Author's Note: Many thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. I appreciate all your input and look forward to hearing more comments and suggestions as the story progresses. Hope you continue to enjoy!
Inscribed in Air & Fire
~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~
CHAPTER 13
Annwyd sat cross-legged on the rug of her sitting room. She'd been working on the Faerie Vision for over an hour and she seemed to be making little progress. She arched her back and stretched her arms, rolled her shoulders and moved her head in circles, letting some tension ease out of her muscles. Then she refocused on her task. It was only a few days until Halloween and she had to finish weaving the glamour by then.
As always, there would be a huge feast for the holiday and the Great Hall would be decorated with all manner of seasonal enchantments. But not everything would be the same as in years past. Usually, the students were allowed to go to Hogsmeade on Halloween, where they could spend the day stuffing themselves with sweets from Honeydukes and filling their pockets with the latest exploding gizmos from Zonko's Joke Shop before returning to the castle for the evening feast. This year, however, Dumbledore was worried about their safety and there would be no excursions to the nearby village. Students would stay at the school this Halloween.
It was funny, Annwyd mused, how this small change frightened her more than Professor Snape's revelations. The idea that Lord Voldemort was interested in her, that she might be personally targeted for some kind of dark plan, remained rather difficult to grasp. She believed Snape, but it was hard to keep the reality of his warnings firmly in mind. It seemed more like something from a song or a tale, not something that belonged in daily life.
Halloween at Hogsmeade, on the other hand, was a treat she remembered well from her student days. It was also, according to Hogwarts, A History, a tradition as old as the village itself. The fact that this year's youngsters had to remain within the safety of the castle walls was a chilling reminder that the Dark Lord and his servants were really out there. And she—a completely inconsequential witch who could barely manage to brew a sunburn balm or summon a feather—had somehow become a factor in Voldemort's plans.
She pushed the thought aside and returned her attention to the poem she was trying to glamour.
In an attempt to compensate the students for missing their normal outing, this year's Halloween feast was to be a special one, with games and music and dancing after the meal. As part of the festivities, Dumbledore had asked the Glamour Caster to entertain them by performing a suitable voice-cast glamour.
She had easily selected a piece for the occasion: "The Raven" by Edgar Alan Poe. She had loved the poem as a youngster and she and Grandfather had worked together to weave a glamour for it. Of course, given that she was ten at the time, her contributions to the Faerie Vision were a bit unsophisticated. Thus she was now reworking the vision with the benefit of her increased abilities.
Well, allegedly increased abilities, she chided herself.
The fact was, she was having difficulty. The work seemed unaccountably draining and was taxing her resources far more than it should. And this wasn't the first time she had encountered such a problem in the last week or so. Although she was loathe to admit it, there seemed to be something wrong with her, some lingering effect of her recent illness or bout of nerves or whatever it had been. She hadn't mentioned this to anyone—she kept hoping that it would clear up on its own before long—but ever since the day of Madam Pomfrey's visit, she hadn't exactly been her normal self.
Physically, she seemed perfectly fine. But her emotions and energy felt oddly…diminished. It was as if there were somehow less of her than there ought to be. She sighed and shook her head with frustration.
Normally, she was able to work on voice-cast glamours for hours, quite happily. Indeed, this was secretly what she would prefer to spend most of her time doing. The headmaster and the students were understandably more interested in the more practical hand-cast variety of her arts, but Annwyd shared her grandfather's love of poems and songs and stories, and she enjoyed nothing better than creating the Faerie Visions. In a perfect world, thought Annwyd, there would be a place for the Faerie Bards in wizarding society and she would devote her life to weaving the visions…like the Lady of Shallot, she thought with a wistful smile.
But the days of the Bards were long gone, barely even remembered. The wizarding world in the here and now was nothing if not practical. Even the art of magical painting was long neglected. The school boasted a fine collection of moving portraits and magical landscapes, but how many of them were less than a century old? Most, indeed, were probably several centuries old. There were still a few wizard portrait-makers who did official commissions—the headmasters and mistresses of Hogwarts, the Ministers of Magic, and so on—but did anyone create new masterpieces, new techniques? Sadly, no.
She thought of her earliest lessons in the proper uses of the Glamours. To create what is beautiful…. That was the purpose that headed the list. But the list was ages old, a remnant of attitudes that no longer existed.
