Inscribed in Air & Fire
~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~
CHAPTER 11
Starting on Wednesday, the weather had turned nasty. The crisp blue skies of the previous week gave way to morning fog and afternoon rain. By early Saturday, the sky was filled with heavy, dark grey clouds and a steady downpour churned the Hogwarts grounds to mud.
The potions lab was cold and the walls were slightly damp. On the other side of the castle, the dungeons were completely underground, but the school was built on a hill that sloped down to the cliffs above the lake. So here there were small, narrow windows cut into the cliff face, and the sound of rain splashing into the lake drifted into the chilly, stone-walled room.
Professor Snape stirred pieces of freshly cut ginger root into the small steaming cauldron in front of him. He had already added a measure of powdered scarab beetles and half a beaker of armadillo bile. The mixture was dark and thick and smelled foul, but the sharp tang of the ginger cut through the more unpleasant smell of the bile. Snape observed the color and consistency with a critical eye. It would need to simmer for several more minutes before the next ingredients were added.
He opened a small but precious jar of Jobberknoll feathers suspended in an extract of dragon blood. The contents of the jar, which was small enough to close his fingers around with room to spare, was worth as much as he was paid for an entire term of teaching. The Jobberknoll bird was small, rare, and difficult to catch. Moreover, only the feathers from its throat had the magical properties required for the work at hand. Once procured, the tiny blue feathers had to be immersed in a clear liquid that was painstakingly separated and purified from the blood of an Antipodean Opaleye dragon, then sealed and left undisturbed in a dark cupboard for two years.
The feathers never quite dissolved, but they turned fragile and colorless as their essence was absorbed by the liquid. When the process was done correctly, a few drops of the finished product was an essential ingredient for making Veritaserum. Only a few wizards knew the secret of making the potent truth-telling potion. To Snape's knowledge, he was the only one that knew how to make a counter-agent.
It had taken many months of experimentation, but eventually he had hit upon the correct combination. A basic Wit-Sharpening Potion formed the base. That had been obvious enough. The Jobberknoll essence had also been a given. Like many antidotes and counter-agents, this one contained a small measure of the ingredient it worked against. A powdered bezoar and five grains of crushed unicorn horn had been early guesses which had proven correct. But all that had still been insufficient. It was only after much frustration and dozens of failed attempts that he had happened upon the two final components—dried root of Devil's Snare and finely ground Hippogriff claws. He was still not sure exactly why the combination worked. But it did work, and that was what mattered most.
Ingesting a small amount of the counter-agent every day protected him from interrogation with Veritaserum. It did not completely nullify the effects, which was also crucial. He had practiced repeatedly with Dumbledore to ensure the proper dosage. A dose of three or more drops made it too obvious to a keen observer that the truth-telling potion wasn't affecting him. At two drops a day, however, he would feel the Veritaserum working, would feel the compulsion to talk and answer questions—but he would have just enough mental resistance to keep the most important facts concealed. And, should such an interrogation ever take place, his life and much else would depend on that resistance.
When Snape was satisfied with the look and smell of the liquid in the cauldron, he filled a tiny eyedropper with the Jobberknoll essence and let one shining drop fall into the mixture. It hissed and sparked just as it should, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Adding this ingredient at precisely the right moment was the key to success. The rest of the preparation was routine.
An hour later the brewing was complete. He would leave the counter-agent to settle and cool overnight, then tomorrow it could be diluted and bottled. He covered the cauldron, cleaned his work area, and returned the tools and supplies to their proper places.
One of the day's tasks was now finished, and he had a quarter of an hour to spare before the next began. In fifteen minutes, unless she was late, Annwyd Gwir would be paying him a visit.
~ * ~
Snape scrutinized the room, trying to see it as she would—somewhere unfamiliar rather than home. It was, he decided, presentable enough, though hardly warm or inviting. Well, there was little he could do about that, other than lighting a fire in the hearth. The air was merely chilly, not actually cold, and ordinarily he would have considered a fire unnecessary. Nevertheless, he flicked his wand in the direction of the fireplace and brought it to life. The flickering flames had a softening effect on the rather severe, uncluttered lines of the simple furnishings and unadorned walls. And in truth, the warmer air was not unwelcome after a day spent in the damp chill of the potions lab.
Pacing about, waiting for the instructor to arrive, Snape was unable to entirely push aside the memory of the other time Miss Gwir had been in this room. Once again, as he had several times over the past days, he questioned the wisdom of meeting her here rather than in his office. And once again, he concluded that his decision was correct. He had never divulged the details of his role with Voldemort anywhere but here and in Dumbledore's office. Those two areas, Snape supposed, were surely the best-warded places at Hogwarts, perhaps among the best in all of Britain. The web of wards and spells he had woven around his personal quarters ensured their safety and absolute privacy. Meeting somewhere else for the sake of psychological comfort was hardly sensible.
