Mine Protector
Chapter 11: The Anaemus
"Because a costume can be quite comfortable,
it can make you feel more beautiful.
It can even make you look like someone else.
But it is still you, so there's nothing you can do..."
- Bright Eyes (again!)
He couldn't remember where or when, but Severus faintly recalled hearing of a medical legend that was believed by some in the muggle world--though even to his own wizarding ears, it sounded too fantastic to be true. What the legend claimed was that every cell in the human body was regenerated and replaced over the span of seven years--a new heart blooming out of the old, like magic even he himself couldn't perform. Such legend was said to explain why a person could go to sleep hating oranges, and then wake up the next morning with a unspeakable thirst for citrus--citrus on the tongue, citron shavings underneath fingernails, tangerine peels left to dry in a bowl and fill the air with perfume.
He couldn't deny that despite their shortcomings, muggles had a distinct way of viewing the world as a magical place within which even wizards might dream of residing.
-So is that what this is...? Did I sleep for seven years and grow new eyes...new skin?-
These questions were, of course, inspired by Hermione. He didn't know how it was that, less than a year ago, he could freely snarl at her--silently condemning her unkept mess of hair, cringing at the crescendo of her pretentious, know-it-all voice--only to now reflect on her every move and breath as gifts of silver perfection.
Surely, he had gone mad.
And yet he remained suspicious of her. Her actions from the other night betrayed her not as a mere precocious sixth-year, but as someone to be regarded with a high degree of skepticism. Why did she sneak around making potions in the middle of the night? And when, in all bloody hell, did she find the time and means to become such an athletic wonder? Severus couldn't deny the sheer delight that blazed under his skin when he saw her moves during the Quidditch game--her ferocity and lightness seemed incomparable.
And yet, how? Potter had always been a hero, in reality and on the Quidditch pitch--it was practically his blasted birthright, after all. But hadn't Hermione always been the brainy side-kick? A tugging, down-to-earth sense of conscience that had always done her best to keep the Boy Who Lived in line? Someone who struggled to look out for the boy's best interests, even if it meant getting dragging into hairy situations involving three-headed dogs and basilisks?
Someone who was, in other words, not unlike himself.
In his private quarters, Severus mulled over such thoughts as he worked; the Quidditch game had ended mere hours ago, and he had afterwards hurried back to check on the mystery potion he had discovered on Hermione's unconscious body. He boiled the vial itself in an air-tight cauldron of ordinary well-water, and after over 24 hours of tending, the potion had been heated to such a degree that the liquid components had evaporated, leaving behind a fine matter similar to quill-shavings.
He tipped the now-solid contents of the vial onto a shallow tray, shaking it out into a thin layer of dust. He rubbed a bit between his fingers to feel for texture and clarity, then brought it to his nose and sniffed.
Ironically, it smelled faintly of citrus.
After much weighing, studying, and testing, he soon had the solid matter divided up into eight tiny piles--each representing a separate ingredient. This kind of work was the test of a true potions master; it went beyond the mere brewing and broke the task down to the study of its essential components. The first six ingredients were easy for him to define, as he was quite familiar with each of them: powdered bicorn horn, fluxweed, knotgrass, boomslang skin, scarab oil, and willow sap. He did not find defining these elements particularly assuring, however; the first four ingredients were required for the immensely complex polyjuice potion, and bicorn horn and boomslang were especially unstable products. Willow sap, knotgrass, and fluxweed were all quite easy to find, but Scarab oil was very rare and expensive--Hermione had certainly not come by it in the school's supply cabinet. What on earth had the girl been brewing up? Whatever it was, it was extraordinary sophisticated.
Trying to ignore his rising anticipation, Severus studied the final two ingredients. One was extremely shiny--almost wet to the touch. He trailed his finger in it, curious. Funny, it reminded him of....but no, that couldn't be. Could it? Absently, he noticed an faint, healing burn on his knuckle, and touched the substance to that very spot. When he wiped the excess away, he saw that the burn was gone; not even a trace scar remained. That could only mean one thing: the seventh ingredient was Phoenix tears.
How she had come to have Phoenix tears in her possession was a mystery indeed. Severus had some of his own, which he kept locked up in a desk drawer inside his own quarters, but the only reason he had such a luxurious ingredient was because there was a real live Phoenix, Fawkes, residing within Hogwarts. Unlike other potion components, Phoenix tears could not be sold by vendors--it had to be collected from the live source, and with the bird's permission, at that.
Severus exhaled at this discovery. Again, he experienced the sense that whatever Hermione had been brewing, it must have been something quite out of this world.
That left only the eighth ingredient--a fine, silvery substance. Though he touched it and weighed it several times, he still hadn't a clue what it was. It possessed that light, lemony smell, but other than that seemed utterly innocuous. Finally, after much internal debate, Severus gathered up a bit of it and tipped his head back. What he was about to do was undoubtedly risky--swallowing a raw element was never a good idea, and he only ever did so as a last resort. But in this case, he was quite literally *desperate* to know what the silvery powder was. He sprinkled some on his tongue and swished it around in his mouth, then swallowed.
There is was--a pleasant, sweet taste. Lemony. But when it hit his stomach, he felt his muscles lurch.
-Of course..- he thought, doubling over slightly, but grinning a little in spite of himself.. The girl was, in fact, brilliant. And it seemed she had finally discovered a use for fairy-lash.
Once the spasms had passed, Severus set about gathering fresh ingredients together. It was time to re-create a new batch of the girl's secret potion. Whatever wonders or horrors it might perform, he was determined to see them for himself.
---
"Concentrate, Hermione. . ." Dumbledore's voice came from far off, wavering in her head, rather than actually spoken in her ear. She was standing perfectly still in the middle of his circular office, a position that caused her no discomfort--rather, she felt as if she were very nearly levitating. The air that circulated around her seemed almost tangible, crackling with imperceptible energy.