Well, Annwyd consoled herself, at least for this one occasion, she was being asked to serve as a Bard, to deliver a Faerie Vision at the feast. That was a start.
It also brought her back to her current problem. She was being asked to do what she loved best and her talent was failing her. The work was proceeding slowing and awkwardly. Instead of throwing herself into the vision with the ease and ecstasy of a well-trained dancer responding to music, she was having to struggle with every step like some kind of cripple…like a dancer whose left leg had suddenly gone stiff and numb. It scared her more than she liked to admit.
And, unfortunately, it wasn't just her voice-casting talents that were affected. The mysterious ailment, whatever it was, impeded her work with hand-cast glamours as well. In yesterday's class, she had called up Grandfather, as she often did, to assist her with the lesson, and after a mere twenty minutes she had found herself weak and dizzy, as tired as if she had spent hours glamouring a flock of dragons. And this was Grandfather, for Merlin's sake—the most well-known and effortless glamour imaginable! She was used to calling him up for hours on end with no notable expenditure of energy. Something was very, very wrong. Worst of all, since she was the only Glamour Caster at Hogwarts, there was absolutely no one who could help her.
She had considered consulting with Dumbledore, but what could he do? Powerful as he was, he freely admitted his ignorance of her arts. He would probably just suggest that she visit Pomfrey, but the nurse had already examined her and found nothing. And if the headmaster knew that her talents were failing her, what would happen then?
She remembered sitting in his office years ago. McGonagall and Flitwick had already said their piece and been dismissed.
"Miss Gwir," the old wizard had said gently, "I must ask you two questions. Please consider them carefully and answer truthfully. First, if I allow you to remain at Hogwarts, would you swear by the most solemn oaths that you would never use the Glamours to cheat on another assignment?"
"Yes, Headmaster."
"Very good. And the second question, Miss Gwir" —there had been a pause that seemed to last forever— "have you cheated on these assignments because it's easier? Or because you couldn't do the regular magic?"
"I couldn't do it, Sir. I tried and tried. I never used the Glamours if I could do it the regular way. I didn't want to cheat, honestly…I tried to do it right."
In her nervousness and embarrassment, she hadn't understood where he was headed. She had only hoped that he might understand, that he might not judge her deception too harshly.
"So if you were to take the classes again, without using the Glamours, do you think you could succeed?"
His voice had remained mild, but suddenly she had realized what was happening. And by then it had already been too late. Perhaps it had always been too late. She had merely shaken her head, eyes on the floor.
"Then, sadly, Miss Gwir, I must conclude that there is no point in your remaining here at Hogwarts."
That had been twelve years ago. She was no longer a scrawny little girl. But if she had to hear those words again, Annwyd didn't think the years would make them any better. As long as she could manage to teach her classes, she wouldn't tell Dumbledore she was struggling. She simply couldn't stand to take the risk, couldn't face being sent away again.
Annwyd decided to take a brief nap. It was Sunday, so there were no classes to deal with, and after a bit of rest, she could tackle the Faerie Vision again. Luckily she didn't have to weave the glamour from scratch; she only wanted to polish it up a bit. She could do it. Difficult or not, she would make it perfect. A little more sleep was probably all she needed.
She stood up, stretched again, and walked into the bedroom. She had quickly grown to love this room—the massive canopy bed covered in soft velvets of burgundy, dark green, and gold, the warm gleam of the wooden chest of drawers and carved wardrobe, the friendly glow of the lamps on the bedside tables, even the scatter of clothes and shoes and favorite books. It felt like home.
She stretched out on the bed, flat on her back, and closed her eyes. After a few minutes, however, she realized that however appealing a nap sounded in theory, she was in reality not sleepy. Drained, perhaps, but wide awake nonetheless.
Staring up at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the room, she wanted very badly to glamour Grandfather. His face would be a welcome sight, and his voice would keep her company. The room felt entirely too quiet. Her handed started to draw the pattern then stopped. She had work to do and her inner resources seemed so limited at the moment that she couldn't justify expending the energy just for comfort.
Maybe he could help me though, help me figure out what's wrong…
Well, perhaps he could, but she didn't need his likeness to know what he'd suggest. "Do your lessons, my little ring-tailed lemur." She smiled. That's exactly what he'd say, and he'd be right. She'd been neglectful lately of the practice she kept foisting on her students. She could almost hear Grandfather chuckle at her hypocrisy. "Now might be a good time to practice what you preach."
