AN: The Drenching Spell owes a lot to my friends' and my childhood pastime of "torturing" each other with the garden hose in the summertime. You'd be surprised how effective it can be. Ever stepped in the shower before it warms up? Look for a reference to /Through the Looking Glass/.
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Chapter 3: Something in Autumn
Yet all the determination Harry could muster did him no good when Snape subjected him to the Tickling Charm in their session the next day. Harry's body turned traitor and refused to obey his will when he attempted to recite the verse he and Neville had learned. Between painful spasms of laughter he could hear Snape's voice saying coolly, "What was that, Potter? I can't quite make out what you're saying. Start over from the beginning, and try to speak more clearly." Even with the charm at half-speed Harry was unable to improve on his performance of the previous day, and that was no longer good enough for Professor Snape.
He made slightly better progress with the Drenching Spell, which continued to be Neville's Waterloo. Harry found that it worked better not to dry himself off between soakings. The shock of each new blast of icy water was less that way, and soon he was so numb with cold that he couldn't feel it as much in any case.
Snape informed them at the end of class that since the winter term at Hogwarts would resume the next day, the three of them would meet on a weekly basis. "I will expect to see you this coming Wednesday evening and on subsequent Wednesdays for the foreseeable future," the professor told them. "Until then, your assigment will be to practice the Multiple Tickling Charm and the Drenching Spell on each other." Snape smiled to himself as if at some irresistible private joke as he sipped a glass of ice water. "I'll have some new exercises ready for you when you return."
Drained as he was after his strenuous hour, Harry found it hard not to give way to discouragement. Neville seemed to be taking it all in stride, buoyed by the knowledge that he had faced his worst fear and survived, his parents might be cured against all odds, and nobody expected him to master the skills Snape was teaching them. He was just along for the ride, so to speak, and he had nothing to lose.
Harry had no such knowledge to fortify him. Frank was depending on him to come through, and he hated his helplessness in the grip of the Tickling Charm. "I'll never get used to being tickled," he said gloomily to Neville.
Neville gave him a thoughtful look. "I suppose it wouldn't help if I told you that you have to stop fighting it and relax," he said.
"I know it, but I can't do it," Harry answered. "I could say the same to you about the Drenching Spell."
"I know it, but I can't do it," Neville said back to him, and they both grinned half-heartedly.
* * * * * * * *
At dinner in the Great Hall that evening, the tables were full for the first time since the beginning of the holidays. The Weasley twins were sitting next to Ron, and as Harry helped himself to Yorkshire pudding, he saw Fred (at least he thought it was Fred) jog Ron's elbow, almost sending pumpkin juice down the front of Ron's robes. "Watch it, will you, Fred? I just got these robes back from the wash," Ron complained.
"Look at that." Harry's eyes followed Fred's pointing finger over to the Slytherin table. Hermione, on Harry's other side, craned her head to look too.
Draco Malfoy was sitting next to an anemic-looking girl of about fourteen. As they watched, Malfoy put his hand on hers and said something in her ear. She gave him a swift look and a small smile.
"The little git's got a new girlfriend." George studied the girl's big dark eyes, pale face, and long, straight hair of midnight black. "She's not bad if you like the wispy type. Looks far too good for him if you ask me. Anybody know who she is?"
"She's in my year," said Ginny Weasley from across the Gryffindor table. "Ivy Parkinson, Pansy's younger sister. We have Potions together. Professor Snape is pretty hard on her, for a Slytherin, but she's an excellent student." Ginny paused and searched her memory. "I think she's related to him. One day she was asking him something about the assignment after class, and I heard her call him 'Uncle.' That's what it sounded like, anyway."
"I never heard Pansy call him that," Ron remarked. Pansy was also a Slytherin and therefore in Snape's good graces, but he had never singled her out one way or the other.
Ivy apparently sensed the attention she was getting from the Gryffindor direction. She looked over and her eyes met Harry's for a moment. Her expression was not hostile, merely curious. Harry would have expected anyone who associated with Draco Malfoy to snub him at the slightest opportunity.
* * * * * * * *
The next day after classes Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville walked over to Hagrid's for tea and treacle tarts, which turned out to be almost edible. Ron and Hermione had agreed to help Harry and Neville with their assignment from Professor Snape, and Hagrid, though wandless, was letting them practice on him too.
"You start, Harry," Ron said when they had finished their tea. He spread his arms wide and stuck out his chest. "Hit me!"
Harry had his doubts about the whole business, but he raised his wand and said firmly, "/Titillo/!" The next moment he exclaimed, "Oh!" He dropped his wand and clutched his stomach. Both he and Ron doubled over with laughter, then stopped and straightened up, looking puzzled.
"Wait a minute. I felt it too," said Harry. "Did I tickle you, Ron?"
"Well, yeah, for about a second," said Ron.
"I must not be doing it right," Harry frowned. "Let me try it on you, Neville." He did so, and the same thing happened, but this time Harry hung on to his wand long enough to give both of them a bit more of a workout. "Now you do it, Neville," Harry directed. "Not on me," he added hastily. "Give Ron another taste of it."
"Always happy to oblige," Ron smirked. "Bring it on." Neville managed a more respectable Tickling Charm than Harry had, but he was no more immune to the backlash effect than Harry had been. Soon both of them were howling.
"Wow, Neville, you're good. Almost got me to beg you to stop. Let me try this thing." Ron lifted his wand. "What's the word? /Titillo/?" He pointed his wand at Hermione, who looked as if she wanted to protest, but kept her mouth shut. She didn't have much to worry about; Ron was no better at the charm than Harry (which made Harry feel a bit happier about his own ineptitude). Within ten seconds Ron lowered his wand, gasping, "Oh, my ribs."
"I knew this would happen," Hermione told them all a bit smugly, after she had stopped giggling.
"Oh, you did, did you," Ron remarked sourly. "And when are you going to see fit to enlighten the rest of us?'
"Oh, I think now would be a good time," Hermione decided, impervious to the sarcasm. "I've been reading about the Multiple Tickling Charm since Harry and Neville told us about it. It always rebounds on the person who performs it. Mastering the Tickling Charm takes great practice and self-discipline."
