so in great detail, actually," the Friar continued, "The great booming voice, if you will recall it. It said to me: 'We must findeth within ourselves apologies abundant to thee for thy pass into heaven haseth been revoked. Thou hast abandoned thy monastic habit on the side of the lake, and thus forsooth shalst remain undead ever morest!' That is what they said, in the proper language of the time, and nary a word when they were done. Most specific, actually."
"And this perturbs you for a short period of time generally once in a century?" Snape queried skeptically.
"I am a simple man, Severus, and have simple thoughts and desires. When a notion has left my mind, it has left for a long time. And, then, I typically forget the reasons for my unhappiness soon enough, as they grow less and less important." The Friar put a thick finger to his forehead and tapped it. "My mind is not as agile as it used to be, but it still serves its primary purpose, to serve God unconditionally."
"Such devotion is admirable, Friar," responded Severus, hoping that was actually his opinion. "Out of curiosity, though, do you ever wonder if it really was so fair that you were refused after so long and loyal a service, to be denied the one reward you always sought? Do you ever wonder if, perhaps, God was not quite as good and merciful as you think him?"
The gleaming smile of the Fat Friar was somewhat Cheshirian in nature, and quite disturbing.
"In that case, I would tell myself this: 'Satan is speaking to you! You must eliminate his malignant presence from your mind!' And then by this--" (the Friar seized a handy copy of the King James Version, probably kept in the chapel for those non-Catholics who meandered up there and refused to read anything else) "--I eliminate him!"
With that, the Friar hit himself upon the head extremely forcibly with the book, the resounding thwanks bouncing off the silent cold walls eerily.
Snape, spooked by the proceedings, dismissed himself as quickly as he could. He was already composing his report to Pomona in his head as he swept down the corridor, but was sidetracked by the remembrance of the other Hufflepuffs' queer actions.
Why are all the Hufflepuffs starting to show their slightly crazy sides now? First Pomona herself, and now her best friend, the ghost?
Once he considered himself a safe distance away, he muttered to the empty halls:
"Thank God I'm not religious."
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Thanks for reading so much so far! Haha. I wrote this chapter especially for Marietta, my dear Catholic friend who I HOPE IS READING THIS. But it brings up something that J.K. barely brings up in the books, which I find highly annoying, the aspect of religion and how it is incorporated into the Wizard world. I have not gone into all of my ideas yet, not by far, on this point, but this is an introduction.