She started, as always, by reciting the proper uses of the Glamours. Then she closed her eyes and began the focusing process. Starting with her toes and working up through the rest of her body, she slowly tensed and relaxed every voluntary muscle. When she was finished, her body had taken on the familiar sensation of being both lighter and heavier than normal. She was minutely aware of the force of gravity pushing her against the firm mattress, and yet, at the same time, she seemed to float.
She began the most basic of the breathing meditations, by focusing awareness on the sound of her inhales and exhales, letting her mind exclude everything except that gentle noise. Then she allowed her awareness to expand slightly, moving beyond the sound to include the feel of the air in her nostrils…her throat…her lungs. Nothing but the sound and feel of the air, in and out. After an unmeasured space of time, her perceptions extended further and encompassed the workings of her diaphragm, the movement of her abdomen, the slight expansion of her ribcage with each inhalation. For a small eternity, she was nothing but breath, nothing but a conscious apparatus for pulling in air and pushing it out again. Then, with another effortless leap, her heart came into awareness, its beat a counterpoint to the slow rhythm of respiration. Now there was breath and pulse and the blood coursing through her veins in its endless flow, a simple repetitive music of steady rhythm and ceaseless movement. Gradually, everything else in her body joined the song, from the quiet patience of the bones to the fleeting sparks between the nerves. She was alive. She was aware. She was awareness.
Annwyd was a cloud of mist that filled her body and overflowed it. She was wheels of colored light and octaves of sound. She was an unpronounceable word spelled out in runes of power. She was one tiny word in an endless book of incantations, yet she was also the whole book, and the writer of the book. It was all one. She flowed out into the universe and it flowed into her and the energy moved through her, bright and glorious, and then—
The rhythm faltered. She drew a breath that seemed forced and out of sync. In that shimmering net of energy, she could suddenly sense a barrier, a walled-off spot that was dark and disconnected from the flow. There should be something there—a pattern, a hum of vibration, a hue of light—but there was nothing, only emptiness. She tried to push her awareness through it, or around it, tried to preserve the dance of energy, but the rhythm was broken. The blank spot seemed to eclipse the hub of a spinning wheel—a focal point where many threads of energy should be joined—and with that critical juncture missing, the shimmering web collapsed. The force she had drawn into herself leaked out again like water through a sieve, and she was only a woman lying on a bed in a quiet room, feeling terribly tired and confused.
With a groan of frustration and a feeling of defeat, Annwyd stood up, thinking of drowning her troubles in a hot bath. Just then, she heard a clicking sound at the window and looked up to see a nondescript owl perched outside on the ledge. Wondering who would be sending her a message, she opened the window and the bird fluttered in.
After taking the message and rewarding the bird with a bit of biscuit left over from lunch, she sat down with the folded note, eyeing it curiously. The only person she was expecting to hear from was Mother, and the departing owl was far too plain to belong to her. She smoothed out the scrap of parchment and read the lines of meticulous, angular script:
Instructor Gwir,
It has come to my attention that your mother is hosting a social event at which your presence is required. Under the circumstances, I think it unwise for you to be chaperoned by a wizard of Madam Whistbury's choosing. Kindly inform her that I will be your escort.
--S. Snape
~ * ~
Annwyd added a bit more scented oil—vanilla and almond—to the steaming water, then lolled back in the huge tub and closed her eyes. Predictably enough, she was soon thinking of Snape's message. Well, worrying about Mother's awful party was, she supposed, at least a respite from fretting about her more serious problems. Sliding further down in the fragrant bathwater, she indulged herself in a good emotional wallow regarding Mother, the upcoming party, and the unexpected note.
She was sorely tempted to concoct an excuse, owl Mother with her regrets, and forget the whole debacle. She was an adult now, after all. Mother couldn't force her to attend. Annwyd wished she could find the gumption to send a polite but firm note to that effect, but she knew she wouldn't.
She wished she didn't still feel, after all these years, the compulsion to make one more futile effort to please her mother. Because that's what it came down to, wasn't it? Another doomed attempt to be charming, sophisticated, and successful, to finally prove her value, to finally make Mother proud. She knew it wouldn't happen, but she also knew that she couldn't resist trying. It was stupid and irrational, but that's how things had always been between her and Mother, and she didn't see the pattern changing soon.
