A/N It's taken a long time to get this next chapter up, but for what it's worth, here it is!!
Thanks to everyone for reviewing the first chapter, and many thanks as always to my terrific beta, Amy.
For any Holmes fans out there...except quite a lot of references to the Master before the end ;-) Anyone to get them all wins...er...The Golden Pistachio of Noticing-ness.
*************
"I refer you, Black, to the curious event of the cat in the morning."
"What cat?"
"Filch's cat, dunderhead!"
"Filch's cat didn't do anything in the morning."
"That," remarked Severus Snape, "was the curious incident."
"You speak in riddles, git." Replied Sirius.
"Always. You may or may not be aware that Mrs. Norris guards the potions lab on Saturday nights, with the cooperation of Mr. Filch. It is usually on Saturdays that certain malign creatures - Weasleys, for example - take it upon themselves to be nuisances. They interfere with ingredients, lesson plans, and anything else they can find. Since I have no intention of sitting up every Saturday night watching for the Damnable Duo, Filch kindly lends me his highly intelligent and immensely vicious pet."
Sirius pondered.
"What's that got to do with anything?" He wondered. Snape looked up with exasperation from the bench over which he was leaning; on it was the corpse of Claudius Trentham.
"You found Trentham at ten thirty-five this morning. Mrs. Norris is always left in my office from midnight on Saturday until noon on Sunday. That is my arrangement with she and Argus. It never varies. You did not see Mrs. Norris this morning."
"No, I didn't. I'd have remembered. That cat hates me."
"As I said, a highly intelligent animal. Filch brought Mrs. Norris to my office at midnight as usual, last night; I went to bed at about one thirty a.m., leaving food and water for the cat. She sat on my desk, as always. Yet this morning there was no sign of her. Whatever the circumstances, Mrs. Norris does not neglect her duties. She is most diligent."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Why not just elope with her? We all know you're a cat person." He leered.
Snape gave a small sigh, but chose to ignore this last comment.
"It's almost a quarter past twelve now. If Mrs. Norris had not returned to Filch, he'd have roused the whole castle."
"Then you need to speak to Filch."
"No, I need to examine this corpse. *You* need to speak to Filch."
"But..."
"Are you going to cooperate with me, Black?"
Sirius scowled.
"Cooperation, last time I checked, didn't mean you ordering me around. I'm not under your authority, Snape. And you know full well I'll get nothing out of that mouldy old caretaker and his moth-eaten moggy."
"Show some respect!"
"What is it with you and Filch, anyway? Are you his secret love-child, or something?"
"Are you capable of conducting this post-mortem, Black?"
"Probably not." Sirius admitted.
"Then go and talk to Filch and let me get on with it."
When Sirius finally departed, muttering darkly to himself, Snape returned his attention to the corpse - with, it must be said, a certain macabre interest. Trentham's body was strangely unmarked, but it was not the eerie result of the killing curse; Snape detected, in fact, no curses or hexes of any kind. The only really likely alternative, curses aside, was a potion of some sort. Dumbledore had made an efficient decision in asking Snape to perform the autopsy; with Snape's expertise covering both potions and the dark arts, there was little in the way of murder weapons which could escape his analysis.
And yet - nothing. Trentham was simply dead, with no indication of how the deed had been committed. Snape sighed as he used his wand to extract a sample of the dead man's blood. There were many poisons undetectable to the naked eye - or nose - and to test for the presence of them all would take a very long time. There were even two potions Snape knew of which were completely undetectable: they disapparated from the body the moment the victim was dead, leaving a corpse that was unmarked both physically and chemically. But both those potions were near impossible to brew correctly, even if the right ingredients could be collected - which itself was more difficult and frustrating than holding a civil conversation with the Martyred Mongrel, Snape reflected sourly. He himself had the expertise to make one of the two potions, the more recently invented, known somewhat melodramatically as 'The Widowmaker'. But the ingredients it required...! Ground Pegasus feathers. Saliva of a Cerebrus - well, Hagrid could probably supply that. A drop of giant's blood. Perhaps the monster-minding oaf could provide that as well, Snape mused. Then there was the most rare element of all - a whole, live, Death-Watch beetle. Not the harmless creature Muggles were so superstitious about, but the real thing, a tiny animal found only in South America, and immensely difficult to catch, since any contact the thing had with the skin would prove fatal. The beetle's natural poison was among the most powerful in the world, but, used alone, it produced definite and definable symptoms in the victim, and the poison remained detectable after death. In combination with the other ingredients, if the potion was brewed at precisely the right time and in exactly the right manner, a single drop of 'The Widowmaker' caused instant death and left no trace of its presence.