"But that would mean that Professor Snape …" Harry suddenly realized.
"…isn't a bit ticklish," Neville concluded.
They all thought about that for a moment.
"What about the Drenching Spell, Hermione?" asked Harry at last. "Does that work the same way?"
"Not exactly," Hermione replied. "Actually, it works in the opposite way. A person who performs the Drenching Spell for any length of time gets very hot and dry. The jet of cold water takes a lot of magical power. Nothing advanced or difficult, just draining."
This gave Harry an idea. "Neville," he suggested, "Why don't you try drenching all of us in turn."
"Are you sure you wouldn't mind?" Neville asked, appalled that anyone would ask for that kind of punishment.
"Go ahead," said Ron, and Hermione and Hagrid nodded.
"Well, okay, you asked for it," said Neville. His eyes scanned the room and rested on Hagrid. He raised his wanted and chanted, "/Aquafrigida!/" A blast of water from Neville's wand hit the half-giant, who was soon soaked and shivering. After a few moments Hagrid gasped, "That'll do, Neville … Yeh can stop now." Neville immediately stopped the spell, and Hagrid muttered, "Blimey, tha's cold," through chattering teeth. Harry dried the gamekeeper's dripping bulk with a muttered "/Desicco/," and a wave of his wand.
"We should really do it properly and say the verse while he's drenching us," said Hermione. "Otherwise he'll stop too soon. I'm afraid you're too soft-hearted, Neville," she criticised him.
Neville shivered. "I can't help remembering what's it's like."
"Well, I've memorised the verse," Hermione told him, "so start with me."
Neville did as she asked. "Ow, that's freezing," she squeaked. "/You may think you can drench me into submission/, brrrrr, /and fffforce me to realize your ff-ffondest ambition/, now what comes next …" Hermione hugged herself, shivered, and searched her memory. "How am I supposed to concentrate when you're sss-ssspraying me like that?" she demanded petulantly.
"Don't stop, Neville," Ron coached him.
"/It's t-t-true that I'm placed in an awkward position/," Hermione ploughed on under the deluge, trembling with cold, and rattled through the rest of the verse as quickly as possible. Neville stopped the spell, looking about as relieved as Hermione did. Hermione dried herself off and asked, "How do you feel now, Neville?"
"Kind of warm," Neville admitted, looking flushed. "Could I have a drink of water?"
"No," said Hermione firmly. She had obviously caught on to what Harry had in mind. "Now it's Ron's turn to have you drench him."
"But I don't know the verse," Ron objected.
"I've written it out for you to read," Hermione assured him, handing him a worn sheet of parchment. Ron looked at it dubiously, moving his lips as he read it over to himself. "You can keep that while you're being drenched," she added. "It's not strictly fair, but this is just for practice. You can memorise it for next time."
Ron scanned the verse with his eyes one more time, then looked at Neville and said, "Do your worst." Neville raised his wand, and as soon as the cold water hit Ron (Harry had seen this coming), it knocked the parchment out of his hand. Hagrid bent over for it, since it had landed near his feet, but Hermione said, "No, let Ron pick it up himself." So Ron shielded his face with one hand and groped for the parchment with the other, getting wetter and colder by the second. "Oh nuts," he complained as he held up the limp and dripping sheet. "I c-can hardly read this. /You may think you can drown me in a submarine/ … no, that's not right. Man, is this cold." He squinted at the words again. "/Drench me into submission, And force me to replace your foamiest anteater/… No way. What's with this thing?"
"Wait, I have another one," said Hermione. "Let me waterproof it for you first. Some of these parchments do strange things when you get them wet." She muttered a spell over a new sheet and handed it over, taking care not to intercept the icy showerbath.
"/Realize your fondest ambition/," Ron ground out through his teeth, glaring at Hermione. After he had finished saying the verse at last and Neville had brought his watery ordeal to an end, Ron accused her, "You did that on purpose!"
"I really didn't, Ron. Sorry. I just forgot, I promise." She hastily performed the drying spell on him. "Now I have to write out another one. That one was supposed to be for Hagrid." She sat down at the table and busied herself with more parchment, quills, and ink.
"Boy, is it hot in here," Neville complained, edging away from the fire and trying to get some air inside his robes.
"I reckon you're ready to cool off now," Harry suggested.
"I wouldn't mind," said Neville.
"Here it comes, then. /Aquafrigida/!"
"Aahh, that feels refreshing," Neville sighed as the water from Harry's wand splashed him from head to foot.
"Don't forget to say the verse, then."
"Oh, right." He did so. "That was easy. No hurry about stopping the spell; I'm quite comfortable." Harry stopped it anyway.
"You should have let me do Neville, Harry. I'm still half frozen," Ron pointed out. "And besides, Neville never did it to you." He picked up the discarded parchment, dry now but water-puckered, and tossed it on the table by Hermione. She glanced at it and said, "I don't need that. It can go in the fire."
"Wait. Let me see it," said Harry, and picked it up. The ink from the neatly lettered lines had run and smeared and sent feathery, spidery filaments of blackness over some, but not all, of the original writing, which showed through legibly enough in certain spots. Harry stared at the result in disbelief. "Ron, everybody, listen to this:
"/Your sprinkling can drowned me in one submarine,
And forced me to replace your foamiest anteater.
If strudel's improving a newlywed possum,
Where fade wilted flowers of years' mangled blossom,
Buttercream spreads from my shoes top to bottom,
Till toads underground grin from something in autumn/."
After a moment of stunned silence broken only by a nervous giggle from Neville, Ron exclaimed, "That's not what it said when I saw it. I swear there was nothing about sprinkling cans!" He looked where Harry was pointing, and insisted, "It must have changed."
"Of course it changed," agreed Hermione, "but how could it change so it still rhymes and scans? Except for the second line," she amended. She compared the verse she had just written out with the version in Harry's hand. "You can hex a parchment, of course, but how clever would it have to be to change
/It's true that I'm placed in an awkward position to
If strudel's improving a newlywed possum/,
even though the switch makes no sense at all?"
Harry's eye had been absently fixed on a corner of the parchment where a worn fold line had started to tear. For some reason it made him remember the taste of sweets from Honeydukes, the sweetshop at Hogsmeade, and the heft of them in his pocket.