The gods knew this party would be a nightmare; of that she was absolutely certain. Mother's company was always a trial, and as for Mr. Whistbury—well, she preferred not to think about him. And if Lucius Malfoy was representative of Mother's current friends, then Annwyd was sure she'd find no pleasure in the other guests either.
Malfoy. Annwyd shivered unpleasantly in spite of being immersed in a hot bath. She had been unable to read him very clearly at yesterday's Quidditch match—there were several hundred people packed into the field and stands, hundreds of subtle bodies jostling her perceptions into chaos—but when Malfoy had taken her hand in his and pressed his lips lightly against her fingers, her spinal cord had instantly turned to ice water. She had tried her best to act normal and polite, but she had rarely been so glad to escape another person's presence.
Good gods, had she ever thought of Snape as cold? She took it back. The Potions Master might be formal, guarded, and difficult to read—not to mention glowering, foul-tempered, and arrogant—but she was never going to consider him cold again. Behind the professor's scowls and withering glances, she was certain there was something resembling a human being. Behind Malfoy's charming smile and easy courtesies, there was, she suspected, nothing but an arctic wasteland.
An evening of Mother and Malfoy and a date with Professor Snape, she thought wryly, sponging soap over her arms and shoulders. Snape would no doubt give her an especially dour grimace if she was stupid enough to refer to it as "a date" within his hearing. His note had made that clear enough; it was hard to imagine a less romantic invitation. Not that she would have expected anything different. But why bother sending an owl at all? That seemed a bit ridiculous when he was only a staircase and a few corridors away, and he'd be seeing her tomorrow at any rate. Well, knowing Snape, he undoubtedly found the whole idea deeply distasteful—thinking of past social occasions spent with her mother, she couldn't entirely blame him—and wanted to dispatch the arrangements with as little conversation as possible.
And that was probably for the best, Annwyd decided. If he had asked her face-to-face—well, he hadn't exactly asked—but nevertheless, if he had informed her of his plan in person, she might well have blushed and stammered like a idiot. Because, she conceded reluctantly, she had very much wished that he could escort her. Mother's galas were always nerve-wracking, even without the frightening knowledge that some of her friends were Death Eaters, and Snape's presence would be…reassuring. And beyond that—
She scrubbed her back vigorously. There was no "beyond that." For better or worse, her relationship with Severus Snape was strictly one of politics and necessity. That was how he saw it, at least. She was irked by his use of the word "chaperone" in the note—did he think she was still a student?—but in a sense, it was closer to the mark than "escort." He was going to the party to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't get into trouble with Malfoy or other unsavory friends of Mother's. She sluiced water over her shoulders with a sigh.
She was attracted to the Potions Master; there was no point in denying it. But there was even less point in denying that the feeling wasn't mutual. Professor Lupin had been right, Annwyd concluded sadly. Snape had been treating her decently for a reason, and it was, as her friend had predicted, a reason she didn't like. She didn't agree with all of Lupin's assessments—Snape was trustworthy enough; she felt perfectly certain of that—but for the most part Lupin had been right on the mark. Snape's interest clearly wasn't romantic or even friendly.
Over the last week or so Annwyd had, for no reason she could pin down precisely, felt closer to the professor than before. His manner was still inclined to be forbidding. He never returned a smile, never used her given name. Nothing had really changed in his interactions. But something had changed for her. The almost palpable physical barrier that had always seemed to exist between them had been breached with surprisingly little effort. On several occasions now, she had found excuses to touch his hand or brush against his arm—nothing worth mentioning, really, but it was more contact than she would have thought likely a few weeks ago. And the results were quite unfortunate. These casual interactions had done nothing to dispel her half-acknowledged infatuation, as she had formerly hoped they might. On the contrary, they left her tingling with an uncomfortable warmth and longing for much more than a quick clasp of fingers or brush of shoulders. Snape, however, seemed entirely unmoved. He was unresponsive to her efforts at injecting warmth or humor into their dealings, and if he dealt with her a bit more kindly than with others, it was motivated by a sense of duty and nothing more. He had decided, for reasons that were clear after yesterday's talk, that being nice to the nervous new instructor was strategically expeditious, and his actions stemmed from that, entirely calculated and impersonal. Lupin was probably right—the Potions Master didn't have a romantic bone in his body. And even if he did, he wasn't
interested in her.
It's just as well, Annwyd told herself reprovingly. He's an unpleasant man, petty and mean to his students, and barely civil to his colleagues most of the time. He's involved with Voldemort, and even if it's for a good cause, that's a dangerous can of worms. All in all, you couldn't pick a worse potential lover. And he's not even handsome.