And besides that, he mused, there was a certain harsh symmetry in the arrangement that he approved of. In a few minutes he would stage the crucial encounter with the Glamour Caster, and this would be laid over the top of the events that had taken place here Monday night. This afternoon's meeting would not erase or eclipse the other occasion, but it would, in some sense, correct it. In the same room where he had made such a terrible error, he would form the alliance that should have been formed weeks ago. And that, he hoped, would do much to exorcise the ghosts that had haunted his quarters for the last week.
Today he would look at the Glamour Casting Instructor and he would not see an illusion of desire, unwittingly conjured by his own pathetic dreams. Neither would he see the terror that had followed in the wake of his stupidity. If all went as planned, when he looked at Annwyd Gwir at the end of their meeting, he would see the proper mixture of faith and caution. Provided he had done his work well, she would trust him well enough to cooperate…and know him well enough to keep her distance.
With that end firmly in mind, he sat down and waited.
The minutes passed quickly enough and at noon the expected knock arrived precisely on time. Snape rose without hesitation and answered the door.
~ * ~
The Potions Master and the Glamour Casting Instructor faced each other across the wooden table. The young woman, Snape noted, was seated rather stiffly in her chair. He watched her trying to assimilate what he had just told her. Her eyes traveled over his face, searching for something she didn't seem to find, her forehead crinkled with confusion. She was trying and somehow failing to see him as he was. A colleague, a Hogwarts Professor, yes…but a Death Eater? a spy? She wasn't grasping it, he sensed, not yet. The words were not enough. She had to know it in her gut. It had to be real.
Snape unbuttoned his left cuff and rolled back the sleeve, then held his arm out for Gwir's inspection. He had performed this action exactly twice before. The first had been years ago, the night he made his confession to Dumbledore and waited without fear or hope to hear his fate decided. That night, he had been unable to frame any words that seemed adequate. The simple showing of the mark had been not only easier but more honest; it proclaimed what he had done, what he had become, without the temptation for excuses or justifications. The second time had been a mere five months ago, when he had hoped to shock Cornelius Fudge out of his willful blindness, had tried—unsuccessfully—to force the Minister to acknowledge the Dark Lord's return to power.
For a second, Snape regarded his own out-thrust arm, poised over the table between himself and Annwyd Gwir. He took in the well-known shape of his bones and muscles and tendons, the tracery of bluish veins at the wrist, the hatefully familiar symbol stamped in faded black. Then he raised his head to regard the Glamour Caster, whose green eyes were riveted to the snake and skull.
For several long seconds, her face was so unchanging that Snape wondered if, like the Minister of Magic, she would simply refuse to accept the truth in front of her. But as more seconds ticked by and she continued to stare steadily, he realized that the blankness of her expression was not denial but intense concentration.
He stifled the urge to cover or withdraw his arm. His instincts told him that this was the crucial moment. He must let the woman complete whatever process she was engaged in, must endure this prolonged exposure without speaking or flinching away. Though he wasn't sure why, he knew with growing certainty that what he had already told her, and anything he said later, would be secondary. This inspection, and whatever reaction was finally evoked from her, would determine the results of today's encounter.
The moment stretched out so long that he started to wonder if the Glamour Caster had fallen into some kind of trance. But then, just as he formed the thought, she shivered, her whole body trembling visibly. Gwir's face, however, remained as blank as before, and he could not say if the shiver was one of fear or of disgust.
Finally, she raised her eyes and looked at him.
Her voice was only a whisper. "It's so…." She shivered again and her eyes returned to the Dark Mark.
As Snape waited, forcing patience and stillness, one part of his mind whispered guesses to complete her sentence. So…shocking? ugly? repulsive? evil-looking? Another part of his mind supplied another ending, his own least-favorite description: It's so…permanent.
When she raised her eyes again, however, she voiced none of his guesses.
"It's so…cold," she said. "Does it…does it hurt all the time?"
For an instant, he was thrown off balance completely. He had never mentioned the coldness of the mark to anyone. Not Dumbledore, not the other Death Eaters, no one. And then the question—does it hurt all the time? As if the simpler question—does it hurt?—need not be asked. He suddenly wondered how much he really knew about the woman seated across the table, how well he understood her arts and abilities.
It was only several seconds later that he realized she was waiting for an answer.
"Yes," he said. "It is by no means unbearable, and I am used to it. But it was designed with a certain amount of discomfort in mind…designed to remain in one's awareness."
Gwir nodded slowly. A second later, he saw, to his surprise, that her eyes seemed to be filled with something that looked like admiration.
"You did this…you took the mark…to spy for Dumbledore?"
It was tempting to let that admiration shine for a moment longer—and that was all the more reason to cut it off at once. "No," he said sharply, not trying to keep the harshness out of his voice. "Do not overestimate me, Instructor. I took the Dark Mark to be a Death Eater. The other part came much later."