"Dissaeptum," she murmured, and the energy tightened dramatically, squeezing around her ribcage like a massive fist. She tested her legs and found that she could move quite freely, despite the heaviness.
"Excaeco!" The curse came at her underhanded and exploded against her left hip; with no more than a brief, hot sizzle, it dissipated on contact, falling in a shower of sparks to the floorboards.
"Excellent!" Dumbledore exclaimed, stepping forward, his face positively alight. "The barrier held up against a significantly potent paralysis spell--often used by Aurors to stop wizards from casting aggressive fire and fury charms."
"That's good, right?" she said, allowing herself to smile. As much fun as the day's Quidditch game had been, she had been looking forward to this training session immensely.
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "I can say with all honesty that you have already surpassed the goals I had drawn for you this year."
"Already?" she asked, surprised, then added, teasingly: "Well, call it a day then, shall we? I have some feasting yet to do before nightfall!"
The headmaster chuckled a bit, then drew up to full height. "I'd like to test that barrier under a more strenuous spell first, if you're up to it." His expression was casual--the look of a man who wanted to put no pressure on her. But even 'no pressure' was a persuasive force coming from a wizard like Dumbledore. Any test, no matter how minor, was important in terms of proving her dedication to the man and his immediate circle of supporters; with no reservations, she graciously accepted his offer.
He only smiled in response, then backed away into the shadows, so she had no indication of what direction the curse would come from. She tried to withdraw into herself, paring her thoughts down to a single one that she chanted silently, letting it build strength around her: Barrier. Barrier.
"Dissaeptum..." she whispered.
"Halo Windaro!"
Her eyes burst open. And in that most indefinite course of space, a quick, pained thought forced its way her mind: Windaro--where had she heard that before? The word was familiar.
She was suddenly sure she was viewing an impossibly slow world behind a sheet of wavy glass. The curse shot out like jagged lightning, a bright yellow bolt from the blue, so to speak, a creature starved and licking at the air. Without thinking, she dropped her wand and thrust her hands out before her. -Stop!- her mind insisted, eyes rolling upward, all the saliva retreating from her mouth in one huge swallow.
Without explanation, in complete defiance of anything she had every before seen, the curse *did* stop. She clasped it between her palms like a solid thing, where it swirled, angry and alive but unable to touch her.
"What...?" she murmured, feeling her senses return slightly.
It didn't last long. The air that filled her lungs seemed to rush forth, not exiting from her mouth but propelling out through her fingertips. Painfully, the curse contracted and shot from her hands...*away* from her hands as if it had sprung from her very own wand--the one that now lay on the floor, forgotten.
Across the room, Albus Dumbledore was knocked clear over his desk, crashing into the wall behind it.
Her hands were still buzzing madly, and she thought she might soon faint, but everything came back into sharp focus when she saw her teacher slump to the ground.
"Albus!" she cried, rushing to his side. He seemed conscious, but was bent over and struggling to catch his breath. His glasses were askew, and he fumbled with them for several seconds--until she had the presence of mind to reach out and adjust them. "Oh God! What have I done?" She ran to his bathroom and filled a tumble with cold water, then returned to hold it to his lips, her own heart knocked at her ribs all the while. He drank deeply, then paused to catch his breath.
"That. . .was quite a feat, my girl," he wheezed, his eyes sparkling despite the fact she'd quite obviously injured him.
"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes welling with tears. She helped him to his feet, and carefully assisted him into a chair, finding herself completely unable to let go of his quivering hand.
"Oh, please, please believe me when I say I didn't mean to do that." The tears spilled down her cheeks, and she was amazed to see him smiling, though it was an unsure, cloudy smile. He squeezed her hand back, and she choked up again.
"Hermione...do you know what you just did?" He straightened up, quite noble despite his evident fatigue.
"No, no...but I'm sorry. I won't do it again." She chanted, tremors beginning to wrench her body.
"Calm down, Hermione," he said soothingly. "What you did wasn't wrong. And you couldn't help it. So please don't apologize."
"What was it? You've seen that happen before?"
"A few times, yes." He seemed distant as he answered, and she said nothing, sensing that he was about to continue. "Tell me...are you familiar with the phrase 'Habeo in animo'?"
"That's Latin," she said, a bit puzzled. "It sounds like. . . 'I am resolute'?"
"'I am resolved'," he corrected, not unkindly. "Yes, based on a rather ancient maxim, it's a phrase used to describe Anaemus magic."
"Anaemus? I've never heard of that before."
"You wouldn't have," he said. "It's thought to be superstitious nonsense these days. But long ago, Animus magic was practiced by a very devout group of wizards and witches who believed in preserving balance, above all else. The phrase they used to identify each other was 'Habeo in animo'."
She frowned a little. "I don't think I understand, sir."
"The Anaemus believed that a wizard or witch's power is more than just a trick of light and dazzle, but is in fact the seat of thought, intellect, mind, memory, and consciousness. It is a definition of ones very essence. They also believed that magic was in everything--animate or inanimate, muggle or wizard."
"They sound fascinating," she admitted. "But how does this relate to the magic I just did?"
"I'm sure you've by now realized that you returned that curse to me without the aid of your wand?"
Actually, she hadn't. But looking over her shoulder, she saw that he was right. Her wand was still on the rug, right where she had dropped it. No, she *had* used her bare hands to return the curse, and now that she held them out in front of her, she saw that they were red and faintly blistered, as if she had held them too close to a boiling cauldron.
Without waiting for her to answer, he continued: "The Anaemus stressed that magic was contained in human will, not in wands or potions--or even in words, for that matter. What is a wand or a word, after all, but a tangible conduit for a wizard's or witch's inner-will?"
"Yes," she said vaguely, feeling lost at his words.
"But it is rare that a wizard can lasso that sense of will on their own--which is why most depend on tools and incantations. When you contained the curse in your hands, you were merely asserting your will, and without the diffusing effect of a clumsy wand, the magic was that much more potent."
"But why have I never heard of this before? Can everyone do this?"