Snape had brewed the potion once, and only once, in circumstances he wished to forget. The process had very nearly killed him; as it was, he had been ill for months, despite the precautions he had taken to avoid directly touching the ingredients or inhaling any fumes. If 'The Widowmaker' was responsible for Trentham's death, then whoever killed him was - or was allied with - a potion-brewer of the greatest skill and courage.
As for the other alternative...the more ancient undetectable poison, which even Snape could not make...he did not want to think about the possibilities of that. The Poison, as it was known - it did not even have a catchy name to make one feel a little more in control - was far from merely a liquid. It was a living thing, a thing which possessed a kind of rudimentary intelligence. And it could escape from the control of its creator. As far as Snape knew, there was no wizard or witch in the world capable of creating The Poison; in fact, the ability was thought to be lost, and no one person possessed a complete list of the ingredients.
At least, so Snape hoped.
Swiftly collecting samples of all the undetectable poisons he kept in his cupboards Snape lined them up methodically on the table and added a drop of Trentham's blood to each, three drops of an orange concoction which would determine whether the poison already existed in Trentham's bloodstream, and tapped the vials with his wand twice afterwards. The first tap to speed up the process. The second set up the vial to alert Snape automatically - with a rather unfortunate ear-piercing shriek - if a match was found. Hoping but not really believing that he would hear the shriek soon, Snape set about brewing the poisons he did not keep bottled in his office for a rainy day. The nastier ones. Poisons that could be slipped into food or drink, poisons that could be injected, poisons that worked by leaching through the skin. Poisons that transmitted themselves like viruses, poisons which became airborne and killed everything within a mile if the antidote was not provided. Snape made sure he brewed the antidotes first, and as he did so, he could not help reflecting that The Poison had no known antidote, and that once leaving its victim's body, it did not degrade, but travelled through the air, or through water, silent, scentless, invisible.
Snape was not going to terrify everyone by voicing his concerns just yet. Forcing his hand to be steady and fixing his face in an expression of mild annoyance - the closest he could come to neutrality - he worked on, every nerve-ending on alert, hardly daring to hope that one of the vials would send out its siren.
Being alone with his thoughts was never a good thing for Snape, and he was almost relieved when Black returned several hours later, blatantly having slipped off for some lunch.
"Did you get anything of out Filch?" The potions master demanded, adding a drop of blood to the last-but-one vial.
"Nothing except a lot of muttering and obscenities." Black replied cheerfully. "I told you so. Filch says Mrs. Norris would never neglect her duties, blah-de-blah, that she was in your office all the time, blah blah, he didn't see her till this morning."
"I see." Snape added a drop of blood to the last vial. He had not really been expecting much information from Filch. If only Mrs. Norris could talk! Snape often suspected that she was the more intelligent of the two, which was no reflection, after all, on the caretaker.
"Did you find out which one it was?" Black nodded at the worktable. Snape glared at him.
"If I had, would I still be testing?" The potions master mimicked Sirius' casual tone. Sirius stared at him.
"What is it?"
"Hmm?"
"What's going on, Snape? You're white as a sheet. You have found the poison, haven't you? What is it?"
"Black, shut up. I've found nothing; nothing at all!" Unable to suppress his frustration, Snape swept an arm savagely across the table, knocking the first row of vials to the floor. They shattered, glass and liquids flying everywhere.
"Don't worry." The potions master muttered, embarrassed as always at his outburst, "they were the most harmless ones. The vapour won't hurt you, just don't touch anything." With a wave of Snape's wand the mess was cleared up. The contents of the other vials would have to be more carefully disposed of.
"What does it mean?" Black had dropped into a chair, looking worried, obviously picking up on Snape's mood. "That you haven't found anything? What does that mean? What killed this man, Snape? You said it wasn't a curse. Now you're saying it wasn't a potion either?"