Suddenly he knew why.
"Hermione," he said quietly, "where did you get that parchment?"
"Why, I suppose I got it on Diagon Alley, Flourish and Blotts or somewhere." She paused, studying the parchment itself this time and not the writing. "No. I remember now. At the end of last year, I was in the corridor near Professor Moody's office—what used to be Professor Moody's office—at least we all thought it was—after it had been emptied out. I was passing a suit of armor when I dropped my book bag. While I was picking up my books, I found a piece of blank parchment sort of wedged behind the foot of the armor. I can always use more parchment, so I put it in my bag with some other sheets I had. This must be it. I remember it was a bit worn around the edges."
"Near Professor Moody's old office," Harry repeated. "That fits." He laid the parchment on the table, tapped it with his wand, and announced, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!" The words on the parchment vanished, and in their place appeared,
/Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
Are proud to present …/
"It's the Marauder's Map," said Harry with satisfaction. "I wondered whether I'd ever see it again. Fred and George gave it to me and it's been confiscated twice."
"Cool!" said Ron, studying the floor plan of the school with the with the secret passages and the labeled dots, some moving and some stationary, representing exact locations of the people inhabiting Hogwarts at that very moment. Hagrid and Neville came closer to see. Hagrid whistled. "I can see why yeh wanted it back, Harry. This is a real find."
Harry tapped the parchment again and said, "Mischief managed!" The map disappeared and the transmogrified verse returned. "I think that Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are responsible for changing the words." He gave the map another poke and asked, "Aren't you?"
More words appeared at the bottom of the parchment. "/Mr. Padfoot regrets that we didn't have time to do a better job before the parchment was dried/."
"/Mr. Prongs would like to add that Mr. Wormtail, who altered the second line, isn't very good at thinking up rhymes. And to remind all present that it's not easy to find a rhyme for 'bottom'/."
"/Mr. Moony directs your attention to the fourth line of the poem, which in his humble opinion is the height of eloquence/."
"/Mr. Wormtail informs you that Mr. Moony is partial to his own contribution to the piece, but that other parts of it are equally worthy/."
The statements stayed visible for a few moments, and then faded away.
"Harry, d'yeh know who them characters are?" asked Hagrid, nodding toward the Marauder's Map. "Moony an' the rest of 'em?"
"Yes," said Harry, looking down at the parchment. Something in his voice made Hagrid add, "Yeh don't have to tell me, Harry, if yeh'd rather not."
"Maybe later," said Harry. "Hermione, I owe you one for this. You too, Ron."
"No, you don't, Harry," Hermione answered. "The map found its way back to you for its own reasons. It might help you in your mission. I just hope you're not planning to use it for anything frivolous." She was obviously remembering Harry's secret, illegal trips to Hogsmeade in his third year at Hogwarts.
"Just let me hit you once with the Drenching Spell, and we'll call it square," Ron proposed.
Harry drew a deep breath. "All right."
* * * * * * * *
On Wednesday evening Professor Snape had three beakers of potion ready for them, set out in a row on the table with two small cups. The first one fizzed, the second one stank, and the third one smoked. "I have prepared these brews especially for your use in this class," Snape informed them. "They are short-acting and highly potent, and must be handled carefully. We will begin with the one one your left." He poured a small amount of it into each cup, and set the cups in front of Harry and Neville. "You first, Potter. Drink up."
Harry looked at his portion of potion suspiciously. "What is it, sir? What does it do?"
"You'll know soon enough, Potter. You must learn to be prepared for the unknown and unexpected."
Harry knew there was no getting around it. He shrugged and picked up the cup of liquid, which hissed faintly. Before drinking it, he mentally reviewed the Opposition Verse and tried to fix it in his thoughts, although /Your sprinkling can drowned me in one submarine/ kept intruding into his mind. Then he took a deep breath and downed the potion. It prickled on the way down, and as soon as it reached his stomach he felt it radiate to every part of his body and spread over his skin in a violent itching sensation. He shifted in his chair and started to scr—
"No scratching, Potter," commanded Professor Snape. "The more you scratch, the longer it lasts."
Harry clenched his hands in his lap and started reciting, "You may think you can itch me into submission, oh man this is awful …" He managed to get through it, but the itching didn't stop, though it had grown a little less intense. He hunched his shoulders and furtively rubbed them against the back of his chair, hoping that the ban on scratching applied to fingernails only.
"The itching will subside in a few minutes if you don't scratch, Potter. Now, Longbottom, it's your turn for the Itching Potion," Professor Snape continued the lesson. Neville looked at his cup in dismay, then sighed and gulped it down. "Yow," he remarked as the itching started. "It's like mosquito bites on top of chicken pox. You may think you can itch—ooh, it's worse than poison ivy."
"If you scratch, you have to start again from the beginning," Snape told him sternly. Neville unfortunately forgot and scratched in the middle of the last line, after getting through the first five, and had to say the whole thing over again.
"Now," said Professor Snape, "we will move to the second potion." He poured a dose into each cup, and the rotten-potato stench was overpowering. Harry had a feeling he knew what this potion did, and he wanted no part of it. He reminded himself about the purpose of this whole enterprise. He still wanted no part of it, but resolved to face it anyway.
"I'll go first this time if you want, Harry," Neville offered.
"No thanks, Neville, I'd rather get it over with," Harry answered grimly. He was already in the process of screwing himself up to it and didn't want to have to start over. He took a deep breath, held his nose, and bolted the contents of the cup as quickly as possible. It tasted even more vile than it smelled, and when he got it down it felt still worse. An upwelling of terrible nausea convinced him that he was about to throw up, and he looked around frantically for a suitable container.
"Under the influence of this potion you will feel deathly ill, Potter, but never actually vomit," came Snape's cool voice through Harry's distress, "so you won't need a basin."
Harry swallowed heavily and tried to collect himself. He clamped his lips shut and took a few shallow breaths through his nose. "/You may think you can sicken me into submission/," he mumbled, and you might be right, he thought, doubling over and panting. He struggled through another line and noticed that he was drooling, put a hand over his mouth, and tried not to retch, knowing that it would do no good. His vision swam with dizziness. Fixing his eyes on the empty cup before him, he concentrated on finishing the verse, and when he had done so, to his enormous relief, the sickness receded to the point where he felt merely rotten. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and breathing hard. /Never again/, he thought. /I never want to do that again/.