"No," he said, rubbing his beard absently. "It's rare to find a modern witch or wizard with a defined spiritual or visceral connection to their own magic--most see magic as a very crude operation, one used for everyday tasks and not much more."
"You...." she murmured, filling with realization. "You can do it, though. You *are* an Anaemus. That's why you know so much...why your abilities are so far-reaching."
He tilted his head in a charming way. "You flatter me, child. While I do believe in the teachings of the Anaemus, they themselves are long dead, and much of their teachings are lost. The only thing I try to embody is what lasts--their philosophy."
"That containment magic. . .will I be able to do it again?" she asked.
He paused. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I expect something triggered it in your this time. If you can identify what that trigger is, then I imagine it's possible--you may even one day be able to assert your will effortlessly, with practice."
She breathed in sharply. To assert magic with no wand? No incantation? With nothing more than her very will? What a glorious and frightful power that would be--a power she wasn't sure she wanted. And the trigger. . .what had it been? She tried to remember, but only saw the frozen curse, trapped like a bird in her hands.
Nothing else would surface.
---
Marching through the corridors, Severus Snape might have been mistaken for a stampeding bull; his normally slick hair was dampish and wild, and he seemed to emit a slight growl with each imposing step.
The first thing he had done, of course, was travel by floo powder to the Gryffindor common-room. Such things were only done in cases of emergency, and by God, Severus was having one hell of an emergency. Since it was Saturday, he wasn't surprised to see that the room was empty except for a handful of students, including Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom, who were both reading by the fire when he emerged from it, sparks and ash cascading off his robe.
"Snape!" Ginny squeaked, slamming her book shut. Longbottom merely trembled and shrank within his seat.
"WHERE'S GRANGER?" He roared, knowing Minerva McGonagall would kill him for this--though frankly, he cared little.
"Ah....ah!" Ginny stammered, her mouth jumped as if on a stringer. "L-Library?"
Without a word of thanks, he left through the portrait-hole, stomping and huffing his way towards the library. Students and teachers alike rushed to get out of his way, many of them looking curious, rather than frightened. -And why wouldn't they be curious, considering the state I'm in?- he thought bitterly. It was all the fault of that Granger and her potion, too!
"Professor Snape!" someone called, and he didn't look to see who it was, only marched onward, blind in his fury. "Severus!" the voice said again, and this time someone physically grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him to a halt.
Whirling his head, Severus saw that he'd been delayed by none other than Sirius Black, the mysterious new Defense instructor. Not very mysterious to Snape, of course, though he'd purposely had little contact with the man since his arrival.
"Good god, Snape," Black said, looking alarmed. "Have you gone mad? Storming through the corridors like a wild rhino? What's come over you?"
Black's words only served to further incense him. "LOOK at me, Professor Black," he snarled, gesturing at his own body. "Hermione Granger is responsible for my present condition, and I need to find her at once!"
Sirius looked him up and down, then shook his head slightly. "What exactly has she done to you? I see nothing wrong."
Snape froze. "Do not jest with me, Black. What Miss Granger has done is no joke, I assure you!"
"Yes, but what exactly has she done? I don't understand. . .you look just fine. Healthier than usual, even!"
"You mean...you don't see it?" Snape sputtered, his fury not tempered, but momentarily forgotten.
"See what?" Black asked, his voice maddeningly rational. "And please don't storm up to Hermione in such a state--I'd hate for someone to get hurt."
"I will NOT hurt her, Black. I intend only to give her a piece of my mind, and then some!"
"Frankly, Snape, it's not *her* I'm worried about," Black said, amused.
"Out of my way!" Snape retorted, but before he could shove Black aside, the man backed off on his own accord.
"Be careful," Black called after him, his voice cheerful. "And pray that she doesn't have a bludger on hand!"
Snape muttered a few choice obscenities under his breath, then swept through the library doors. Madame Pince looking on in disapproval as he worked his way through the aisles, checking every single carrel for her intolerable mop of curls, sure to be bowed over some immensely difficult book. But there was no Granger, though there were *plenty* of signs that she'd been here earlier--one carrel was piled high with books on incredibly advanced defensive magics, all of them long and tedious reads, certainly something only a genius would bother with.
-Ohh Granger..- he thought coldly. -I know you too well. I can sniff out your trail and find you,
no matter where you may hide.-
As if pulled by a magnet, he found himself climbing more stairs, working towards the high center of the castle without slowing. When he finally rounded the last staircase, he spotted her; she was wandered down the very hall that led to Dumbledore's office, looking deep in thought. Snape slipped into a dark doorway and watched her through narrowed eyes. There she was, that silver, perfect girl, looking heavenly in weekend jeans and a rumpled, short-sleeved blouse; as usual, there was something untidy about her that caused him to nearly unravel. He clenched his eyes shut momentarily; the girl would not get the better of him this time.
Still seeming oblivious to his presence, she meandered by the door where he had hidden himself, fingering her wand absently. A few steps more and he saw her stiffen slightly, as if she'd suddenly caught his scent. Before she could react, he darted out with both hands and clenched her around the waist, swinging her a few inches off the ground and into the empty classroom behind him. She landed on her feet, but rather carelessly, touching his arm to steady herself. Realizing what had just happened, she then looked up into his face; her pupils dilated dramatically, but she didn't look particularly terrified--a fact that Snape guessed would soon change.
"I've been looking for you, Miss Granger," he hissed, and with that, slammed the door behind him.
---
Hermione hurried to barricade herself behind a desk, wand in hand; whatever she had done, if must have been bad. Snape looked ready to give her a dose of the old 'Crucio'. Other than his obvious rage, though, she couldn't help but notice that he looked. . .well, good. As if he'd had some fresh air recently, his skin seemed not sallow but rich and honeyed. Buttery. Yes, exactly like something she'd like to sink her teeth into.
"Um..." she gulped, a little distracted by the fact that his snarling lips looked deliciously red.