Snape realised he was going to have to take the moron through his reasoning step-by-step - and would probably have to do the same for the senior staff, as well...if it came to it, which was looking increasingly likely.
"There is no trace of any curse on Trentham's body, and no trace of any poison."
"But..."
"Shut up, Black. There are over a hundred undetectable poisons, mostly variations on a dozen or so themes. 'Undetectable' simply refers to the fact that there is no obvious way to determine the presence of the potions; they have no smell or taste, they cause no noticeable symptoms. The victim simply dies."
"That looks like what happened here."
"Indeed. So I tested for every possible variation of undetectable poison - save two - using a complicated technique which I really cannot be bothered to explain to you. I have found nothing. Does that clear things up for you, Black? I - have - found - nothing!"
Black stared blankly for a few moments. Snape could practically see the cogs turning slowly in the mongrel's brain.
"So what killed him? One of the two you didn't test for?" Black asked, eventually.
There could be no more delays, no more evasions. Snape swallowed hard.
"I sincerely hope," he said quietly, "that Trentham was killed by a highly complex poison known colloquially as 'The Widowmaker', which is immensely difficult to brew, and even harder to collect the ingredients for. I know of no-one living but myself capable of producing this potion."
"Modest, aren't you?" Black muttered.
"It is the simple truth."
"Hang on," Sirius frowned, "you said you hoped this potion had been used. Why?"
This was it.
"The only a alternative," Snape struggled to keep his voice steady, and failed, "is the remaining undetectable, completely undetectable, poison; one which was believed to have been lost. If there is someone in the world capable of brewing this poison..." he broke off, unable to continue. Black was staring at him with wide, alarmed eyes.
"Go on, Snape, for God's sake." He muttered hoarsely. Snape took a breath and finished,
"The Poison has no known antidote, and the way in which it can be destroyed is not known. After killing its first victim, it leaves the corpse and travels to another. According to legend, the creator of The Poison can usually control it, selecting victims at will - but The Poison grows in strength with each life it takes, and eventually develops a will of its own, killing according to its own needs. If it were let loose in Hogwarts..."
"Everything in the Castle would die." Black whispered, grasping finally the severity of the situation. Snape nodded slowly. There was silence for a few moments, then, strangely, Black seemed to perk up.
"If it was The Poison that killed Trentham - wouldn't it have taken another victim already?" The hope in his voice was painful to hear.
"Not necessarily." Snape answered wearily. "If Voldemort sent Trentham here to carry The Poison, as I fear, he is in control of it for the moment. It may be - lying low, as it were. Voldemort fears Dumbledore's strength; if anyone can find a way to destroy The Poison, it is Albus."
Another silence. Black chewed his lip.
"Snape - how sure are you of this? Is there any way to tell whether the poison that killed Trentham was this Widowmaker thing or - or the other? I mean, you said the Widowmaker was immensely difficult to brew, but from what you've said, The Poison is completely impossible to create. Aren't we overreacting a bit here, panicking without all the facts?"
Snape sighed wearily. Typical Gryffindor optimism; optimism that could get everyone killed, under the circumstances.
"I agree that it is more likely that Trentham was killed using the Widowmaker poison. But we have no choice but to assume the alternative; you must see that, Black."
Sirius got up and began pacing around the room, running his hands distractedly through his short black hair. "I do see it, Merlin help us all. You're right." He said it without a hint of hesitation. "We need to tell Dumbledore what you've discovered - or rather, what you haven't. Then...well, well see where we go from there, I suppose."
All Black's arrogance and inappropriate humour had vanished; there was a look of horror in his eyes, and his voice shook slightly. Snape could not bring himself to feel any sense of satisfaction at this; he was too busy trying to mask his own utter terror. If Voldemort truly had been able to create The Poison, it could mean the end of Hogwarts - it could destroy everyone in the Castle within hours, if it chose. Worse. Every witch and wizard in the country - perhaps in the world - who refused to follow the Dark Lord could be wiped out using The Poison. No antidote. No defence. No hope.
Snape shook himself. He refused to accept that there was no hope. It might yet be that his suspicions were erroneous - but his instincts as a master potions brewer, and sometime Death-Eater, were telling him that they were not.