He watched the information take hold. Still, she did not appear frightened or even worried. If he was reading her face correctly, she looked…sad. She glanced down at the table, and there was another silent pause. Snape wondered if she would ask him to explain his decision—either of his decisions—and hoped she wouldn't.
When she raised her head again, she had composed her features into something business-like and stern.
"Why are you telling me this—showing me this, Professor? Surely it is a risk to you for anyone to know."
At last, Snape withdrew his arm and rolled down his sleeve. The initial test was over. He had passed, and the rest was a matter of working out the details. Important details, to be sure, but first part of the battle was won.
"At one time, no one knew but myself and Dumbledore. Now, the arrangement has become less of a secret. That, to be sure, makes my work more difficult…more complex. I am what I suppose you might call a double agent." Snape grimaced slightly. He disliked the term, with its hint of romance and melodrama, but there was not another suitable description. "It would not work if Voldemort chose his servants based on trust. But he does not. He doesn't think along those lines. So long as he feels my usefulness outweighs my threat, he will allow me to continue. Should he feel that the balance has shifted, it will end."
The Glamour Caster nodded and swallowed hard. Before she could ask another question, Snape continued. "You are right, however, in thinking that I would not be having the present conversation without a reason." He paused to make sure he had her full attention. "Dumbledore told you that your arts might be useful in the struggle against Lord Voldemort. That is true enough. What the headmaster did not mention, Miss Gwir, is that the Dark Lord might have reached the same conclusion."
The instructor's eyes widened, then a second later her features relaxed. She gave a nervous laugh. "Surely not, Professor. I'm sure that Voldemort is unaware of my existence. And even if he has somehow heard that there is a Glamour Caster at Hogwarts, I doubt he would pay it any mind. As I'm sure you know, no one thinks too highly of the Glamours. I can't imagine he'd see me as a threat."
Snape pitched his voice to a calm, almost reassuring tone, but he did not mince words. She must be made to understand. "Voldemort sees every power as a possible threat, Instructor. A potential threat or else a potential tool. And believe me, he is aware of your existence. He knows also that your arts are more advanced than the ignorant might suppose. Though you would wish it otherwise, he turns his attention in your direction."
At this she paled visibly. "You know this? You are certain?"
Snape nodded. "I am certain."
"But why would he think—How would he know—?"
"I am certain, Instructor Gwir," Snape repeated firmly. "I told him myself."
Her eyes flashed up at him, down at the table, then back to his face. "Why would you do that?" Her voice was still controlled but clearly strained.
Snape allowed himself a small sigh. "Think, Miss Gwir. Use your head. Do you suppose I am the Dark Lord's only informant? Do you think he turns a blind eye to Hogwarts, knowing that Albus Dumbledore will be his chief opponent? It is useless for me to conceal information that he will inevitably learn from another source eventually. Only by being the first one to tell him such things do I maintain my position and thus keep him from pressing his other sources even harder. If a few key secrets are to be concealed, it is at the cost of relaying other facts before someone else does."
"Someone else…but who? Who else would tell him?"
He answered with a humorless chuckle. "Who do you imagine Voldemort's followers are? Hideous hags and trolls living in dark caves? You have probably met Death Eaters besides me, Miss Gwir." He paused for effect. "You have certainly met their children."
Her mouth formed a soundless "O" as understanding dawned. "Who…do you know who they are?"
"Some of them. Most likely no one but Voldemort knows them all. It is not in your best interests or mine to give you a complete list. But since your mother"—with an effort, he kept the sneer from his voice as he pictured Amanda Whistbury—"is clearly acquainted with him, I will tell you that Lucius Malfoy is among them. I ask you—I advise you in the strongest possible terms—to confide in no one, but certainly not in her. There must be no chance of the wrong information reaching Lucius."
It was now Miss Gwir who gave a mirthless laugh. "You needn't worry on that account, Professor. I would not confide in my mother that sunlight is bright or water is wet. I'm not an idiot."
"I don't take you for an idiot, Instructor," he said softly, "but it is difficult for many people to resist discussing things with their families." It was not a feeling he had ever personally shared, but one that he had learned to be aware of. "At any rate, I am relieved that we are in agreement as to your mother."
"Mother and I are hardly close. We never have been. Before this week, I hadn't seen her since Grandfather's funeral. Before that…I'm not sure I remember."
Snape noted the bitter undertone in Gwir's voice, the sudden inward turn of her expression. He merely nodded. Though he might be unaware of the details, he understood the broad strokes well enough. His own parents were no longer living, but there had been long years of estrangement before the final separation of death. He waited for her to complete whatever path her thoughts were following before continuing with the business at hand.