"Not the answer, I'm looking for, Miss Granger," he said, moving closer. "Now I'll ask you again. . .what have you done to me?"
"Done?" she asked, distracted. "Nothing, I don't think. Why, is something wrong?"
"Yes, something is wrong!" he raged, slamming his fist down on a nearby desk. "Look at me. . .can't you see how I've changed?"
"Er...no?" she said, uncertain, though it was clear that something about him *had* changed. He was a tall man, normally quite thin, but now his chest seemed. . .somehow broader, didn't it? She wouldn't have minded pressing her hands to it to find out, but sensibly restrained herself.
Severus stared at her for several moments, as if trying to search out answers in her expression alone. "Of course. . ." he said, his eyes brightening with some realization. "There's a confundus effect. You and others can't see the change--not quite, anyway." His anger seemed to subside as he silently worked over the puzzle.
"Oh my clever girl," he continued. "You really have outdone yourself this time. Now tell me...who taught you to make that potion?"
"Potion?..." she said, feeling dull-witted. He looked so expectant....so youthful.
-Youthful-
Everything clicked into place at once.
Severus Snape was now the physical embodiment of the man he'd been ten years earlier.
---
Severus Snape was not a foolish man--far from it; when he swallowed Hermione's mystery potion, he had been prepared for anything. Perhaps the girl had discovered a new way to soothe menstrual cramps, or maybe she was making an illicit potion to help Potter pass his N.E.W.T. exams; whatever the case, she had gone to great lengths to keep him from discovering the potion's true purpose. He had spent Friday morning summoning glass shards from his classroom wall--proof of her strength and tenacity.
After drinking the potion, there had been hellish pain, a horrible sense of being burned from the inside out. He came to on the floor of his study, his entire body coated in a thin scrim of sweat. Aside from that, he felt oddly well. A little peppier than usual, maybe. Almost--dare he say?--cheerful. At first he took these symptoms as pointing to some kind of rejuvenation elixir, similar to a strong round of vitamins. But when he held out his hands before him, he saw that something was very wrong. His forearms looked tauter and more defined, less heavily veined than usual. A slow sense of gloom caused his body to go cool and loose. Suddenly certain something was very wrong, he had rushed to his bedside mirror and was promptly taken aback by what he saw.
Himself, age 27--give or take a few months.
Now the girl who had brewed up the original wonder-potion was gaping at him, looking positively pained with disbelief. She saw the truth written on his features now, and judging from her reaction, she had known *exactly* what that potion would do.
Now the question was, why had *she* been making it in the first place?
"Oh no," she said, her complexion graying dramatically. "You took the VesClotho, didn't you?"
"VesClotho, is that what it's called?" He felt nearly giddy to be finally getting somewhere.
"Yes, VesClotho! Where did you get it? Did you. . .oh my God, you STOLE it from me, didn't you? You stunned me and found the potion in my pocket. . ."she rambled on, looking as if she might soon beat herself--or him--senseless.
"What is the potion for, Miss Granger? And why were you making it? I let you get away with not answering me last time, but this time I DEMAND that you fill me in on the details," he said, a no-nonsense edge creeping into his voice. He was surprised that his anger had drained away so quickly, and as she squirmed under his gaze he grew increasingly aware that his feelings were transforming into acute arousal.
-Oh Lords...- he thought, uncomfortable. -Please don't tell me that my libido has also regressed to that of a lusty, hormonal 27 year old...-
"Sir, I simply *can't* tell you why I was making the potion," she said, struggling to compose herself. Seeing his displeasure, she added: "But I assure you I had Dumbledore's approval. You can go ask him now...he's in his office. Just go ask him."
"Ah yes...Dumbledore. He *would* be in on this, wouldn't he? I assume he even gave you the Phoenix tears?"
She jumped slightly, apparently alarmed at how he had been able to deconstruct the VesClotho's individual elements. "He did," she finally replied.
"And did he also teach you how to make the potion?"
"No," she said, and a tiny determined gleam showed in her eye. "I invented VesClotho myself."
He scoffed outloud. -Yes, Miss Granger. . .I imagine you just might *have* invented the potion...- he thought silently. -You are certainly capable enough. A better question is, then, why did YOU need it in the first place...-
He kept these questions to himself, though. Already, he could tell that threats would be useless against a person of her extraordinarily stubborn nature. A Gryffindor to the core, she would tell him nothing, and even if he went to Dumbledore, the old headmaster was sure to take her side.
Abruptly, his thoughts returned to a few nights earlier, when she had been wrapped in his quilt, resting in a chair before his very own fire. Even then, she had refused to tell him anything. . .but he had sensed her struggling with a desire to confess, an urge to let someone in on whatever secret she carried alone. He could see that same struggle now; it was evident in the bobbing of her pale throat, the way that she kept tugging down the hem of her shirt, over and over again.
"Allright, Miss Granger," he said, his voice steady. "I will pester you no further."
He did an about face and left the room, his robes wafting out behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reaction--it was one of deep, unbidden surprise.
It was a feeling he recognized. Surprise: like waking up on an early winter morning to discover that citrus suddenly smells sweet, and alluring.
*****************************
A/N: This was a difficult chapter to write. So many significant revelations in one chunk.... (I hope this satisfies a certain someone's request for 'more plot'?). Whew!
A few issues: The term "Anaemus" is based on the Latin word 'Animus', meaning life. I changed the spelling to avoid associations with Jung's definition of the word. I've also been told that 'Animus' is used in RPG terminology, which is my other reason for warping the word. The Anaemus is my own take on the "wandless magic" that shows up as an occasional motif in HP fanfic; my version being based mostly on freaky postmodernism--but more about that later ; )
Oh, and the next chapter will probably force me to upgrade this piece to NC-17. Hope that's okay with yall. = )
Again--thanks for reading. Reviews are appreciated.
small correction: in the original upload I said that Severus' had be un-aged by 15 years, when I meant to write 10. =)
Chapter 11: The Anaemus
"Because a costume can be quite comfortable,
it can make you feel more beautiful.