Never in his life had Severus Snape so desperately wanted to be wrong.
Thanks to everyone for reviewing the first chapter, and many thanks as always to my terrific beta, Amy.
For any Holmes fans out there...except quite a lot of references to the Master before the end ;-) Anyone to get them all wins...er...The Golden Pistachio of Noticing-ness.
*************
"I refer you, Black, to the curious event of the cat in the morning."
"What cat?"
"Filch's cat, dunderhead!"
"Filch's cat didn't do anything in the morning."
"That," remarked Severus Snape, "was the curious incident."
"You speak in riddles, git." Replied Sirius.
"Always. You may or may not be aware that Mrs. Norris guards the potions lab on Saturday nights, with the cooperation of Mr. Filch. It is usually on Saturdays that certain malign creatures - Weasleys, for example - take it upon themselves to be nuisances. They interfere with ingredients, lesson plans, and anything else they can find. Since I have no intention of sitting up every Saturday night watching for the Damnable Duo, Filch kindly lends me his highly intelligent and immensely vicious pet."
Sirius pondered.
"What's that got to do with anything?" He wondered. Snape looked up with exasperation from the bench over which he was leaning; on it was the corpse of Claudius Trentham.
"You found Trentham at ten thirty-five this morning. Mrs. Norris is always left in my office from midnight on Saturday until noon on Sunday. That is my arrangement with she and Argus. It never varies. You did not see Mrs. Norris this morning."
"No, I didn't. I'd have remembered. That cat hates me."
"As I said, a highly intelligent animal. Filch brought Mrs. Norris to my office at midnight as usual, last night; I went to bed at about one thirty a.m., leaving food and water for the cat. She sat on my desk, as always. Yet this morning there was no sign of her. Whatever the circumstances, Mrs. Norris does not neglect her duties. She is most diligent."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Why not just elope with her? We all know you're a cat person." He leered.
Snape gave a small sigh, but chose to ignore this last comment.
"It's almost a quarter past twelve now. If Mrs. Norris had not returned to Filch, he'd have roused the whole castle."
"Then you need to speak to Filch."
"No, I need to examine this corpse. *You* need to speak to Filch."
"But..."
"Are you going to cooperate with me, Black?"
Sirius scowled.
"Cooperation, last time I checked, didn't mean you ordering me around. I'm not under your authority, Snape. And you know full well I'll get nothing out of that mouldy old caretaker and his moth-eaten moggy."
"Show some respect!"
"What is it with you and Filch, anyway? Are you his secret love-child, or something?"
"Are you capable of conducting this post-mortem, Black?"
"Probably not." Sirius admitted.
"Then go and talk to Filch and let me get on with it."
When Sirius finally departed, muttering darkly to himself, Snape returned his attention to the corpse - with, it must be said, a certain macabre interest. Trentham's body was strangely unmarked, but it was not the eerie result of the killing curse; Snape detected, in fact, no curses or hexes of any kind. The only really likely alternative, curses aside, was a potion of some sort. Dumbledore had made an efficient decision in asking Snape to perform the autopsy; with Snape's expertise covering both potions and the dark arts, there was little in the way of murder weapons which could escape his analysis.
And yet - nothing. Trentham was simply dead, with no indication of how the deed had been committed. Snape sighed as he used his wand to extract a sample of the dead man's blood. There were many poisons undetectable to the naked eye - or nose - and to test for the presence of them all would take a very long time. There were even two potions Snape knew of which were completely undetectable: they disapparated from the body the moment the victim was dead, leaving a corpse that was unmarked both physically and chemically. But both those potions were near impossible to brew correctly, even if the right ingredients could be collected - which itself was more difficult and frustrating than holding a civil conversation with the Martyred Mongrel, Snape reflected sourly. He himself had the expertise to make one of the two potions, the more recently invented, known somewhat melodramatically as 'The Widowmaker'. But the ingredients it required...! Ground Pegasus feathers. Saliva of a Cerebrus - well, Hagrid could probably supply that. A drop of giant's blood. Perhaps the monster-minding oaf could provide that as well, Snape mused. Then there was the most rare element of all - a whole, live, Death-Watch beetle. Not the harmless creature Muggles were so superstitious about, but the real thing, a tiny animal found only in South America, and immensely difficult to catch, since any contact the thing had with the skin would prove fatal. The beetle's natural poison was among the most powerful in the world, but, used alone, it produced definite and definable symptoms in the victim, and the poison remained detectable after death. In combination with the other ingredients, if the potion was brewed at precisely the right time and in exactly the right manner, a single drop of 'The Widowmaker' caused instant death and left no trace of its presence.