She was almost convinced.
As she half-heartedly sponged one leg and then the other, Annwyd's thoughts drifted back to yesterday's conversation in Snape's chambers. She knew that she hadn't completely processed the discussion and its implications, and she would be wise to give it some serious thought. It was going to take time to wrap her mind around the entirety of what she had learned, but she might as well get started.
The Potions Master was a spy. That fact had settled into her mind more solidly than the rest, probably because it made a certain amount of sense. Little wonder that his demeanor was reserved and his defenses were all but impenetrable. Her knowledge of Voldemort and his servants was sketchy at best, but the idea of infiltrating the Dark Lord's inner circle made her tremble. And Snape was apparently doing exactly that. She couldn't help but be impressed by the man's courage.
Now Snape had entrusted her with his secret, and she was going to have dredge up some courage of her own to make sure she didn't betray his trust. I'm not suited for this, complained part of her mind. I'm a Ravenclaw, for heaven's sake, not some adventurous Gryffindor or crafty Slytherin. What on earth does Snape expect from me? What on earth does Voldemort expect from me?
She pushed the thought aside to be dealt with later. Her role in this drama was not something she was comfortable examining too closely, not just yet. Better to concentrate on Snape for the moment and ignore her own involvement as best she could.
It had been odd yesterday, being in his private chambers. She had never been there before—had never seen him in anything but an academic setting, had never seen him dressed in anything other than his teaching robes—and she had engaged in a bit of idle speculation before the meeting. Did he wear those same black robes in private? Were his quarters as spartan and orderly as his classroom and office? Did he, as the students were apt to whisper, keep bottles of pickled animals on his mantelpiece? Or was he a closet hedonist with an unknown taste for gilt and luxury?
Most of this had turned out exactly as she suspected: He was not wearing his teaching robes, but his "casual" dress was hardly that—tailored black wool trousers and a plain white linen shirt, immaculate and buttoned to the throat. The only room she had seen—a combination of library, office, and sitting room—was neither a gothic horror nor a sumptuous surprise. The room was spacious, the chairs comfortable, and the atmosphere not especially gloomy, but it lacked the extraneous objects of a normal dwelling. There was no evidence of anything that didn't serve a purpose—no art, no mementos, no declarations of personal style.
So, Annwyd wondered, what was odd about it? Had she really expected a torture chamber or an elegant salon? Had she expected that Snape would be wearing something colorful?
No, she decided, the oddness was quite the reverse. It had all seemed too much as expected. As soon as she walked into the chamber, she was struck with a sense of déjà vu—of course the fireplace would be centered on the wall to the left of the door, the armchairs arranged just so, and the large oak table situated precisely there. Of course the rug in front of the hearth would be dark blue and green with a touch of grey, and small enough to leave most of the stone floor bare. As for Snape himself—
Annwyd squirmed deeper into the bath with a flush of guilt. In recent days, and nights, she had spent more time than she cared to admit wondering what the Potions Master would look like in something less concealing than those billowing robes. It was nevertheless a little disconcerting to find that her mental image matched reality so perfectly. She had known, it seemed, exactly how his trousers would be tailored (cut slim from ankle to waist without actually being tight, emphasizing his tall, slim build) and what kind of buttons his shirt would have (plain and the color of new parchment, just a shade or two darker than the shirt itself). She had known precisely how the fabric would lay over the lean muscles of arms and chest, and—
She dunked her head under the water abruptly, and realized that the bath had grown tepid, almost cool. In spite of that, she kept her head under until she was completely out of breath When she finally surfaced for air, she scolded herself for being an idiot. Snape had met with her to discuss something important—something dangerous. She had promised to consider the conversation carefully. And she was obsessing about the color of his buttons? She squeezed the water from her hair. Annwyd Gwir, your priorities are in serious need of revision.
After quickly washing her hair, she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and got dressed. Settling into her favorite chair with a quill, a sheet of parchment, and a book to write on, she penned a brief note to her mother.
Dear Mother,
Thank you for your visit. It was lovely to see you and I'm glad that you're doing well. I'm looking forward to the party and I'm sure it will be delightful.
Also, I wanted to let you know that you won't have to bother finding an escort as I'll be attending with Professor Snape I'm sure you would have picked someone charming, but this arrangement will be for the best.