It can even make you look like someone else.
But it is still you, so there's nothing you can do..."
- Bright Eyes (again!)
He couldn't remember where or when, but Severus faintly recalled hearing of a medical legend that was believed by some in the muggle world--though even to his own wizarding ears, it sounded too fantastic to be true. What the legend claimed was that every cell in the human body was regenerated and replaced over the span of seven years--a new heart blooming out of the old, like magic even he himself couldn't perform. Such legend was said to explain why a person could go to sleep hating oranges, and then wake up the next morning with a unspeakable thirst for citrus--citrus on the tongue, citron shavings underneath fingernails, tangerine peels left to dry in a bowl and fill the air with perfume.
He couldn't deny that despite their shortcomings, muggles had a distinct way of viewing the world as a magical place within which even wizards might dream of residing.
-So is that what this is...? Did I sleep for seven years and grow new eyes...new skin?-
These questions were, of course, inspired by Hermione. He didn't know how it was that, less than a year ago, he could freely snarl at her--silently condemning her unkept mess of hair, cringing at the crescendo of her pretentious, know-it-all voice--only to now reflect on her every move and breath as gifts of silver perfection.
Surely, he had gone mad.
And yet he remained suspicious of her. Her actions from the other night betrayed her not as a mere precocious sixth-year, but as someone to be regarded with a high degree of skepticism. Why did she sneak around making potions in the middle of the night? And when, in all bloody hell, did she find the time and means to become such an athletic wonder? Severus couldn't deny the sheer delight that blazed under his skin when he saw her moves during the Quidditch game--her ferocity and lightness seemed incomparable.
And yet, how? Potter had always been a hero, in reality and on the Quidditch pitch--it was practically his blasted birthright, after all. But hadn't Hermione always been the brainy side-kick? A tugging, down-to-earth sense of conscience that had always done her best to keep the Boy Who Lived in line? Someone who struggled to look out for the boy's best interests, even if it meant getting dragging into hairy situations involving three-headed dogs and basilisks?
Someone who was, in other words, not unlike himself.
In his private quarters, Severus mulled over such thoughts as he worked; the Quidditch game had ended mere hours ago, and he had afterwards hurried back to check on the mystery potion he had discovered on Hermione's unconscious body. He boiled the vial itself in an air-tight cauldron of ordinary well-water, and after over 24 hours of tending, the potion had been heated to such a degree that the liquid components had evaporated, leaving behind a fine matter similar to quill-shavings.
He tipped the now-solid contents of the vial onto a shallow tray, shaking it out into a thin layer of dust. He rubbed a bit between his fingers to feel for texture and clarity, then brought it to his nose and sniffed.
Ironically, it smelled faintly of citrus.
After much weighing, studying, and testing, he soon had the solid matter divided up into eight tiny piles--each representing a separate ingredient. This kind of work was the test of a true potions master; it went beyond the mere brewing and broke the task down to the study of its essential components. The first six ingredients were easy for him to define, as he was quite familiar with each of them: powdered bicorn horn, fluxweed, knotgrass, boomslang skin, scarab oil, and willow sap. He did not find defining these elements particularly assuring, however; the first four ingredients were required for the immensely complex polyjuice potion, and bicorn horn and boomslang were especially unstable products. Willow sap, knotgrass, and fluxweed were all quite easy to find, but Scarab oil was very rare and expensive--Hermione had certainly not come by it in the school's supply cabinet. What on earth had the girl been brewing up? Whatever it was, it was extraordinary sophisticated.
Trying to ignore his rising anticipation, Severus studied the final two ingredients. One was extremely shiny--almost wet to the touch. He trailed his finger in it, curious. Funny, it reminded him of....but no, that couldn't be. Could it? Absently, he noticed an faint, healing burn on his knuckle, and touched the substance to that very spot. When he wiped the excess away, he saw that the burn was gone; not even a trace scar remained. That could only mean one thing: the seventh ingredient was Phoenix tears.
How she had come to have Phoenix tears in her possession was a mystery indeed. Severus had some of his own, which he kept locked up in a desk drawer inside his own quarters, but the only reason he had such a luxurious ingredient was because there was a real live Phoenix, Fawkes, residing within Hogwarts. Unlike other potion components, Phoenix tears could not be sold by vendors--it had to be collected from the live source, and with the bird's permission, at that.
Severus exhaled at this discovery. Again, he experienced the sense that whatever Hermione had been brewing, it must have been something quite out of this world.
That left only the eighth ingredient--a fine, silvery substance. Though he touched it and weighed it several times, he still hadn't a clue what it was. It possessed that light, lemony smell, but other than that seemed utterly innocuous. Finally, after much internal debate, Severus gathered up a bit of it and tipped his head back. What he was about to do was undoubtedly risky--swallowing a raw element was never a good idea, and he only ever did so as a last resort. But in this case, he was quite literally *desperate* to know what the silvery powder was. He sprinkled some on his tongue and swished it around in his mouth, then swallowed.
There is was--a pleasant, sweet taste. Lemony. But when it hit his stomach, he felt his muscles lurch.
-Of course..- he thought, doubling over slightly, but grinning a little in spite of himself.. The girl was, in fact, brilliant. And it seemed she had finally discovered a use for fairy-lash.
Once the spasms had passed, Severus set about gathering fresh ingredients together. It was time to re-create a new batch of the girl's secret potion. Whatever wonders or horrors it might perform, he was determined to see them for himself.
---
"Concentrate, Hermione. . ." Dumbledore's voice came from far off, wavering in her head, rather than actually spoken in her ear. She was standing perfectly still in the middle of his circular office, a position that caused her no discomfort--rather, she felt as if she were very nearly levitating. The air that circulated around her seemed almost tangible, crackling with imperceptible energy.