He moved his eyes away from the Glamour Caster, allowing her a moment to collect herself in privacy. For a while, he let his gaze drift to the fireplace, watched the flames dancing in the stone hearth. When he looked back at the woman seated across from him, he noticed the shifting coppery lights the fire brought to her hair, the subtle play of shadows on her motionless features. Then her attention fixed on him once again.
"Does Voldemort plan to kill me?"
Her eyes were wide but steady; she was frightened but not panicked. And that was good, Snape thought. Yes, that was perfect.
"I have convinced the Dark Lord that you are too useful to kill," he said flatly. "The threat to your safety is not immediate."
She nodded an acknowledgment. For a moment, her eyes closed.
When she spoke again, her voice sounded terribly young. "What should I do, Professor? I never thought…something like this…I never even considered…." She shook her head, drew a breath, rallying herself. "But I guess I'll have to consider it now, whether I want to or not." Her eyes, when they found his, held only a hint of pleading. "Tell me…tell me what I ought to do."
Snape did not allow his relief to show, but he felt an internal easing of tension. This was exactly where he needed her to be. She understood the danger, but she was calm. And she was waiting for his advice.
"I see only two feasible options, Miss Gwir. You can leave Hogwarts as soon as possible and hide. Or you can stay here and join me in my work."
"Leave Hogwarts and hide…" she echoed. "Where? For how long?"
"Normally I would say far away, out of the country. Given your particular talents, you might disguise yourself in an out-of-the-way place closer at hand. If that is your choice, no doubt Dumbledore will assist you in making arrangements."
She nodded. "How long would I have to hide?"
Snape shrugged. "Until Voldemort is defeated or there is reason to think he is no longer interested in the Glamours."
She chewed her lower lip for a moment, avoiding his eyes.
"I don't want to do that," she said at last. "I don't know where I'd go or what I'd do. And I like Hogwarts. I'm just starting to feel at home here. I don't…" She paused, then raised her chin firmly. "I don't want to run away, Professor."
"If you stay, I cannot guarantee your safety. I will do what I can to minimize the risks, but I can't promise that I will succeed. You understand that?"
"There would also be danger if I left Hogwarts, wouldn't there? A chance that he would look for me?"
"Yes. But the danger is greater if you remain."
Her cheeks were still very pale and her lips bloodless, but the set of her mouth was stoic. "I understand."
"Then you must be willing to do as I instruct. We will have to make it appear that you are lured by the Dark Arts. You must seem to have thrown your lot in with Voldemort. And with me."
"Not…" she stumbled over the words, "not openly though, right? Only if I should meet up with his followers?"
"Not so openly that you seem to lack discretion. But perhaps enough to raise a few suspicions from those whom you would prefer to have as friends. Can you accept that?"
"Professor Dumbledore will know the truth?"
"Dumbledore will know. No one else."
He saw her weighing his words. After a moment she nodded.
"You are certain?" asked Snape.
She nodded again. "Yes."
"Then we will begin at once. This coming week. To start, you will be instructing me in the Glamours." He rose from his chair. "I think we have accomplished enough for today. I urge you to give these matters careful thought, Instructor Gwir. If you are going to change your decision, do it soon. The longer you wait, the more dangerous it will become."
The Glamour Caster stood up as well. "I will think it over," she agreed solemnly. "But I don't expect that I will change my mind."
He walked her to the door. Now that their business was concluded and he was not so intent on reading her reactions, he noticed her dress. It was a rather simple style, black with a subtle pattern of vines and leaves. The same dress she had worn—
He refused to pursue the thought further.
As he opened the door for Instructor Gwir, she laid a hand on his arm.
"I would be…I would be lying if I said I wasn't afraid." She tipped her head to look up at him. "But I trust you."
If he were not well-practiced at arranging his features into various masks, he would not have been able to produce a remotely suitable expression. One should feel flattered by such a statement. Under the circumstances, one should feel grateful, perhaps relieved. Snape managed to make his face approximate such sentiments. Swallowed the bitterness, forced it down, down, down. A sick coldness like the feel of the Dark Mark slid through his chest and settled into his guts. But he kept it away from his face, out of his eyes.
"I am honored by your trust, Instructor. But don't stop being afraid. It is unwise—unhealthy—to be unafraid of Voldemort."
"I know," she said softly. "Please be careful, Severus. Not just for me, but for yourself." Her hand tightened warmly on his arm.
He nodded stiffly and then—thank the gods—she was gone. He shut the door quickly and leaned against it, his face pressed to the cool, polished wood. I can't do this. I won't be able to do this. But he would be able to do it. He had to be.
He took a long, deep breath, listened to the drum of his heartbeat.
Apparently, I haven't forgotten how to use Imperio effectively. He tried to make his mental voice ironic, its tone comfortably sneering instead of despairing.
While I was at it, he added a moment later, I should have given a few more commands.
Trust me, Miss Gwir. But don't like me.
Don't touch me.
tbc…