To The Honour of the Mother
Chapter 2: Dream or Reality?
Severus Snape dismissed his last class of the day, stacked up his books with a thump, tucked them under his arm and strode out of the classroom, his black cloak swirling behind him. The afternoon had been interminably long, and he was glad it was over, eager to get to his laboratory to find out what in the nine Hells was wrong with him.
All afternoon he had smelt fresh-cut grass. It was not a smell one found in Hogwarts; the grass never wanted cutting, as it always grew to exactly the proper height. His gaze had wandered out of the large windows as he paced in front of the class or stood at a laboratory bench. Never before had he been distracted, and it had taken all of his strength not to give in to it. Dusk was falling; he could get in a few hours before dinner.
Three hours later, he had found nothing. He tested his blood, urine and saliva; no poisons or foreign substances. He passed an Arabian changeling stone over his liver; nothing. He examined the undersides of his eyelids and his fingernails, looked long and searchingly at his tongue; nothing. He meditated on the odd symptoms he had experienced - nothing. Neither was there any evidence that he had been bespelled. As he prepared to leave the laboratory, he realised that he was hungry. He was famished.
All masters were expected to sit at the Masters' Table at dinner; his high- backed chair was set four down from Headmaster Dumbledore, in the middle of the table, and he was expected to stand behind it, watching as his House filed in and until all had seated themselves.
It was not Snape's way to make conversation at dinner. If someone asked him a question he answered it; otherwise he sat still as a stone, a beady eye scanning the Slytherins at their dining table, eating sparsely and slowly, and listening to the talk around him. Tonight was the same, except that he could hardly wait for Dumbledore to intone the blessing, and for the food to materialise on the tables. Snape helped himself to a slice of roast beef, some of the browned potatoes, and a piece of bread, his usual dinner. Slowly he cut a piece of the meat and put it in his mouth. It tasted so good that his jaws ached, an unfamiliar sensation so odd that he took another piece of meat to see if it happened again. It did not, but when he took some of the potato, it did happen, and he had to clap his napkin to his face to keep the savoury pan gravy from running down his chin.
The meal was an odd experience, when all was said and done, for he found little pleasure in life and never in victuals. He ate more than he usually did; he ate of the colourful vegetable stew; he ate a serving of light, fluffy Yorkshire pudding; he ate a bowl of green salad, which disturbed him most of all. He never ate salads. He drank a cup of tea, which seemed to need the addition of milk and honey, things he never used, to end his meal, and exited the dining-hall as soon as he was able without causing comment. It was not until he was halfway up the first staircase that he realised he had come away with a chocolate petit pain in his hand. Disgusted with himself, he thought of dematerialising it, but he ate it anyway.
It told much about Master Snape that the students of Slytherin house paid him little attention. No-one whispered, "Look! Snape's tucking it in tonight!" Professor McGonagall, who was sensitive to every change, was deep in conversation with a woman in green whom he did not know, and didn't even look his way. Relieved, Snape followed his charges back to their rooms, made sure everyone was addressing homework, and betook himself to his chambers in the dungeon, where he read for hours, trying to understand why he kept smelling fresh grass, why he who was disinterested in victuals had suddenly developed an appetite; why his concentration was faltering. And that last was of the most concern.
Finally he gave up. A pass of his hand filled his bathtub with steaming water. He had thrown a handful of lavender and sandalwood powder into the water before he realised what he had done. The scent filled his head. Puzzled, he removed his garments carefully, as always. His boots stepped over to their place by the wardrobe. His cloak, trousers, jacket and shirt flew onto their hangers, as always. His undergarments sailed onto their shelves, folding themselves neatly, dispelling every molecule of dirt or dust. Indeed, as always. Snape folded his long body into the tub, sighing as his muscles loosened in the hot water. He drowsed there for a few minutes before he sat up with a start, scrubbed, rinsed and got out of the tub on legs that were unaccustomedly rubbery. Bloody Hell, he thought, appalled that he should even think a Muggle oath. Keep eating as he had today, he grumped, and he would soon be too fat for his clothes.
In her Ravenclaw chamber, Dame Angharad observed the man. She had watched him eat a proper dinner, probably his first in his life, and she had seen him in his bath. She saw him now, standing at the foot of his bed with his scratchy grey nightshirt in his hands, and a smile touched the corners of her mouth as he frowned over the garment, considered getting into bed without it and, shocked at himself, put it on and pulled it down firmly to his ankles.