"Dissaeptum," she murmured, and the energy tightened dramatically, squeezing around her ribcage like a massive fist. She tested her legs and found that she could move quite freely, despite the heaviness.
"Excaeco!" The curse came at her underhanded and exploded against her left hip; with no more than a brief, hot sizzle, it dissipated on contact, falling in a shower of sparks to the floorboards.
"Excellent!" Dumbledore exclaimed, stepping forward, his face positively alight. "The barrier held up against a significantly potent paralysis spell--often used by Aurors to stop wizards from casting aggressive fire and fury charms."
"That's good, right?" she said, allowing herself to smile. As much fun as the day's Quidditch game had been, she had been looking forward to this training session immensely.
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "I can say with all honesty that you have already surpassed the goals I had drawn for you this year."
"Already?" she asked, surprised, then added, teasingly: "Well, call it a day then, shall we? I have some feasting yet to do before nightfall!"
The headmaster chuckled a bit, then drew up to full height. "I'd like to test that barrier under a more strenuous spell first, if you're up to it." His expression was casual--the look of a man who wanted to put no pressure on her. But even 'no pressure' was a persuasive force coming from a wizard like Dumbledore. Any test, no matter how minor, was important in terms of proving her dedication to the man and his immediate circle of supporters; with no reservations, she graciously accepted his offer.
He only smiled in response, then backed away into the shadows, so she had no indication of what direction the curse would come from. She tried to withdraw into herself, paring her thoughts down to a single one that she chanted silently, letting it build strength around her: Barrier. Barrier.
"Dissaeptum..." she whispered.
"Halo Windaro!"
Her eyes burst open. And in that most indefinite course of space, a quick, pained thought forced its way her mind: Windaro--where had she heard that before? The word was familiar.
She was suddenly sure she was viewing an impossibly slow world behind a sheet of wavy glass. The curse shot out like jagged lightning, a bright yellow bolt from the blue, so to speak, a creature starved and licking at the air. Without thinking, she dropped her wand and thrust her hands out before her. -Stop!- her mind insisted, eyes rolling upward, all the saliva retreating from her mouth in one huge swallow.
Without explanation, in complete defiance of anything she had every before seen, the curse *did* stop. She clasped it between her palms like a solid thing, where it swirled, angry and alive but unable to touch her.
"What...?" she murmured, feeling her senses return slightly.
It didn't last long. The air that filled her lungs seemed to rush forth, not exiting from her mouth but propelling out through her fingertips. Painfully, the curse contracted and shot from her hands...*away* from her hands as if it had sprung from her very own wand--the one that now lay on the floor, forgotten.
Across the room, Albus Dumbledore was knocked clear over his desk, crashing into the wall behind it.
Her hands were still buzzing madly, and she thought she might soon faint, but everything came back into sharp focus when she saw her teacher slump to the ground.
"Albus!" she cried, rushing to his side. He seemed conscious, but was bent over and struggling to catch his breath. His glasses were askew, and he fumbled with them for several seconds--until she had the presence of mind to reach out and adjust them. "Oh God! What have I done?" She ran to his bathroom and filled a tumble with cold water, then returned to hold it to his lips, her own heart knocked at her ribs all the while. He drank deeply, then paused to catch his breath.
"That. . .was quite a feat, my girl," he wheezed, his eyes sparkling despite the fact she'd quite obviously injured him.
"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes welling with tears. She helped him to his feet, and carefully assisted him into a chair, finding herself completely unable to let go of his quivering hand.
"Oh, please, please believe me when I say I didn't mean to do that." The tears spilled down her cheeks, and she was amazed to see him smiling, though it was an unsure, cloudy smile. He squeezed her hand back, and she choked up again.
"Hermione...do you know what you just did?" He straightened up, quite noble despite his evident fatigue.
"No, no...but I'm sorry. I won't do it again." She chanted, tremors beginning to wrench her body.
"Calm down, Hermione," he said soothingly. "What you did wasn't wrong. And you couldn't help it. So please don't apologize."
"What was it? You've seen that happen before?"
"A few times, yes." He seemed distant as he answered, and she said nothing, sensing that he was about to continue. "Tell me...are you familiar with the phrase 'Habeo in animo'?"
"That's Latin," she said, a bit puzzled. "It sounds like. . . 'I am resolute'?"
"'I am resolved'," he corrected, not unkindly. "Yes, based on a rather ancient maxim, it's a phrase used to describe Anaemus magic."
"Anaemus? I've never heard of that before."
"You wouldn't have," he said. "It's thought to be superstitious nonsense these days. But long ago, Animus magic was practiced by a very devout group of wizards and witches who believed in preserving balance, above all else. The phrase they used to identify each other was 'Habeo in animo'."
She frowned a little. "I don't think I understand, sir."
"The Anaemus believed that a wizard or witch's power is more than just a trick of light and dazzle, but is in fact the seat of thought, intellect, mind, memory, and consciousness. It is a definition of ones very essence. They also believed that magic was in everything--animate or inanimate, muggle or wizard."
"They sound fascinating," she admitted. "But how does this relate to the magic I just did?"
"I'm sure you've by now realized that you returned that curse to me without the aid of your wand?"
Actually, she hadn't. But looking over her shoulder, she saw that he was right. Her wand was still on the rug, right where she had dropped it. No, she *had* used her bare hands to return the curse, and now that she held them out in front of her, she saw that they were red and faintly blistered, as if she had held them too close to a boiling cauldron.
Without waiting for her to answer, he continued: "The Anaemus stressed that magic was contained in human will, not in wands or potions--or even in words, for that matter. What is a wand or a word, after all, but a tangible conduit for a wizard's or witch's inner-will?"
"Yes," she said vaguely, feeling lost at his words.
"But it is rare that a wizard can lasso that sense of will on their own--which is why most depend on tools and incantations. When you contained the curse in your hands, you were merely asserting your will, and without the diffusing effect of a clumsy wand, the magic was that much more potent."
"But why have I never heard of this before? Can everyone do this?"
