Chapter 10: Severus Snape should keep his unusually large nose out of other people's business.
X.
A Momentary Lapse In Consciousness
[Hogwarts | November 1995]
The room is cold, a single candle flickering in the dusky gloom, casting a shifting shadow upon the wall, the illusion of movement in absolute stillness. The figure is still, breathing slowly through her clenched teeth, as if in great pain. Pinched in her right hand is a dropper, which she'd just emptied into a gaping wound on her left forearm. A dagger lays upon the desk, her own blood still clinging to the blade. She's done it. Healing still needs to be performed, but the wound itself is stable, gets no worse as time elapses. No loss of blood, save for that on the blade itself. The only problem is the pain...
A sharp knock at the door does nothing to jolt her out of her state. Her focus is intense, she's inwardly reveling at the accomplishment, one that has the potential to make history, if she ever tells anyone about it. The knock sounds again. This time, she grants the knocker permission to enter, like an automatic response, not given much thought. Severus Snape enters quickly at first, then slows. The cramped office smells like a mixture of mold, candle wax, and...is that firewhisky?
"Professor...?" Snape ventures. Her back is to the door, her eyes fixed on the stone wall in front of her. She doesn't turn to face him. "It seems the entire bottle of essence of dittany has gone missing from my stores..." he doesn't have to continue. After quickly surveying the room he catches sight of the bottle in question sitting open on the desk beside her, the dropper still in her hand. "You could've just asked, you know." He says.
"Ask about what?" Professor Spektor responds abruptly, turning around, annoyed by his presence. Her eyes narrow.
"The...umm...the dittany..." He says, gesturing to the bottle. Her hand darts to it, screwing the top back on, and holding it out to him. His gaze falls on the gash running up her forearm, just above that weird snake tattoo that looks uncannily like the dark mark.
"What, you don't want it now?" She's growing more irritated by the second. Snape grabs the bottle from her hand.
"Next time you decide to go shopping in my personal stores, I'd appreciate if you let me know." Snape says, making no move to exit. He's looking for an apology. Fine.
"Right. Sorry." She says.
"Your arm. Would you like me to get Madame Pomfrey to look at that?"
"Madame Pomfrey doesn't know shit about healing." Professor Spektor says. "I may be famous for being a murderer, but my true talents lie in healing. I think I've got this under control." She says bitterly. Snape laughs uneasily.
"Interesting. I never knew…" Snape muses.
"There are a lot of things you don't know about me." Professor Spektor says dismissively.
"I know almost nothing about you." Snape agrees. "Especially what you were thinking when you jumped off the roof of the astronomy tower a month ago."
"Who told you about that?" She asks, and then shakes her head, and reaches for a half-empty bottle of firewhisky. She takes a generous swig and then offers it to Snape. He looks at the bottle apprehensively. "I haven't got any cups." He takes a conservative sip and hands the bottle back to Spektor.
"There are much easier ways to kill yourself, you know." Snape says flatly.
"Obviously." She says. "If that's what I was trying to do."
"What were you trying to do, then?" Snape furrows his brow.
"I was conducting some tests." She says. That should be vague enough.
"What sort of tests?"
"None of your business."
"These tests wouldn't have anything to do with the other ingredients that have...mysteriously gone missing...from my office...would they?" Snape asks. Spektor starts to smile.
"Ten points to Slytherin." She says. Snape frown wrinkles his great big nose.
"I heard you had an aptitude for potions while at Hogwarts..." Snape says.
"Nobody is better at potions than I am." Her tone is dead serious, and she takes another swig of firewhisky. Snape suppresses the urge to laugh. He has quite a high opinion of himself in that department, but he's curious as to how good she really is.
"So you've developed it then?" Snape asks. Spektor's eyes widen.
"A potion for preventing the body from sustaining physical harm?"
"Well..." Spektor hisses, leaning back in the chair, crossing her arms tight over her chest. "Who told you about that?"
"He said that's what you were working on before...well..." Snape notices her face grow stiff, lips a thin line. "It was a nasty bargain, really, I think..." Then a look of confusion washes over her face. Her hands fall into her lap.
"What are you talking about? What was a nasty bargain?"