Dame Angharad had seen a good deal of what Snape had just covered. He was thin, but not skinny. He had large, long bones, and his chest was smooth, with only a bit of black hair in the centre. His legs were fine, with the same silky black hair on them, and by the Mother, he was a lusty figure of a man, with all that a man should have to himself. It were a sin to let such go to waste.
Dame Angharad lay down in her bed. Her rose-red hair, freed from coif and wimple, flowed over the linen pillow. She let her spirit rise lightly, and it flew from her chamber to that of Master Snape, where he believed he was dreaming. For how, in the names of the seventeen worlds, could Master Snape countenance the mystical encounter he would experience?
He found himself deep in the woods, in a copse made by the circling of great, aged oak trees around a mound of earth overgrown with ivy. In the centre of the mound was a dolmen, an ancient upright stone pierced with a hole, and at the foot of the dolmen was a rectangular stone, like a small table. It was strewn with herbs; he could smell rosemary, thyme and vervain. It was full dark, but the dolmen shone with a cool green light. He lay down on the flat stone, and looked up to see shapes circling the mound, figures wrapped in green garments. He heard chanting; he smelt incense of sandalwood. Little glowing morsels of light flitted about like insects. Music came; the haunting sound of the Uillean pipes. A cool breeze blew, lifting his garment, which flew away with the little lights. He lay naked and unafraid; it was peaceful and pleasant, and hazy thoughts came and went, came and left.
Hands rested on his shoulders. He closed his eyes; the hands were soft and cool and gentle. Hands held his hands. Hands stroked down his chest. Hands parted his legs and he opened his eyes: A green-clad figure stood with a sharp knife in hand, as hands enclosed his manhood, and the knife was raised for the sacrifice.
Snape sat bolt upright in his bed, streaming sweat, freezing cold. His heart pounded, and he was nauseous. All that food, it's given me nightmares, he thought. Well, it was only a dream. But his nightshirt was gone. And a strand of ivy twined its velvety stem around his loins. With revulsion he pulled it away; it clung, then reluctantly let go. He threw it on his cold hearth; it crumbled into ashes. He flung out a counterspell against any and all spells, but it fell leaden to the floor: there was nothing to negate. Sleep gone, he dressed (finding his nightshirt on its usual hook in the wardrobe) and stalked out into the halls. He walked along a colonnade open to the air; it was a beautiful night. The moon shone down on the peaceful countryside. He heard a step, and turned. The woman in green, to whom McGonagall had been talking at dinner, walked towards him.
"Good evening, master," she said. "We have not met. I am Angharad, Runes Mistress, come this day to Hogwarts." Snape drew himself up, and bowed. "Welcome, madam," he said. "Severus Snape, potions master. I advise you to return to your quarters; since you do not know your way about and might become lost. I shall summon a torch to lead you. Fulgens," he said, and a large torch materialised in mid-air, circled and then slowly drifted towards the moving staircases. It stopped and waited for the lady to follow. The lady smiled. "I shall go presently," said she, " but I see that you are troubled by that which not even the Potions Master can rout." His brows beetled. "That, madam, is my own business," he said, and turned to walk away. The feather-light touch of her hand on his arm stopped him in his tracks. "I see a rune you cannot see," she said mildly. He stopped and turned, his cloak swirling about him as if it had a life of its own. "Nor do I wish to see it!" he thundered, turned on his heel and strode down the steps as quickly as he could.
The door of his rooms closed quietly and solidly behind him. For a few moments Snape stood still, trembling with rage. There was something about the woman that frightened him, and the fear outraged him. He shook himself out of his cloak, which flew onto its hanger.
He sat down at his desk and commanded his radio to play. Dvorák's Slavonic Dances filled the air, and he threw back his head, closed his eyes and lost himself in the swooningly romantic music. The piece ended, to be followed by Scheherezade, and he was transported to exotic climes, the lands of genii and phoenix, and so he finally slept slumped over his desk, carried on the wings of melody, until a shaft of light shot through the narrow window in his dungeon wall, and he woke suddenly with an aching back, a stiff neck and a stomach grumbling for breakfast. ***
Chapter 2: Dream or Reality?
