Chapter Seven:
The next day dawned bright, the early morning sun shining through the crack in the rich tapestries that hung luxuriously around the bed. Eleanora blinked her dark eyes and sat up, pushing off the heavy eiderdown as she gracefully leapt off the bed and padded in bare feet to the bathroom. The mirror snored gently, her reflection rippling slightly with each reverberating exhalation. She leant over the wide hollow of the sunken bath tub and turned the handle of one of the many gold taps that lined its sides. A powerful gush of hot water began to fill the tub, sending clouds of a heady scent into the air, the sunlight from the small high window playing upon the wisps of steam. Within minutes the tub was full to the brim, and she divested herself of her nightclothes and send them spiralling over to the bed with a flick of her finger, where they folded and tucked themselves away under her pillow. She debated whether or not to make the bed, but didn't want to incur the high-pitched wrath of the house elves just yet, so she contented herself in merely straightening the covers somewhat with a sleepy incantation of "reparo."
The mirror awoke with a start as Eleanora lowered herself into the steaming water. "Hello, m'dear," it greeted her drowsily. "How are you this morning?"
"Fine, thank you," Eleanora replied, surfacing the water after submerging her long hair under it. She shook her head to clear the water from her ears, then performed a quick cleansing spell on the dripping mane, a soapy lather forming instantly. She leant back against the marble side of the deep tub, sighing deeply. She had an hour to spare before breakfast and had hoped to visit the library beforehand to pick up some light reading matter. Her old schoolbooks from Beauxbatons had all been in French and while she was quite capable of understanding them perfectly, she had taken the liberty of ordering a large consignment of new ones, in English for connivances sake, from Flourish & Botts. They were due to arrive the next day by port key, and until then the only book she had with her was a dog-eared copy of Hogwarts: A History, given to her by her father many years before.
Her bathing complete, she rinsed the lather out of her boisterous hair, and summoned a thick towel from the rail. Wrapping herself in its warm folds, she stepped out of the tub, and looked at her reflection in the mirror, wrinkling her nose at what she saw.
Her hair resembled nothing if not a bird's nest; a particularly large disobedient bird's nest and her cheeks were glowing a deep blush, from both the heat of her bath and the sunburn she had sustained earlier that summer. A light spattering of freckles danced across the bridge of her nose, something which her father called charming in that way which fathers have, along with the slight crookedness of her bottom teeth, a souvenir from a nasty fall from her first broom when she was six years old.
Having worked the myriad of tangles from her hair, she performed a quick and well practiced drying spell on it. She surveyed the contents of her vast wardrobes, having unpacked her luggage after supper the previous evening. The sun shone warmly though the windows, heating her bare skin, so she chose a simple white vest, a pair of muggle shorts and a light weight sage green summer robe. She would divest herself of the robe once in the deserted library but she had no desire to bring upon herself yet more lewd comments as she walked the corridors.
She grabbed her wand from the bed side table, slipped on a pair of soft leather thong sandals, and walked from the room, calling goodbye to the mirror, and hearing a renewed hum of gentle snores in reply.
* * * * * * * * * *
She gently pushed against the heavy wooden door of the library, and stepped inside. The air was still, silent and heavy with the scent of old paper, ink and ancient leather. The sun weakly filtered through the stained glass windows and illuminated the dance of dust that arose as Eleanora shed her robes and laid them carefully upon the polished wooden reading table to her side.
The vast labyrinth of shelves were filled with volumes, great and small, most of them old, with ornately bound covers, proudly facing the browser. However, she knew exactly what she was looking for, and wandered around the high cosseted room, peering closely at the labels that indicated the cases contents.
After a few minutes search she found what she sought. A tall, narrow case stood innocuously in the corner of the room, groaning under the weight of a number of tomes and grimoires, all bearing the same symbol on their front: The Hogwarts Crest. These books were the Hogwarts yearbooks, containing the pictures and details of every student who passed through the learned halls of the school. She ran her slender fingers over their leather bound spines, pausing as she found that dated back to twenty years before the present date. She closed her hand around it and gave a sharp yank to loosen it from the tight squeeze of the shelf. She regarded the book with reverence and opened it to the middle. A few of the occupants of the pictures waved cheerily at her and she smiled back them. She leafed through a few of the pages, then her eyes closed on one particular photo.
The face of her father grinned out at her, very much younger and less lined than it was now. His own unruly hair, a lustrous mahogany colour curled closely over his ears, and he shook his head to rid himself of the stray strand that fell over his own piercing brown eyes. He looked up at her and waved his hand, clutching his Quidditch broom. She bit her lip, and smiled down at him, trying not to look as if she missed him as much as she did.
Eleanora had Aloysius had a close relationship, despite the time has spent away on Ministry business. When at home, they lived in a boisterous companionship, rubbing each others corners off and keeping each other out of trouble. Both were headstrong and insufferably stubborn, and many a blazing row had occurred in the D'Souza household, most of which followed her termly reports from school.
Unable to find any fault with her academic prowess, Aloysius had often blown a fuse over her extra-curricular exploits, which he called dangerous and foolish. She called them a bit of harmless fun. She laughed out loud as she remembered one particularly fierce conflict which arose as result of her recently discovered habit of taking midnight broom flights out of her dormitory window with a group of her friends to enjoy a spot of swimming in the near-by Mediterranean Sea. They had fought bitterly for days, their mêlée only ending when he practically cried with concern for her safety, confessing that he feared losing her more than anything Voldemort could ever inflict upon him. She promised never to endanger herself in such a way again, though privately she felt that he was being dreadfully over-protective, but then again, who could blame him?
She gazed at the photo a while longer, before closing the book. As the pages fell shut, something caught her eye. A photo of a proud and haughty looking young man stared out at her, tossing his head to flick the veil of lustrous black hair back from his eyes. He wore robes of silver and emerald green, and held a broom in his pale, elegant hand. She narrowed her own eyes as she stared closer and studied the writing below the picture.
Severus Isidore Snape. Head Prefect of Slytherin house. Keeper of house Quidditch team. Potions scholar. Photo taken after Slytherin victory against Ravenclaw in 1977 Quidditch final.
She drank in the picture thirstily, recognising the same harsh features that she had so studiously regarded over the dinner table the night before, but unlined in this picture and somehow more open, less guarded. She gave the picture one final look before sharply closing the book and stuffing it back onto the shelf.
What was it about that man? He had treated her with barely concealed condescension and no doubt considered her to be just another pretty face. And she very much doubted that he attributed much to looks alone. She wondered as she swept her robes off the table, whether he knew about her powers. Her godfather had not mentioned whether or not he had informed the staff, and she was under strict orders from both her father and Fudge not to reveal herself to be anything more than an ordinary fifth year student.
She snorted gently to herself as she negotiated the labyrinth of shelves on her way to the door. Ordinary, was not a word she would have used to describe herself, all things considered.
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