Snape had brewed the potion once, and only once, in circumstances he wished to forget. The process had very nearly killed him; as it was, he had been ill for months, despite the precautions he had taken to avoid directly touching the ingredients or inhaling any fumes. If 'The Widowmaker' was responsible for Trentham's death, then whoever killed him was - or was allied with - a potion-brewer of the greatest skill and courage.
As for the other alternative...the more ancient undetectable poison, which even Snape could not make...he did not want to think about the possibilities of that. The Poison, as it was known - it did not even have a catchy name to make one feel a little more in control - was far from merely a liquid. It was a living thing, a thing which possessed a kind of rudimentary intelligence. And it could escape from the control of its creator. As far as Snape knew, there was no wizard or witch in the world capable of creating The Poison; in fact, the ability was thought to be lost, and no one person possessed a complete list of the ingredients.
At least, so Snape hoped.
Swiftly collecting samples of all the undetectable poisons he kept in his cupboards Snape lined them up methodically on the table and added a drop of Trentham's blood to each, three drops of an orange concoction which would determine whether the poison already existed in Trentham's bloodstream, and tapped the vials with his wand twice afterwards. The first tap to speed up the process. The second set up the vial to alert Snape automatically - with a rather unfortunate ear-piercing shriek - if a match was found. Hoping but not really believing that he would hear the shriek soon, Snape set about brewing the poisons he did not keep bottled in his office for a rainy day. The nastier ones. Poisons that could be slipped into food or drink, poisons that could be injected, poisons that worked by leaching through the skin. Poisons that transmitted themselves like viruses, poisons which became airborne and killed everything within a mile if the antidote was not provided. Snape made sure he brewed the antidotes first, and as he did so, he could not help reflecting that The Poison had no known antidote, and that once leaving its victim's body, it did not degrade, but travelled through the air, or through water, silent, scentless, invisible.
Snape was not going to terrify everyone by voicing his concerns just yet. Forcing his hand to be steady and fixing his face in an expression of mild annoyance - the closest he could come to neutrality - he worked on, every nerve-ending on alert, hardly daring to hope that one of the vials would send out its siren.
Being alone with his thoughts was never a good thing for Snape, and he was almost relieved when Black returned several hours later, blatantly having slipped off for some lunch.
"Did you get anything of out Filch?" The potions master demanded, adding a drop of blood to the last-but-one vial.
"Nothing except a lot of muttering and obscenities." Black replied cheerfully. "I told you so. Filch says Mrs. Norris would never neglect her duties, blah-de-blah, that she was in your office all the time, blah blah, he didn't see her till this morning."
"I see." Snape added a drop of blood to the last vial. He had not really been expecting much information from Filch. If only Mrs. Norris could talk! Snape often suspected that she was the more intelligent of the two, which was no reflection, after all, on the caretaker.
"Did you find out which one it was?" Black nodded at the worktable. Snape glared at him.
"If I had, would I still be testing?" The potions master mimicked Sirius' casual tone. Sirius stared at him.
"What is it?"
"Hmm?"
"What's going on, Snape? You're white as a sheet. You have found the poison, haven't you? What is it?"
"Black, shut up. I've found nothing; nothing at all!" Unable to suppress his frustration, Snape swept an arm savagely across the table, knocking the first row of vials to the floor. They shattered, glass and liquids flying everywhere.
"Don't worry." The potions master muttered, embarrassed as always at his outburst, "they were the most harmless ones. The vapour won't hurt you, just don't touch anything." With a wave of Snape's wand the mess was cleared up. The contents of the other vials would have to be more carefully disposed of.
"What does it mean?" Black had dropped into a chair, looking worried, obviously picking up on Snape's mood. "That you haven't found anything? What does that mean? What killed this man, Snape? You said it wasn't a curse. Now you're saying it wasn't a potion either?"