Severus Snape dismissed his last class of the day, stacked up his books with a thump, tucked them under his arm and strode out of the classroom, his black cloak swirling behind him. The afternoon had been interminably long, and he was glad it was over, eager to get to his laboratory to find out what in the nine Hells was wrong with him.
All afternoon he had smelt fresh-cut grass. It was not a smell one found in Hogwarts; the grass never wanted cutting, as it always grew to exactly the proper height. His gaze had wandered out of the large windows as he paced in front of the class or stood at a laboratory bench. Never before had he been distracted, and it had taken all of his strength not to give in to it. Dusk was falling; he could get in a few hours before dinner.
Three hours later, he had found nothing. He tested his blood, urine and saliva; no poisons or foreign substances. He passed an Arabian changeling stone over his liver; nothing. He examined the undersides of his eyelids and his fingernails, looked long and searchingly at his tongue; nothing. He meditated on the odd symptoms he had experienced - nothing. Neither was there any evidence that he had been bespelled. As he prepared to leave the laboratory, he realised that he was hungry. He was famished.
All masters were expected to sit at the Masters' Table at dinner; his high- backed chair was set four down from Headmaster Dumbledore, in the middle of the table, and he was expected to stand behind it, watching as his House filed in and until all had seated themselves.
It was not Snape's way to make conversation at dinner. If someone asked him a question he answered it; otherwise he sat still as a stone, a beady eye scanning the Slytherins at their dining table, eating sparsely and slowly, and listening to the talk around him. Tonight was the same, except that he could hardly wait for Dumbledore to intone the blessing, and for the food to materialise on the tables. Snape helped himself to a slice of roast beef, some of the browned potatoes, and a piece of bread, his usual dinner. Slowly he cut a piece of the meat and put it in his mouth. It tasted so good that his jaws ached, an unfamiliar sensation so odd that he took another piece of meat to see if it happened again. It did not, but when he took some of the potato, it did happen, and he had to clap his napkin to his face to keep the savoury pan gravy from running down his chin.
The meal was an odd experience, when all was said and done, for he found little pleasure in life and never in victuals. He ate more than he usually did; he ate of the colourful vegetable stew; he ate a serving of light, fluffy Yorkshire pudding; he ate a bowl of green salad, which disturbed him most of all. He never ate salads. He drank a cup of tea, which seemed to need the addition of milk and honey, things he never used, to end his meal, and exited the dining-hall as soon as he was able without causing comment. It was not until he was halfway up the first staircase that he realised he had come away with a chocolate petit pain in his hand. Disgusted with himself, he thought of dematerialising it, but he ate it anyway.
It told much about Master Snape that the students of Slytherin house paid him little attention. No-one whispered, "Look! Snape's tucking it in tonight!" Professor McGonagall, who was sensitive to every change, was deep in conversation with a woman in green whom he did not know, and didn't even look his way. Relieved, Snape followed his charges back to their rooms, made sure everyone was addressing homework, and betook himself to his chambers in the dungeon, where he read for hours, trying to understand why he kept smelling fresh grass, why he who was disinterested in victuals had suddenly developed an appetite; why his concentration was faltering. And that last was of the most concern.
Finally he gave up. A pass of his hand filled his bathtub with steaming water. He had thrown a handful of lavender and sandalwood powder into the water before he realised what he had done. The scent filled his head. Puzzled, he removed his garments carefully, as always. His boots stepped over to their place by the wardrobe. His cloak, trousers, jacket and shirt flew onto their hangers, as always. His undergarments sailed onto their shelves, folding themselves neatly, dispelling every molecule of dirt or dust. Indeed, as always. Snape folded his long body into the tub, sighing as his muscles loosened in the hot water. He drowsed there for a few minutes before he sat up with a start, scrubbed, rinsed and got out of the tub on legs that were unaccustomedly rubbery. Bloody Hell, he thought, appalled that he should even think a Muggle oath. Keep eating as he had today, he grumped, and he would soon be too fat for his clothes.
In her Ravenclaw chamber, Dame Angharad observed the man. She had watched him eat a proper dinner, probably his first in his life, and she had seen him in his bath. She saw him now, standing at the foot of his bed with his scratchy grey nightshirt in his hands, and a smile touched the corners of her mouth as he frowned over the garment, considered getting into bed without it and, shocked at himself, put it on and pulled it down firmly to his ankles.