"No," he said, rubbing his beard absently. "It's rare to find a modern witch or wizard with a defined spiritual or visceral connection to their own magic--most see magic as a very crude operation, one used for everyday tasks and not much more."
"You...." she murmured, filling with realization. "You can do it, though. You *are* an Anaemus. That's why you know so much...why your abilities are so far-reaching."
He tilted his head in a charming way. "You flatter me, child. While I do believe in the teachings of the Anaemus, they themselves are long dead, and much of their teachings are lost. The only thing I try to embody is what lasts--their philosophy."
"That containment magic. . .will I be able to do it again?" she asked.
He paused. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I expect something triggered it in your this time. If you can identify what that trigger is, then I imagine it's possible--you may even one day be able to assert your will effortlessly, with practice."
She breathed in sharply. To assert magic with no wand? No incantation? With nothing more than her very will? What a glorious and frightful power that would be--a power she wasn't sure she wanted. And the trigger. . .what had it been? She tried to remember, but only saw the frozen curse, trapped like a bird in her hands.
Nothing else would surface.
---
Marching through the corridors, Severus Snape might have been mistaken for a stampeding bull; his normally slick hair was dampish and wild, and he seemed to emit a slight growl with each imposing step.
The first thing he had done, of course, was travel by floo powder to the Gryffindor common-room. Such things were only done in cases of emergency, and by God, Severus was having one hell of an emergency. Since it was Saturday, he wasn't surprised to see that the room was empty except for a handful of students, including Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom, who were both reading by the fire when he emerged from it, sparks and ash cascading off his robe.
"Snape!" Ginny squeaked, slamming her book shut. Longbottom merely trembled and shrank within his seat.
"WHERE'S GRANGER?" He roared, knowing Minerva McGonagall would kill him for this--though frankly, he cared little.
"Ah....ah!" Ginny stammered, her mouth jumped as if on a stringer. "L-Library?"
Without a word of thanks, he left through the portrait-hole, stomping and huffing his way towards the library. Students and teachers alike rushed to get out of his way, many of them looking curious, rather than frightened. -And why wouldn't they be curious, considering the state I'm in?- he thought bitterly. It was all the fault of that Granger and her potion, too!
"Professor Snape!" someone called, and he didn't look to see who it was, only marched onward, blind in his fury. "Severus!" the voice said again, and this time someone physically grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him to a halt.
Whirling his head, Severus saw that he'd been delayed by none other than Sirius Black, the mysterious new Defense instructor. Not very mysterious to Snape, of course, though he'd purposely had little contact with the man since his arrival.
"Good god, Snape," Black said, looking alarmed. "Have you gone mad? Storming through the corridors like a wild rhino? What's come over you?"
Black's words only served to further incense him. "LOOK at me, Professor Black," he snarled, gesturing at his own body. "Hermione Granger is responsible for my present condition, and I need to find her at once!"
Sirius looked him up and down, then shook his head slightly. "What exactly has she done to you? I see nothing wrong."
Snape froze. "Do not jest with me, Black. What Miss Granger has done is no joke, I assure you!"
"Yes, but what exactly has she done? I don't understand. . .you look just fine. Healthier than usual, even!"
"You mean...you don't see it?" Snape sputtered, his fury not tempered, but momentarily forgotten.
"See what?" Black asked, his voice maddeningly rational. "And please don't storm up to Hermione in such a state--I'd hate for someone to get hurt."
"I will NOT hurt her, Black. I intend only to give her a piece of my mind, and then some!"
"Frankly, Snape, it's not *her* I'm worried about," Black said, amused.
"Out of my way!" Snape retorted, but before he could shove Black aside, the man backed off on his own accord.
"Be careful," Black called after him, his voice cheerful. "And pray that she doesn't have a bludger on hand!"
Snape muttered a few choice obscenities under his breath, then swept through the library doors. Madame Pince looking on in disapproval as he worked his way through the aisles, checking every single carrel for her intolerable mop of curls, sure to be bowed over some immensely difficult book. But there was no Granger, though there were *plenty* of signs that she'd been here earlier--one carrel was piled high with books on incredibly advanced defensive magics, all of them long and tedious reads, certainly something only a genius would bother with.
-Ohh Granger..- he thought coldly. -I know you too well. I can sniff out your trail and find you,
no matter where you may hide.-
As if pulled by a magnet, he found himself climbing more stairs, working towards the high center of the castle without slowing. When he finally rounded the last staircase, he spotted her; she was wandered down the very hall that led to Dumbledore's office, looking deep in thought. Snape slipped into a dark doorway and watched her through narrowed eyes. There she was, that silver, perfect girl, looking heavenly in weekend jeans and a rumpled, short-sleeved blouse; as usual, there was something untidy about her that caused him to nearly unravel. He clenched his eyes shut momentarily; the girl would not get the better of him this time.
Still seeming oblivious to his presence, she meandered by the door where he had hidden himself, fingering her wand absently. A few steps more and he saw her stiffen slightly, as if she'd suddenly caught his scent. Before she could react, he darted out with both hands and clenched her around the waist, swinging her a few inches off the ground and into the empty classroom behind him. She landed on her feet, but rather carelessly, touching his arm to steady herself. Realizing what had just happened, she then looked up into his face; her pupils dilated dramatically, but she didn't look particularly terrified--a fact that Snape guessed would soon change.
"I've been looking for you, Miss Granger," he hissed, and with that, slammed the door behind him.
---
Hermione hurried to barricade herself behind a desk, wand in hand; whatever she had done, if must have been bad. Snape looked ready to give her a dose of the old 'Crucio'. Other than his obvious rage, though, she couldn't help but notice that he looked. . .well, good. As if he'd had some fresh air recently, his skin seemed not sallow but rich and honeyed. Buttery. Yes, exactly like something she'd like to sink her teeth into.
"Um..." she gulped, a little distracted by the fact that his snarling lips looked deliciously red.