Watching Neville take the potion was nearly as bad. As Harry saw Neville turn green and break out in a sweat, his own queasy stomach heaved in sympathy. The tickling, the drenching, and the itching had been tough to cope with, but also an amusing game: a stretch, a challenge, sort of like Quidditch. But this was serious misery.
Neville appeared to come to the same conclusion. After he had lurched and groaned his way through the lines he had to say, the three of them all sat in subdued silence for a few moments. Even Professor Snape had nothing to say, snide or otherwise, about the merits of his pupils' performance. Neville finally said in a faint, choked voice, "Sir, I don't think you should do that again. If you do, I'll have to inform Professor Dumbledore. You promised you wouldn't curse anybody."
Snape pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Perhaps I made the Sickening Potion stronger than necessary," he conceded. "I will give you a short rest before proceeding to the third potion." (Harry had actually forgotten that there was a third potion.) "In the meantime, Potter, Longbottom, you may report on the results of your practice."
Harry and Neville looked at each other. "We can't do the Tickling Charm without feeling it ourselves," Harry admitted.
"Ah yes," said Professor Snape, "it always rebounds upon its user. There are simple ways to accommodate that fact, which I would encourage you to discover on your own. And the Drenching Spell?"
"I got through it with no trouble," Neville said proudly. "After I did it to three other people," he added. "It evens out."
"Indeed," said Professor Snape. "Your assignment is to continue to practice the same exercises. Now we will proceed to the third and final potion."
Harry told himself that he could get through one more trial, although he didn't feel up to it. Nothing could be as bad as the Sickening Potion, could it? And if it was, Neville would put a stop to it. Tired of speculating about what the next unpleasant sensation in store from him might be, he drank the smoking brew almost without thinking. At first nothing seemed to happen, though he felt a growing apprehension. The sense of foreboding continued to increase, until all his surroundings took on a look of menace, the shadows threatened to congeal into dreadful monsters, and he was certain that something even worse was sneaking up on him from behind. Professor Snape, a towering, sinister presence, looked ready to sprout horns, fangs, and a forked tail. As if that weren't enougn, Harry also felt as if he were about to fall from a dizzying height. He remembered the growing panic he had felt in the weeks before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament the previous year, but this, in addition to the sense of imminent danger, carried an overtone of supernatural horror. He could almost hear the creepy horror-movie music seeping into his bones and sapping his will and courage. Harry shivered, stiffened his spine, and resisted the urge to look behind him. "You may think you can panic me into submission—"
Declaiming those words of defiance helped to steady him. He knew the danger was an illusion, though the panic was real enough. He was grateful for Neville's presence beside him, or at least he would have been if he could have shaken the feeling that Neville, who looked innocent enough, carried a concealed knife and was getting ready to stab him as soon as he looked away. He got through the verse without peeking behind him or clutching the table to keep from falling. Slowly the room returned to its normal aspect, the shadows were only shadows, the floor felt solid under his feet, and Professor Snape appeared no more alarming than usual.
Neville had watched Harry take the Panic Potion, but couldn't see exactly what it had done. He gamely drank it himself, but a whimper escaped him and his eyes widened with terror. He looked around the room and did a double take when he saw Harry (who must have looked to him like a mean teacher or something), but all the same, he fumbled for Harry's hand under the table and gripped it hard. Harry squeezed back. Neville stuttered badly when he began the verse, then cleared his throat and started over with better results. It was like the first day the three of them had been together, when Neville had confronted Professor Snape, and probably about equally frightening.
Finally it was over, and Snape excused them with hardly another word. He looked pensive, and the smug satisfaction he had taken in his tutoring assignment seemed to have evaporated. Harry wondered if even Professor Snape himself thought he had gone too far this time. Perhaps his potions had succeeded better than he had planned.
Harry and Neville, both rather shaky about the knees, helped each other up the stairs and through the portrait hole (password "Frumious Bandersnatch") to the Gryffindor common room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting for them. Most of the other Gryffindors had gone to their dorm rooms, but a few were studying near the fire. "How was it?" asked Hermione, keeping her voice low.
"Awful," whispered Neville. "It was the worst yet. Professor Snape gave us a potion that made us horribly sick. That was after he made us horribly itchy. Then he finished up by making us horribly afraid."
"I still don't feel well," mumbled Harry, sinking weakly into a chair.
"Me neither," Neville sighed, scratching absently. "What we need is some fresh camomile."
"Fresh camomile?" echoed Ron blankly.
"That's what my Gran would say. She's a famous herbalist, you know; she's been teaching me since I was old enough to trample her herb garden."
"That must be why you're so good at Herbology," Hermione concluded.
"Probably. Anyway, Gran always insists that fresh, living herbs are much healthier for you than magical potions made out of complicated combinations of old, dried-out, exotic, outlandish, silly ingredients."
"That must be why you're so bad at Potions," reasoned Ron.
"Probably. I know there's plenty of camomile in the greenhouse—the only problem is how to get it. We're not allowed out there at this hour."
"Say no more," declared Ron. "I'll just borrow Harry's invisibility cloak and be back before you have a chance to miss me."
"You have an invisibility cloak, Harry?" asked Neville in amazement.
"Yes, but we won't need it. I remember the Summoning Charm we learned last year and I think I can still do it, especially for something that will settle my stomach. Just tell me where the camomile is in the greenhouse and what it looks like."
Soon the camomile was obtained through an opened window, Hermione and Neville had put their heads together over its preparation, and the two who needed it were sipping fresh camomile tea and feeling vastly better for it. Ron tried it but didn't like the taste.
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AN: So is Snape really teaching them something, or is he just amusing himself? Who can say? I always thought nausea the most horrible sensation in the world.
I had already decided that the Marauders' Map would come into the story, but the way it actually did was a total surprise until it took shape as I wrote. The Sprinkling Can Verse was fun to write, and easier than the original Opposition Verse; I had the help of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Stay tuned for Chapter 4, "A Coward's Life," where Frank Longbottom makes a surprising revelation.