Dame Angharad had seen a good deal of what Snape had just covered. He was thin, but not skinny. He had large, long bones, and his chest was smooth, with only a bit of black hair in the centre. His legs were fine, with the same silky black hair on them, and by the Mother, he was a lusty figure of a man, with all that a man should have to himself. It were a sin to let such go to waste.
Dame Angharad lay down in her bed. Her rose-red hair, freed from coif and wimple, flowed over the linen pillow. She let her spirit rise lightly, and it flew from her chamber to that of Master Snape, where he believed he was dreaming. For how, in the names of the seventeen worlds, could Master Snape countenance the mystical encounter he would experience?
He found himself deep in the woods, in a copse made by the circling of great, aged oak trees around a mound of earth overgrown with ivy. In the centre of the mound was a dolmen, an ancient upright stone pierced with a hole, and at the foot of the dolmen was a rectangular stone, like a small table. It was strewn with herbs; he could smell rosemary, thyme and vervain. It was full dark, but the dolmen shone with a cool green light. He lay down on the flat stone, and looked up to see shapes circling the mound, figures wrapped in green garments. He heard chanting; he smelt incense of sandalwood. Little glowing morsels of light flitted about like insects. Music came; the haunting sound of the Uillean pipes. A cool breeze blew, lifting his garment, which flew away with the little lights. He lay naked and unafraid; it was peaceful and pleasant, and hazy thoughts came and went, came and left.
Hands rested on his shoulders. He closed his eyes; the hands were soft and cool and gentle. Hands held his hands. Hands stroked down his chest. Hands parted his legs and he opened his eyes: A green-clad figure stood with a sharp knife in hand, as hands enclosed his manhood, and the knife was raised for the sacrifice.
Snape sat bolt upright in his bed, streaming sweat, freezing cold. His heart pounded, and he was nauseous. All that food, it's given me nightmares, he thought. Well, it was only a dream. But his nightshirt was gone. And a strand of ivy twined its velvety stem around his loins. With revulsion he pulled it away; it clung, then reluctantly let go. He threw it on his cold hearth; it crumbled into ashes. He flung out a counterspell against any and all spells, but it fell leaden to the floor: there was nothing to negate. Sleep gone, he dressed (finding his nightshirt on its usual hook in the wardrobe) and stalked out into the halls. He walked along a colonnade open to the air; it was a beautiful night. The moon shone down on the peaceful countryside. He heard a step, and turned. The woman in green, to whom McGonagall had been talking at dinner, walked towards him.
"Good evening, master," she said. "We have not met. I am Angharad, Runes Mistress, come this day to Hogwarts." Snape drew himself up, and bowed. "Welcome, madam," he said. "Severus Snape, potions master. I advise you to return to your quarters; since you do not know your way about and might become lost. I shall summon a torch to lead you. Fulgens," he said, and a large torch materialised in mid-air, circled and then slowly drifted towards the moving staircases. It stopped and waited for the lady to follow. The lady smiled. "I shall go presently," said she, " but I see that you are troubled by that which not even the Potions Master can rout." His brows beetled. "That, madam, is my own business," he said, and turned to walk away. The feather-light touch of her hand on his arm stopped him in his tracks. "I see a rune you cannot see," she said mildly. He stopped and turned, his cloak swirling about him as if it had a life of its own. "Nor do I wish to see it!" he thundered, turned on his heel and strode down the steps as quickly as he could.
The door of his rooms closed quietly and solidly behind him. For a few moments Snape stood still, trembling with rage. There was something about the woman that frightened him, and the fear outraged him. He shook himself out of his cloak, which flew onto its hanger.
He sat down at his desk and commanded his radio to play. Dvorák's Slavonic Dances filled the air, and he threw back his head, closed his eyes and lost himself in the swooningly romantic music. The piece ended, to be followed by Scheherezade, and he was transported to exotic climes, the lands of genii and phoenix, and so he finally slept slumped over his desk, carried on the wings of melody, until a shaft of light shot through the narrow window in his dungeon wall, and he woke suddenly with an aching back, a stiff neck and a stomach grumbling for breakfast. ***