I received a note yesterday from your dressmaker requesting measurements, but she didn't mention what the dress will look like. I hope you asked her for something reasonably simple and conservative. And not pink, please.
Annwyd stopped writing as her head filled with visions of Mother's parties from years gone by—visions dominated by awful confections of ruffles and lace. The prospect of being introduced to half of wizarding London wearing something hideous, bright, and beribboned was far from appealing. The thought that Snape would see it as well was even worse.
I swear if you send me anything made of taffeta, I will wear my oldest sweater and trousers instead.
Best regards and greetings to Mr. Whistbury as well. I hope you have a good week.
Love,
Annwyd
As she folded the note and headed for the Owlery, Annwyd felt better for having asserted herself on something. She might have to pretend to be happy about the party. She might have to be polite to Lucius Malfoy. She might even have to act like she wanted nothing more or less than to be "chaperoned" by Severus Snape. But she did not have to wear pink taffeta.
~ * ~
Several dozen owls of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions blinked at Annwyd with mid-afternoon sleepiness and mild annoyance. After surveying their quietly rustling, feathery forms for several seconds, she chose a large barn owl that looked more alert than most and gently attached her message to his leg. Large gold eyes regarded her expectantly and she wondered if she should have brought a treat. Then, with a bit of concentration, she realized the owl wanted to be scratched, and obligingly stroked the soft brown feathers at his throat. The yellow eyes closed in contentment for a moment, then he abruptly spread his wings and flapped off the perch, circled the Owlery once, then soared through a high, open window.
Errand accomplished, Annwyd departed from the Owlery and decided to take a stroll before returning to her rooms and the Faerie Vision. She thought longingly of a visit to the forest but decided against it. Yesterday's downpour had quieted to a steady drizzle by midnight and stopped altogether by mid-morning, but the clouds were still low and heavy, threatening more rain before nightfall. She would rather not be caught out in the forest during a storm.
Instead, she chose to amble down to the lake. The normally blue water was painted in shades of grey and heavy banks of fog clung to the shore. The castle, though not far away, appeared pale and distant as a dream, towers rising out of a sea of mist. The leafless branches of a few nearby trees were wet and black. Her footsteps were almost inaudible, swallowed by the fog, as she meandered over the sodden grass and down to the water's edge.
Wandering the shoreline, Annwyd gazed at the grey and black tableau of castle, lake and trees. The ominous clouds and ragged trailers of mist transformed the normally cheerful and familiar Hogwarts grounds into a scene that was strangely picturesque and eerie. Though she knew the school was full of bright rooms and packed with students, it looked forbidding and haunted, a home for restless spirits, not boisterous children. Her thoughts produced a small, private smile. The day was certainly conducive to weaving a Halloween glamour.
As she let her gaze glide across the mist-shrouded shore, however, it was not Poe's raven that came to mind but the Erl King, the dark faerie who lured unwary mortals to their ruin. Without premeditation, she found herself singing, her voice soft at first, but stronger and richer as the ballad continued.
She said, "My love, wait not for me
"To come back from my roaming.
"Wait not beneath the apple tree
"In evening's purple gloaming.
"I once rode out so proud and free through fields and forests singing,
"But I'll not wander home to thee, for I have kissed the Erl King.
"Once my heart was true and strong
"And never wished thee harm.
"At evening's end I only longed
"To sleep within your arms.
"But now I wander night and day in search of one thing only:
"To hear the sound of pipes that play so sweet and sad and lonely.
"I should have heard what I was told:
"You warned me not to stray
"Out where the soulless Faerie Folk
"Could steal my heart away.
"But I rode out so proud and free midst hills and hollows singing,
"And I'll not wander home to thee, for I have kissed the Erl King.
"Now nevermore my soul will rest
"At peace with hearth and home,
"But ever follow east or west
"The path the cold wind blows.
"For I have looked in eyes as dark as midnight cold and starless
"And fingers silver-white entwined my hair and left me breathless.
"And so, my love, wait not for me
"To come back from my roaming.
"Wait not beneath the apple tree
"In evening's purple gloaming.
"I'll never wander home to thee past mill and meadow singing.
"My heart is wild but never free, for I have kissed the Erl King."
As the last line of the song faded into the cold air, a sharp voice made Annwyd whirl around in surprise.
"A rather romantic treatment of the subject matter, Miss Gwir."