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Chapter 3: Something in Autumn
Yet all the determination Harry could muster did him no good when Snape subjected him to the Tickling Charm in their session the next day. Harry's body turned traitor and refused to obey his will when he attempted to recite the verse he and Neville had learned. Between painful spasms of laughter he could hear Snape's voice saying coolly, "What was that, Potter? I can't quite make out what you're saying. Start over from the beginning, and try to speak more clearly." Even with the charm at half-speed Harry was unable to improve on his performance of the previous day, and that was no longer good enough for Professor Snape.
He made slightly better progress with the Drenching Spell, which continued to be Neville's Waterloo. Harry found that it worked better not to dry himself off between soakings. The shock of each new blast of icy water was less that way, and soon he was so numb with cold that he couldn't feel it as much in any case.
Snape informed them at the end of class that since the winter term at Hogwarts would resume the next day, the three of them would meet on a weekly basis. "I will expect to see you this coming Wednesday evening and on subsequent Wednesdays for the foreseeable future," the professor told them. "Until then, your assigment will be to practice the Multiple Tickling Charm and the Drenching Spell on each other." Snape smiled to himself as if at some irresistible private joke as he sipped a glass of ice water. "I'll have some new exercises ready for you when you return."
Drained as he was after his strenuous hour, Harry found it hard not to give way to discouragement. Neville seemed to be taking it all in stride, buoyed by the knowledge that he had faced his worst fear and survived, his parents might be cured against all odds, and nobody expected him to master the skills Snape was teaching them. He was just along for the ride, so to speak, and he had nothing to lose.
Harry had no such knowledge to fortify him. Frank was depending on him to come through, and he hated his helplessness in the grip of the Tickling Charm. "I'll never get used to being tickled," he said gloomily to Neville.
Neville gave him a thoughtful look. "I suppose it wouldn't help if I told you that you have to stop fighting it and relax," he said.
"I know it, but I can't do it," Harry answered. "I could say the same to you about the Drenching Spell."
"I know it, but I can't do it," Neville said back to him, and they both grinned half-heartedly.
* * * * * * * *
At dinner in the Great Hall that evening, the tables were full for the first time since the beginning of the holidays. The Weasley twins were sitting next to Ron, and as Harry helped himself to Yorkshire pudding, he saw Fred (at least he thought it was Fred) jog Ron's elbow, almost sending pumpkin juice down the front of Ron's robes. "Watch it, will you, Fred? I just got these robes back from the wash," Ron complained.
"Look at that." Harry's eyes followed Fred's pointing finger over to the Slytherin table. Hermione, on Harry's other side, craned her head to look too.
Draco Malfoy was sitting next to an anemic-looking girl of about fourteen. As they watched, Malfoy put his hand on hers and said something in her ear. She gave him a swift look and a small smile.
"The little git's got a new girlfriend." George studied the girl's big dark eyes, pale face, and long, straight hair of midnight black. "She's not bad if you like the wispy type. Looks far too good for him if you ask me. Anybody know who she is?"
"She's in my year," said Ginny Weasley from across the Gryffindor table. "Ivy Parkinson, Pansy's younger sister. We have Potions together. Professor Snape is pretty hard on her, for a Slytherin, but she's an excellent student." Ginny paused and searched her memory. "I think she's related to him. One day she was asking him something about the assignment after class, and I heard her call him 'Uncle.' That's what it sounded like, anyway."
"I never heard Pansy call him that," Ron remarked. Pansy was also a Slytherin and therefore in Snape's good graces, but he had never singled her out one way or the other.
Ivy apparently sensed the attention she was getting from the Gryffindor direction. She looked over and her eyes met Harry's for a moment. Her expression was not hostile, merely curious. Harry would have expected anyone who associated with Draco Malfoy to snub him at the slightest opportunity.
* * * * * * * *
The next day after classes Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville walked over to Hagrid's for tea and treacle tarts, which turned out to be almost edible. Ron and Hermione had agreed to help Harry and Neville with their assignment from Professor Snape, and Hagrid, though wandless, was letting them practice on him too.
"You start, Harry," Ron said when they had finished their tea. He spread his arms wide and stuck out his chest. "Hit me!"
Harry had his doubts about the whole business, but he raised his wand and said firmly, "/Titillo/!" The next moment he exclaimed, "Oh!" He dropped his wand and clutched his stomach. Both he and Ron doubled over with laughter, then stopped and straightened up, looking puzzled.
"Wait a minute. I felt it too," said Harry. "Did I tickle you, Ron?"
"Well, yeah, for about a second," said Ron.
"I must not be doing it right," Harry frowned. "Let me try it on you, Neville." He did so, and the same thing happened, but this time Harry hung on to his wand long enough to give both of them a bit more of a workout. "Now you do it, Neville," Harry directed. "Not on me," he added hastily. "Give Ron another taste of it."
"Always happy to oblige," Ron smirked. "Bring it on." Neville managed a more respectable Tickling Charm than Harry had, but he was no more immune to the backlash effect than Harry had been. Soon both of them were howling.
"Wow, Neville, you're good. Almost got me to beg you to stop. Let me try this thing." Ron lifted his wand. "What's the word? /Titillo/?" He pointed his wand at Hermione, who looked as if she wanted to protest, but kept her mouth shut. She didn't have much to worry about; Ron was no better at the charm than Harry (which made Harry feel a bit happier about his own ineptitude). Within ten seconds Ron lowered his wand, gasping, "Oh, my ribs."
"I knew this would happen," Hermione told them all a bit smugly, after she had stopped giggling.
"Oh, you did, did you," Ron remarked sourly. "And when are you going to see fit to enlighten the rest of us?'
"Oh, I think now would be a good time," Hermione decided, impervious to the sarcasm. "I've been reading about the Multiple Tickling Charm since Harry and Neville told us about it. It always rebounds on the person who performs it. Mastering the Tickling Charm takes great practice and self-discipline."
"But that would mean that Professor Snape …" Harry suddenly realized.
"…isn't a bit ticklish," Neville concluded.