Snape realised he was going to have to take the moron through his reasoning step-by-step - and would probably have to do the same for the senior staff, as well...if it came to it, which was looking increasingly likely.
"There is no trace of any curse on Trentham's body, and no trace of any poison."
"But..."
"Shut up, Black. There are over a hundred undetectable poisons, mostly variations on a dozen or so themes. 'Undetectable' simply refers to the fact that there is no obvious way to determine the presence of the potions; they have no smell or taste, they cause no noticeable symptoms. The victim simply dies."
"That looks like what happened here."
"Indeed. So I tested for every possible variation of undetectable poison - save two - using a complicated technique which I really cannot be bothered to explain to you. I have found nothing. Does that clear things up for you, Black? I - have - found - nothing!"
Black stared blankly for a few moments. Snape could practically see the cogs turning slowly in the mongrel's brain.
"So what killed him? One of the two you didn't test for?" Black asked, eventually.
There could be no more delays, no more evasions. Snape swallowed hard.
"I sincerely hope," he said quietly, "that Trentham was killed by a highly complex poison known colloquially as 'The Widowmaker', which is immensely difficult to brew, and even harder to collect the ingredients for. I know of no-one living but myself capable of producing this potion."
"Modest, aren't you?" Black muttered.
"It is the simple truth."
"Hang on," Sirius frowned, "you said you hoped this potion had been used. Why?"
This was it.
"The only a alternative," Snape struggled to keep his voice steady, and failed, "is the remaining undetectable, completely undetectable, poison; one which was believed to have been lost. If there is someone in the world capable of brewing this poison..." he broke off, unable to continue. Black was staring at him with wide, alarmed eyes.
"Go on, Snape, for God's sake." He muttered hoarsely. Snape took a breath and finished,
"The Poison has no known antidote, and the way in which it can be destroyed is not known. After killing its first victim, it leaves the corpse and travels to another. According to legend, the creator of The Poison can usually control it, selecting victims at will - but The Poison grows in strength with each life it takes, and eventually develops a will of its own, killing according to its own needs. If it were let loose in Hogwarts..."
"Everything in the Castle would die." Black whispered, grasping finally the severity of the situation. Snape nodded slowly. There was silence for a few moments, then, strangely, Black seemed to perk up.
"If it was The Poison that killed Trentham - wouldn't it have taken another victim already?" The hope in his voice was painful to hear.
"Not necessarily." Snape answered wearily. "If Voldemort sent Trentham here to carry The Poison, as I fear, he is in control of it for the moment. It may be - lying low, as it were. Voldemort fears Dumbledore's strength; if anyone can find a way to destroy The Poison, it is Albus."
Another silence. Black chewed his lip.
"Snape - how sure are you of this? Is there any way to tell whether the poison that killed Trentham was this Widowmaker thing or - or the other? I mean, you said the Widowmaker was immensely difficult to brew, but from what you've said, The Poison is completely impossible to create. Aren't we overreacting a bit here, panicking without all the facts?"
Snape sighed wearily. Typical Gryffindor optimism; optimism that could get everyone killed, under the circumstances.
"I agree that it is more likely that Trentham was killed using the Widowmaker poison. But we have no choice but to assume the alternative; you must see that, Black."
Sirius got up and began pacing around the room, running his hands distractedly through his short black hair. "I do see it, Merlin help us all. You're right." He said it without a hint of hesitation. "We need to tell Dumbledore what you've discovered - or rather, what you haven't. Then...well, well see where we go from there, I suppose."
All Black's arrogance and inappropriate humour had vanished; there was a look of horror in his eyes, and his voice shook slightly. Snape could not bring himself to feel any sense of satisfaction at this; he was too busy trying to mask his own utter terror. If Voldemort truly had been able to create The Poison, it could mean the end of Hogwarts - it could destroy everyone in the Castle within hours, if it chose. Worse. Every witch and wizard in the country - perhaps in the world - who refused to follow the Dark Lord could be wiped out using The Poison. No antidote. No defence. No hope.
Snape shook himself. He refused to accept that there was no hope. It might yet be that his suspicions were erroneous - but his instincts as a master potions brewer, and sometime Death-Eater, were telling him that they were not.
Never in his life had Severus Snape so desperately wanted to be wrong.