Professor McGonagall was striding out of the mist, followed by Lupin. The Transfiguration Professor was wrapped in a grey wool cape and plaid scarf, and her face, as always, was set in a mask of prim disapproval.
"But quite interesting," added Lupin, with his characteristic smile. "You have a lovely voice, Instructor."
Annwyd flushed. "Thank you, Remus. I didn't realize I had an audience." She was embarrassed that she hadn't sensed their approach. I must have been more engrossed in the song than I realized. She nodded politely at McGonagall. "Minerva."
McGonagall returned the nod with a curt tip of her head.
"So you're familiar with Muggle myth and literature?" ventured Annwyd.
"Certainly," said the older witch. "But in my readings, the Erl King is mostly portrayed as a fearsome figure—a harbinger of death and a stealer of children's souls. I've never come across this particular lovelorn version."
"Oh," said Annwyd, feeling the blush spreading over her face. "Well, I wrote this one myself."
"Ah," said Minerva. "How sentimental."
Annwyd could feel the woman's distaste prickling at her through the cold air, and she unconsciously moved a step closer to Lupin. She felt steadied by a wave of sympathetic support and flashed him a quick look of gratitude.
"It is a bit more romantic than most treatments of the Erl King, but I don't think it's entirely out of character," said Annwyd. "After all, the Erl King doesn't procure his victims by force, but by persuasion. By seduction, if you will." She wondered if it would have been smarter to let the subject drop rather than attempting to defend herself. Discussing seduction with Minerva McGonagall was not exactly comfortable, even in a literary context.
"Hmmm. I suppose you're right." The conciliatory words were not accompanied, however, by any softening of McGonagall's face or aura. "The dark faeries are often portrayed as preying on the minds and emotions of their mortal victims, using visions of sensual delights to lure unwitting humans to their doom."
"Yes, that's true," said Annwyd cautiously, half her attention on the woman's words, and half on the tension filling the air between them.
"Perhaps the myths were inspired by encounters with Glamour Casters."
Annwyd stiffened at the clear insult but kept her voice calm. "Yes, perhaps so. But it would have to be Glamour Casters of the most unscrupulous sort, those who didn't follow the proper uses of the arts."
"There are a few bad apples in every barrel," interjected Lupin.
"Indeed there are," said McGonagall, "which is all the more reason one must choose one's companions with care. Today, as in the past, one must seek out those of honesty and integrity. Good afternoon, Instructor." Giving Annwyd another curt nod, she turned to Lupin. "I believe it's time we returned to Gryffindor Tower."
"I need to have a word with Miss Gwir," said Lupin. "I'll catch up with you in a moment."
"As you wish." McGonagall walked away, quickly disappearing in the heavy mist.
Lupin put a comforting hand on Annwyd's shoulder. "Don't pay her too much mind," he said quietly.
Annwyd merely nodded, not quite trusting her voice at the moment.
"And really, the song was lovely."
She managed a grim half-smile. "Thanks."
After a moment or two of companionable silence, she added, "You'd think she might get over it by now and give me a chance. It was years ago, and I was only fourteen at the time."
"I know," said Lupin. "But I'm afraid anything that might count as 'academic dishonesty' rubs Minerva's fur the wrong way. Now maybe if you'd been a Gryffindor…" He trailed off and gave her a wink.
Annwyd giggled. "She is awfully partial to them, isn't she? Almost as bad as Snape and his Slytherins."
"Don't tell her I said so," Lupin grinned, "but you're absolutely right."
Annwyd felt the tension easing, and realized how much she'd missed Lupin recently. They hadn't shared a meal or spoken more than a few words for the past two weeks, maybe longer. She was about to tell him so when he spoke again.
"I should be getting back. Minerva and I still have some business to go over, but…well, there's something I need to talk with you about when we have a chance."
"I'd like that," said Annwyd.
He gave her another smile and a little bow and strode off in the direction of the castle. Annwyd lingered a while longer by the lake until the first raindrops started falling. Then she hurried back to the warmth of her quarters and the work that she needed to finish by Halloween.
tbc…
Note:
The ballad that Annwyd sings in the last section of this chapter was written by me as part of the story.
If you're familiar with the music of Dead Can Dance, I am imagining the ballad being sung to the melody of "The Wind that Shakes the Barley."
Elsewhere in my fanfic, poems/songs by other writers may appear, and I will always credit the author either in notes or in the surrounding text.