They all thought about that for a moment.
"What about the Drenching Spell, Hermione?" asked Harry at last. "Does that work the same way?"
"Not exactly," Hermione replied. "Actually, it works in the opposite way. A person who performs the Drenching Spell for any length of time gets very hot and dry. The jet of cold water takes a lot of magical power. Nothing advanced or difficult, just draining."
This gave Harry an idea. "Neville," he suggested, "Why don't you try drenching all of us in turn."
"Are you sure you wouldn't mind?" Neville asked, appalled that anyone would ask for that kind of punishment.
"Go ahead," said Ron, and Hermione and Hagrid nodded.
"Well, okay, you asked for it," said Neville. His eyes scanned the room and rested on Hagrid. He raised his wanted and chanted, "/Aquafrigida!/" A blast of water from Neville's wand hit the half-giant, who was soon soaked and shivering. After a few moments Hagrid gasped, "That'll do, Neville … Yeh can stop now." Neville immediately stopped the spell, and Hagrid muttered, "Blimey, tha's cold," through chattering teeth. Harry dried the gamekeeper's dripping bulk with a muttered "/Desicco/," and a wave of his wand.
"We should really do it properly and say the verse while he's drenching us," said Hermione. "Otherwise he'll stop too soon. I'm afraid you're too soft-hearted, Neville," she criticised him.
Neville shivered. "I can't help remembering what's it's like."
"Well, I've memorised the verse," Hermione told him, "so start with me."
Neville did as she asked. "Ow, that's freezing," she squeaked. "/You may think you can drench me into submission/, brrrrr, /and fffforce me to realize your ff-ffondest ambition/, now what comes next …" Hermione hugged herself, shivered, and searched her memory. "How am I supposed to concentrate when you're sss-ssspraying me like that?" she demanded petulantly.
"Don't stop, Neville," Ron coached him.
"/It's t-t-true that I'm placed in an awkward position/," Hermione ploughed on under the deluge, trembling with cold, and rattled through the rest of the verse as quickly as possible. Neville stopped the spell, looking about as relieved as Hermione did. Hermione dried herself off and asked, "How do you feel now, Neville?"
"Kind of warm," Neville admitted, looking flushed. "Could I have a drink of water?"
"No," said Hermione firmly. She had obviously caught on to what Harry had in mind. "Now it's Ron's turn to have you drench him."
"But I don't know the verse," Ron objected.
"I've written it out for you to read," Hermione assured him, handing him a worn sheet of parchment. Ron looked at it dubiously, moving his lips as he read it over to himself. "You can keep that while you're being drenched," she added. "It's not strictly fair, but this is just for practice. You can memorise it for next time."
Ron scanned the verse with his eyes one more time, then looked at Neville and said, "Do your worst." Neville raised his wand, and as soon as the cold water hit Ron (Harry had seen this coming), it knocked the parchment out of his hand. Hagrid bent over for it, since it had landed near his feet, but Hermione said, "No, let Ron pick it up himself." So Ron shielded his face with one hand and groped for the parchment with the other, getting wetter and colder by the second. "Oh nuts," he complained as he held up the limp and dripping sheet. "I c-can hardly read this. /You may think you can drown me in a submarine/ … no, that's not right. Man, is this cold." He squinted at the words again. "/Drench me into submission, And force me to replace your foamiest anteater/… No way. What's with this thing?"
"Wait, I have another one," said Hermione. "Let me waterproof it for you first. Some of these parchments do strange things when you get them wet." She muttered a spell over a new sheet and handed it over, taking care not to intercept the icy showerbath.
"/Realize your fondest ambition/," Ron ground out through his teeth, glaring at Hermione. After he had finished saying the verse at last and Neville had brought his watery ordeal to an end, Ron accused her, "You did that on purpose!"
"I really didn't, Ron. Sorry. I just forgot, I promise." She hastily performed the drying spell on him. "Now I have to write out another one. That one was supposed to be for Hagrid." She sat down at the table and busied herself with more parchment, quills, and ink.
"Boy, is it hot in here," Neville complained, edging away from the fire and trying to get some air inside his robes.
"I reckon you're ready to cool off now," Harry suggested.
"I wouldn't mind," said Neville.
"Here it comes, then. /Aquafrigida/!"
"Aahh, that feels refreshing," Neville sighed as the water from Harry's wand splashed him from head to foot.
"Don't forget to say the verse, then."
"Oh, right." He did so. "That was easy. No hurry about stopping the spell; I'm quite comfortable." Harry stopped it anyway.
"You should have let me do Neville, Harry. I'm still half frozen," Ron pointed out. "And besides, Neville never did it to you." He picked up the discarded parchment, dry now but water-puckered, and tossed it on the table by Hermione. She glanced at it and said, "I don't need that. It can go in the fire."
"Wait. Let me see it," said Harry, and picked it up. The ink from the neatly lettered lines had run and smeared and sent feathery, spidery filaments of blackness over some, but not all, of the original writing, which showed through legibly enough in certain spots. Harry stared at the result in disbelief. "Ron, everybody, listen to this:
"/Your sprinkling can drowned me in one submarine,
And forced me to replace your foamiest anteater.
If strudel's improving a newlywed possum,
Where fade wilted flowers of years' mangled blossom,
Buttercream spreads from my shoes top to bottom,
Till toads underground grin from something in autumn/."
After a moment of stunned silence broken only by a nervous giggle from Neville, Ron exclaimed, "That's not what it said when I saw it. I swear there was nothing about sprinkling cans!" He looked where Harry was pointing, and insisted, "It must have changed."
"Of course it changed," agreed Hermione, "but how could it change so it still rhymes and scans? Except for the second line," she amended. She compared the verse she had just written out with the version in Harry's hand. "You can hex a parchment, of course, but how clever would it have to be to change
/It's true that I'm placed in an awkward position to
If strudel's improving a newlywed possum/,
even though the switch makes no sense at all?"
Harry's eye had been absently fixed on a corner of the parchment where a worn fold line had started to tear. For some reason it made him remember the taste of sweets from Honeydukes, the sweetshop at Hogsmeade, and the heft of them in his pocket.
Suddenly he knew why.