"Not the answer, I'm looking for, Miss Granger," he said, moving closer. "Now I'll ask you again. . .what have you done to me?"
"Done?" she asked, distracted. "Nothing, I don't think. Why, is something wrong?"
"Yes, something is wrong!" he raged, slamming his fist down on a nearby desk. "Look at me. . .can't you see how I've changed?"
"Er...no?" she said, uncertain, though it was clear that something about him *had* changed. He was a tall man, normally quite thin, but now his chest seemed. . .somehow broader, didn't it? She wouldn't have minded pressing her hands to it to find out, but sensibly restrained herself.
Severus stared at her for several moments, as if trying to search out answers in her expression alone. "Of course. . ." he said, his eyes brightening with some realization. "There's a confundus effect. You and others can't see the change--not quite, anyway." His anger seemed to subside as he silently worked over the puzzle.
"Oh my clever girl," he continued. "You really have outdone yourself this time. Now tell me...who taught you to make that potion?"
"Potion?..." she said, feeling dull-witted. He looked so expectant....so youthful.
-Youthful-
Everything clicked into place at once.
Severus Snape was now the physical embodiment of the man he'd been ten years earlier.
---
Severus Snape was not a foolish man--far from it; when he swallowed Hermione's mystery potion, he had been prepared for anything. Perhaps the girl had discovered a new way to soothe menstrual cramps, or maybe she was making an illicit potion to help Potter pass his N.E.W.T. exams; whatever the case, she had gone to great lengths to keep him from discovering the potion's true purpose. He had spent Friday morning summoning glass shards from his classroom wall--proof of her strength and tenacity.
After drinking the potion, there had been hellish pain, a horrible sense of being burned from the inside out. He came to on the floor of his study, his entire body coated in a thin scrim of sweat. Aside from that, he felt oddly well. A little peppier than usual, maybe. Almost--dare he say?--cheerful. At first he took these symptoms as pointing to some kind of rejuvenation elixir, similar to a strong round of vitamins. But when he held out his hands before him, he saw that something was very wrong. His forearms looked tauter and more defined, less heavily veined than usual. A slow sense of gloom caused his body to go cool and loose. Suddenly certain something was very wrong, he had rushed to his bedside mirror and was promptly taken aback by what he saw.
Himself, age 27--give or take a few months.
Now the girl who had brewed up the original wonder-potion was gaping at him, looking positively pained with disbelief. She saw the truth written on his features now, and judging from her reaction, she had known *exactly* what that potion would do.
Now the question was, why had *she* been making it in the first place?
"Oh no," she said, her complexion graying dramatically. "You took the VesClotho, didn't you?"
"VesClotho, is that what it's called?" He felt nearly giddy to be finally getting somewhere.
"Yes, VesClotho! Where did you get it? Did you. . .oh my God, you STOLE it from me, didn't you? You stunned me and found the potion in my pocket. . ."she rambled on, looking as if she might soon beat herself--or him--senseless.
"What is the potion for, Miss Granger? And why were you making it? I let you get away with not answering me last time, but this time I DEMAND that you fill me in on the details," he said, a no-nonsense edge creeping into his voice. He was surprised that his anger had drained away so quickly, and as she squirmed under his gaze he grew increasingly aware that his feelings were transforming into acute arousal.
-Oh Lords...- he thought, uncomfortable. -Please don't tell me that my libido has also regressed to that of a lusty, hormonal 27 year old...-
"Sir, I simply *can't* tell you why I was making the potion," she said, struggling to compose herself. Seeing his displeasure, she added: "But I assure you I had Dumbledore's approval. You can go ask him now...he's in his office. Just go ask him."
"Ah yes...Dumbledore. He *would* be in on this, wouldn't he? I assume he even gave you the Phoenix tears?"
She jumped slightly, apparently alarmed at how he had been able to deconstruct the VesClotho's individual elements. "He did," she finally replied.
"And did he also teach you how to make the potion?"
"No," she said, and a tiny determined gleam showed in her eye. "I invented VesClotho myself."
He scoffed outloud. -Yes, Miss Granger. . .I imagine you just might *have* invented the potion...- he thought silently. -You are certainly capable enough. A better question is, then, why did YOU need it in the first place...-
He kept these questions to himself, though. Already, he could tell that threats would be useless against a person of her extraordinarily stubborn nature. A Gryffindor to the core, she would tell him nothing, and even if he went to Dumbledore, the old headmaster was sure to take her side.
Abruptly, his thoughts returned to a few nights earlier, when she had been wrapped in his quilt, resting in a chair before his very own fire. Even then, she had refused to tell him anything. . .but he had sensed her struggling with a desire to confess, an urge to let someone in on whatever secret she carried alone. He could see that same struggle now; it was evident in the bobbing of her pale throat, the way that she kept tugging down the hem of her shirt, over and over again.
"Allright, Miss Granger," he said, his voice steady. "I will pester you no further."
He did an about face and left the room, his robes wafting out behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reaction--it was one of deep, unbidden surprise.
It was a feeling he recognized. Surprise: like waking up on an early winter morning to discover that citrus suddenly smells sweet, and alluring.
*****************************
A/N: This was a difficult chapter to write. So many significant revelations in one chunk.... (I hope this satisfies a certain someone's request for 'more plot'?). Whew!
A few issues: The term "Anaemus" is based on the Latin word 'Animus', meaning life. I changed the spelling to avoid associations with Jung's definition of the word. I've also been told that 'Animus' is used in RPG terminology, which is my other reason for warping the word. The Anaemus is my own take on the "wandless magic" that shows up as an occasional motif in HP fanfic; my version being based mostly on freaky postmodernism--but more about that later ; )
Oh, and the next chapter will probably force me to upgrade this piece to NC-17. Hope that's okay with yall. = )
Again--thanks for reading. Reviews are appreciated.
small correction: in the original upload I said that Severus' had be un-aged by 15 years, when I meant to write 10. =)