"What he did to you...you know...how he got you sent to..." Snape is beginning to realize this is news to her. He wants to reel the words back in, but something about the look she's giving him makes him keep going. Her jaw's slackened to the point of appearing unhinged. All her muscles have given up, and she sinks, if possible, even farther back into the hard-backed wooden chair.
"No." She muses aloud. "No. He wouldn't… He was the one who was helping me hide..."
"I'm sorry." Snape says quickly. This isn't good. And it quickly gets worse. Before Snape can catch her, she faints clear off the chair and onto the hard stone floor—out cold. He hoists her up and, after opening the small door in the corner that leads to her sleeping quarters, deposits her on the small iron bed near the window. Despite the bruise beginning to spread across the left side of her face, where her skull collided with the floor moments before, he sees her beauty for the first time, finally unmasked by her nasty aura, her face relaxed, serene, as if she's slipped into a pleasant dream. What a mess he's just got himself in... He really shouldn't have meddled.
A bloodcurdling scream leaks from Professor Umbridge's sleeping quarters, and the woman herself has toppled out of bed, brandishing a fluffy pillow at a large black snake coiled on the edge of her bed. She throws the pillow at the filthy reptile, which doesn't do much of anything except give it something else to tear apart rather than her own precious flesh.
"Somebody! Anybody! Help! Come quick! Help me!" She shrieks. After tearing the pillow apart and scattering down feathers all over the room, the snake is nowhere to be found. Umbridge blinks, looking at the spot it was just two seconds ago. It's gone. She tiptoes around the bed, looks underneath, checks the dark corners of the room—nothing. All clear. Did she imagine it? Must have. She puts on her slippers and opens the door to her office, in search of a tonic to sooth her nerves and finds the place ransacked, papers all over the place, every desk drawer pulled out—what an awful mess. At least the decorative kitten plates were safe, she thinks, looking at the walls. Then she sees, on the bare stretch of wall next to the door, a message that makes her faint. Argus Filch, the caretaker, finds her the next morning.
"What did it say?" Professor Spektor sips the tea Albus Dumbledore just handed her.
"Down with the Pink Menace." Dumbledore says, stirring milk into his tea.
"Heh heh." Her laughter makes Dumbledore look up.
"We haven't had time for a proper talk. I'm afraid I've been rather busy..." Dumbledore says, looking at her through his half-moon spectacles. "If you have a moment, I have a few questions for you."
"I have a question for you first, if you don't mind." Spektor says. Dumbledore nods. "Back at Grimmauld Place, you said that I was to be given a 'special assignment.' Any intention of ever telling me what that is? Unless this teaching thing is it, which, if that is the case, doesn't make much sense to me at all, considering you could've hired a far more qualified teacher with much less hassle."
"Ah, yes." Dumbledore says, placing the teacup in its saucer with a delicate clink. "I was hoping you'd be able to share some insight into your old classmate, Tom Riddle. Anything that would help with the Order's current efforts…"
"That's it?" She's a little more than pissed. "I mean, thanks for getting me out of prison and all, but you didn't need to bust me out of Azkaban to chat with me. Hah. So. Ok, let me get this straight: the great Albus Dumbledore lies to get a murderer released from prison so she can read to a bunch of babies from a textbook and chat about her old..." She catches herself. He raises his eyebrows.
"You call yourself a murderer?"
"I killed my sister, didn't I? Oh, but that's right. Sisters don't count." She winks cheekily. A flash of anger crosses his face.
"That...was an accident." Dumbledore says, gravely serious. How does she know about Ariana?
"It's about time you're honest with yourself, Albus." Spektor says, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know, we're not very different...you and me." Hm. That's an odd thought, and the more she thinks about it, the odder it becomes. They really are quite similar.
"My dear girl." Dumbledore shakes his head, voice dripping with condescension. "Whatever you've heard about the incident with my sister has likely been blown far out of proportion. It was my friend who cast the spell that killed her, not me." He sighs like the ancient old man he is.
"So you want to know about Tom, then?" She sighs. Dumbledore nods. There's this awful feeling bubbling up in the pit of her stomach, like she's aware she's making a terrible mistake. But the information Snape gave her last night has ignited a small fire of revenge within her, and here's a convenient way to satisfy that. She won't say anything personal, or detailed. Just enough to appear as though she's willing to participate. Could help, in the end. "Right then. Where should I start...?"