"Hermione," he said quietly, "where did you get that parchment?"
"Why, I suppose I got it on Diagon Alley, Flourish and Blotts or somewhere." She paused, studying the parchment itself this time and not the writing. "No. I remember now. At the end of last year, I was in the corridor near Professor Moody's office—what used to be Professor Moody's office—at least we all thought it was—after it had been emptied out. I was passing a suit of armor when I dropped my book bag. While I was picking up my books, I found a piece of blank parchment sort of wedged behind the foot of the armor. I can always use more parchment, so I put it in my bag with some other sheets I had. This must be it. I remember it was a bit worn around the edges."
"Near Professor Moody's old office," Harry repeated. "That fits." He laid the parchment on the table, tapped it with his wand, and announced, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!" The words on the parchment vanished, and in their place appeared,
/Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
Are proud to present …/
"It's the Marauder's Map," said Harry with satisfaction. "I wondered whether I'd ever see it again. Fred and George gave it to me and it's been confiscated twice."
"Cool!" said Ron, studying the floor plan of the school with the with the secret passages and the labeled dots, some moving and some stationary, representing exact locations of the people inhabiting Hogwarts at that very moment. Hagrid and Neville came closer to see. Hagrid whistled. "I can see why yeh wanted it back, Harry. This is a real find."
Harry tapped the parchment again and said, "Mischief managed!" The map disappeared and the transmogrified verse returned. "I think that Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are responsible for changing the words." He gave the map another poke and asked, "Aren't you?"
More words appeared at the bottom of the parchment. "/Mr. Padfoot regrets that we didn't have time to do a better job before the parchment was dried/."
"/Mr. Prongs would like to add that Mr. Wormtail, who altered the second line, isn't very good at thinking up rhymes. And to remind all present that it's not easy to find a rhyme for 'bottom'/."
"/Mr. Moony directs your attention to the fourth line of the poem, which in his humble opinion is the height of eloquence/."
"/Mr. Wormtail informs you that Mr. Moony is partial to his own contribution to the piece, but that other parts of it are equally worthy/."
The statements stayed visible for a few moments, and then faded away.
"Harry, d'yeh know who them characters are?" asked Hagrid, nodding toward the Marauder's Map. "Moony an' the rest of 'em?"
"Yes," said Harry, looking down at the parchment. Something in his voice made Hagrid add, "Yeh don't have to tell me, Harry, if yeh'd rather not."
"Maybe later," said Harry. "Hermione, I owe you one for this. You too, Ron."
"No, you don't, Harry," Hermione answered. "The map found its way back to you for its own reasons. It might help you in your mission. I just hope you're not planning to use it for anything frivolous." She was obviously remembering Harry's secret, illegal trips to Hogsmeade in his third year at Hogwarts.
"Just let me hit you once with the Drenching Spell, and we'll call it square," Ron proposed.
Harry drew a deep breath. "All right."
* * * * * * * *
On Wednesday evening Professor Snape had three beakers of potion ready for them, set out in a row on the table with two small cups. The first one fizzed, the second one stank, and the third one smoked. "I have prepared these brews especially for your use in this class," Snape informed them. "They are short-acting and highly potent, and must be handled carefully. We will begin with the one one your left." He poured a small amount of it into each cup, and set the cups in front of Harry and Neville. "You first, Potter. Drink up."
Harry looked at his portion of potion suspiciously. "What is it, sir? What does it do?"
"You'll know soon enough, Potter. You must learn to be prepared for the unknown and unexpected."
Harry knew there was no getting around it. He shrugged and picked up the cup of liquid, which hissed faintly. Before drinking it, he mentally reviewed the Opposition Verse and tried to fix it in his thoughts, although /Your sprinkling can drowned me in one submarine/ kept intruding into his mind. Then he took a deep breath and downed the potion. It prickled on the way down, and as soon as it reached his stomach he felt it radiate to every part of his body and spread over his skin in a violent itching sensation. He shifted in his chair and started to scr—
"No scratching, Potter," commanded Professor Snape. "The more you scratch, the longer it lasts."
Harry clenched his hands in his lap and started reciting, "You may think you can itch me into submission, oh man this is awful …" He managed to get through it, but the itching didn't stop, though it had grown a little less intense. He hunched his shoulders and furtively rubbed them against the back of his chair, hoping that the ban on scratching applied to fingernails only.
"The itching will subside in a few minutes if you don't scratch, Potter. Now, Longbottom, it's your turn for the Itching Potion," Professor Snape continued the lesson. Neville looked at his cup in dismay, then sighed and gulped it down. "Yow," he remarked as the itching started. "It's like mosquito bites on top of chicken pox. You may think you can itch—ooh, it's worse than poison ivy."
"If you scratch, you have to start again from the beginning," Snape told him sternly. Neville unfortunately forgot and scratched in the middle of the last line, after getting through the first five, and had to say the whole thing over again.
"Now," said Professor Snape, "we will move to the second potion." He poured a dose into each cup, and the rotten-potato stench was overpowering. Harry had a feeling he knew what this potion did, and he wanted no part of it. He reminded himself about the purpose of this whole enterprise. He still wanted no part of it, but resolved to face it anyway.
"I'll go first this time if you want, Harry," Neville offered.
"No thanks, Neville, I'd rather get it over with," Harry answered grimly. He was already in the process of screwing himself up to it and didn't want to have to start over. He took a deep breath, held his nose, and bolted the contents of the cup as quickly as possible. It tasted even more vile than it smelled, and when he got it down it felt still worse. An upwelling of terrible nausea convinced him that he was about to throw up, and he looked around frantically for a suitable container.
"Under the influence of this potion you will feel deathly ill, Potter, but never actually vomit," came Snape's cool voice through Harry's distress, "so you won't need a basin."
Harry swallowed heavily and tried to collect himself. He clamped his lips shut and took a few shallow breaths through his nose. "/You may think you can sicken me into submission/," he mumbled, and you might be right, he thought, doubling over and panting. He struggled through another line and noticed that he was drooling, put a hand over his mouth, and tried not to retch, knowing that it would do no good. His vision swam with dizziness. Fixing his eyes on the empty cup before him, he concentrated on finishing the verse, and when he had done so, to his enormous relief, the sickness receded to the point where he felt merely rotten. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and breathing hard. /Never again/, he thought. /I never want to do that again/.
Watching Neville take the potion was nearly as bad. As Harry saw Neville turn green and break out in a sweat, his own queasy stomach heaved in sympathy. The tickling, the drenching, and the itching had been tough to cope with, but also an amusing game: a stretch, a challenge, sort of like Quidditch. But this was serious misery.
Neville appeared to come to the same conclusion. After he had lurched and groaned his way through the lines he had to say, the three of them all sat in subdued silence for a few moments. Even Professor Snape had nothing to say, snide or otherwise, about the merits of his pupils' performance. Neville finally said in a faint, choked voice, "Sir, I don't think you should do that again. If you do, I'll have to inform Professor Dumbledore. You promised you wouldn't curse anybody."
Snape pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Perhaps I made the Sickening Potion stronger than necessary," he conceded. "I will give you a short rest before proceeding to the third potion." (Harry had actually forgotten that there was a third potion.) "In the meantime, Potter, Longbottom, you may report on the results of your practice."
Harry and Neville looked at each other. "We can't do the Tickling Charm without feeling it ourselves," Harry admitted.
"Ah yes," said Professor Snape, "it always rebounds upon its user. There are simple ways to accommodate that fact, which I would encourage you to discover on your own. And the Drenching Spell?"
"I got through it with no trouble," Neville said proudly. "After I did it to three other people," he added. "It evens out."
"Indeed," said Professor Snape. "Your assignment is to continue to practice the same exercises. Now we will proceed to the third and final potion."
Harry told himself that he could get through one more trial, although he didn't feel up to it. Nothing could be as bad as the Sickening Potion, could it? And if it was, Neville would put a stop to it. Tired of speculating about what the next unpleasant sensation in store from him might be, he drank the smoking brew almost without thinking. At first nothing seemed to happen, though he felt a growing apprehension. The sense of foreboding continued to increase, until all his surroundings took on a look of menace, the shadows threatened to congeal into dreadful monsters, and he was certain that something even worse was sneaking up on him from behind. Professor Snape, a towering, sinister presence, looked ready to sprout horns, fangs, and a forked tail. As if that weren't enougn, Harry also felt as if he were about to fall from a dizzying height. He remembered the growing panic he had felt in the weeks before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament the previous year, but this, in addition to the sense of imminent danger, carried an overtone of supernatural horror. He could almost hear the creepy horror-movie music seeping into his bones and sapping his will and courage. Harry shivered, stiffened his spine, and resisted the urge to look behind him. "You may think you can panic me into submission—"
Declaiming those words of defiance helped to steady him. He knew the danger was an illusion, though the panic was real enough. He was grateful for Neville's presence beside him, or at least he would have been if he could have shaken the feeling that Neville, who looked innocent enough, carried a concealed knife and was getting ready to stab him as soon as he looked away. He got through the verse without peeking behind him or clutching the table to keep from falling. Slowly the room returned to its normal aspect, the shadows were only shadows, the floor felt solid under his feet, and Professor Snape appeared no more alarming than usual.
Neville had watched Harry take the Panic Potion, but couldn't see exactly what it had done. He gamely drank it himself, but a whimper escaped him and his eyes widened with terror. He looked around the room and did a double take when he saw Harry (who must have looked to him like a mean teacher or something), but all the same, he fumbled for Harry's hand under the table and gripped it hard. Harry squeezed back. Neville stuttered badly when he began the verse, then cleared his throat and started over with better results. It was like the first day the three of them had been together, when Neville had confronted Professor Snape, and probably about equally frightening.
Finally it was over, and Snape excused them with hardly another word. He looked pensive, and the smug satisfaction he had taken in his tutoring assignment seemed to have evaporated. Harry wondered if even Professor Snape himself thought he had gone too far this time. Perhaps his potions had succeeded better than he had planned.
Harry and Neville, both rather shaky about the knees, helped each other up the stairs and through the portrait hole (password "Frumious Bandersnatch") to the Gryffindor common room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting for them. Most of the other Gryffindors had gone to their dorm rooms, but a few were studying near the fire. "How was it?" asked Hermione, keeping her voice low.
"Awful," whispered Neville. "It was the worst yet. Professor Snape gave us a potion that made us horribly sick. That was after he made us horribly itchy. Then he finished up by making us horribly afraid."
"I still don't feel well," mumbled Harry, sinking weakly into a chair.
"Me neither," Neville sighed, scratching absently. "What we need is some fresh camomile."
"Fresh camomile?" echoed Ron blankly.
"That's what my Gran would say. She's a famous herbalist, you know; she's been teaching me since I was old enough to trample her herb garden."
"That must be why you're so good at Herbology," Hermione concluded.
"Probably. Anyway, Gran always insists that fresh, living herbs are much healthier for you than magical potions made out of complicated combinations of old, dried-out, exotic, outlandish, silly ingredients."
"That must be why you're so bad at Potions," reasoned Ron.
"Probably. I know there's plenty of camomile in the greenhouse—the only problem is how to get it. We're not allowed out there at this hour."
"Say no more," declared Ron. "I'll just borrow Harry's invisibility cloak and be back before you have a chance to miss me."
"You have an invisibility cloak, Harry?" asked Neville in amazement.
"Yes, but we won't need it. I remember the Summoning Charm we learned last year and I think I can still do it, especially for something that will settle my stomach. Just tell me where the camomile is in the greenhouse and what it looks like."
Soon the camomile was obtained through an opened window, Hermione and Neville had put their heads together over its preparation, and the two who needed it were sipping fresh camomile tea and feeling vastly better for it. Ron tried it but didn't like the taste.
******************************
AN: So is Snape really teaching them something, or is he just amusing himself? Who can say? I always thought nausea the most horrible sensation in the world.
I had already decided that the Marauders' Map would come into the story, but the way it actually did was a total surprise until it took shape as I wrote. The Sprinkling Can Verse was fun to write, and easier than the original Opposition Verse; I had the help of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Stay tuned for Chapter 4, "A Coward's Life," where Frank Longbottom makes a surprising revelation.